Today was our “all quiet on the ovarian front” ultrasound. It’s the one that gives us the all clear to begin taking the follicle-stimulating- and other drugs.

I was up at 6:30 and dragged BDH up at 6:45. We didn’t have to be in until 9 am because there was no blood test at 7 am with this U/S. YAY! So we went to bed last night with the happy thought that we could sleep in and have a nice, leisurely drive in to the hospital, instead of the normal, frantic drive to make the 7:15 am-ish deadline at the lab.

We were, surprisingly, wrong in our assumption.

We did get on the road by 7 as we’d planned. And there was fairly heavy traffic until the Kitchener cutoff, as there always is for the morning rush hour. But after Kitchener, the traffic did not disperse as we had expected. It’s like everyone and their dog had to get to London, and fast. Add to this, the ever-continuing construction to widen the 401 to three lanes, and by Woodstock, we were stopped. And peevish. But it started moving again after about 20 minutes. And BDH was doing some fancy and fast driving to get us into London by 8:30. However, trendsetters that we are, heavy traffic accompanied us all the way through London to the hospital. Rush hour, you say? I did not experience a lot of rushing. Mostly a lot of people dawdling along, all in one place. But we made it, with a few minutes to spare for the obligatory pre-game pee.

Young Lady Doctor was in good form this morning when we went into the exam room, and that’s always nice. Friendly is good when you’re the one wielding the wand. And then, she spied it. What’s THIS? Oh LOOK. A 2 cm cyst. LOVELY. Damn left ovary, always causing trouble. The right one was quiet, unassuming, following the program. But Lefty, as usual, ever the diva, has THIS BIG BLACK SPACE. Like a big black hole of reproductive endocrinology, man. So it is do not pass go, do not spend $200 (plus) on drugs today. Instead, the doctor tells us that this is likely that persistent follicle from LAST time (THAT BASTARD!) and we will need to get rid of it. She explained that we will continue on the birth control pills (a.k.a. The Nausea Inducing Pills from Hell) for another two weeks, and then re-check. Hopefully, the pills will suppress the cyst down to a much smaller size — ideally, to nothingness. If it does not suppress, we’ll have to go in and drain it. *cue dramatic musical flourish*

Young Lady Doctor explained that the procedure to drain the cyst is much like what we’d do for an egg retrieval, but much quicker. They put in a speculum, freeze the top of the vaginal wall, and then they stick a needle in and drain the bugger. At this point, alarm bells were going WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! in my head. ACK! NEEDLES! SPECULUMS (specula? speculae?)! IN MY HOO-HOO! So I asked, all cool and composed, Is this painful? Because I am not so good with the pain. She said it is very much like a bee sting initially, but after that, nothing. She said that the worst part is actually when the ovary is getting pushed around. It contains no pain receptors, so you don’t feel the needle, but as they’re trying to insert the needle it’s like trying to balance a balloon on the end of a needle and it keeps floating away. So you do feel that stretching, and that is not good. She suggested putting a hand on your abdomen to push back and provide resistance and that takes away the stretching. THIS is a good thing to know.

One thing that I really take stock in is that Young Lady Doctor told us that she’d been through the procedure herself, and so her experience made me completely trust in what she was saying. Before, I was sincerely stressing about this procedure. Now, I have a realistic idea of what to expect, and this comforts me greatly. When she said this procedure is half as painful as a dental needle in the roof of your mouth, I know what that means. I know what to expect.

So, we left the hospital 15 minutes after we arrived, prescription in hand. We fought the traffic for two hours home, and crashed into bed.

When I got up, I got my follow-up call from the clinic. I had a hilarious 15-minute conversation with the case nurse. I learned that having a cyst was fairly common, much to my dismay because, of course, I pride myself on being the embodiment of Murphy’s Law in the obstetrical/gynecological realm. “Oh no, you’re NOTHING SPECIAL,” she said. So I bragged up the size — “2 CENTIMETRES!” I said proudly — but she merely said, “Oh, we’ve seen bigger. MUCH bigger.” BAH. Well then. So I asked what to expect. She said if I continue the pills I won’t get a period, but “Knowing YOU, you’ll get some breakthrough bleeding or something!” So with an admonishment of “Don’t you get a period!” I’ve been scheduled for another ultrasound in two weeks’ time, where I’ve been told, nay, THREATENED, that my cyst should make itself scarce OR ELSE.

I love when my misfortunes can at least be the source of some comedy. Kind of makes it bearable. You have to laugh. It sure beats crying.

Man. I am just queen of the munchies this week. Can I blame this on the birth control pills? I hope so.

I have been feeling a bad case of the munchies for about a week or so. No, scratch that — that’s a lie. It’s been more like TWO weeks, because in the beginning, I had the Love Of The Pie happening. Now, it’s just craving. Just craving STUFF. Like cheese. Who craves cheese? And tonight? Chinese food. Bah. Hormones are weird. I can’t believe I ever missed them when I was low in estrogen and progesterone, man.

And the really bad side effect of the pills has been the nausea. About 1/2 hour to an hour after I eat at midday, really nasty stomach-crunching nausea takes over. It is the worst. I have to lie down sometimes, it’s so bad. Funny thing is, when I was pregnant, the only “morning sickness” I had was actually in the afternoon. About an hour after lunch. So it’s like being pregnant again, except without the reward for the nausea at the end of the road. And I can drink when I am feeling sulky and peevish. Which I may do with dinner, actually.

Well, I am plodding along through this extended cycle, faithfully taking my birth control pills and awaiting my go-ahead ultrasound at the end of the month.

Don’t think I am not ACUTELY aware that I am also getting ever closer to my fortieth birthday. I dread it like the plague. And it’s funny, I don’t dread forty because of my age; I still look and feel much younger, and anyway, I always looked forward to my forties. No, rather I dread the reaction of OTHERS to my forties. Because it’s socially unacceptable to be a pregnant woman, let alone a first-time mom, after the age of forty.

I sometimes think about packing it all in right now and just adopting. Because adopting is slightly more okay at my age than giving birth. People are much more forgiving if you bring home an adopted child when you are over forty. First off, they look at you with your different-coloured baby and they feel pity–”Oh poor woman, she just couldn’t have children of her own, so she adopted”–and so that gets you away with a little bit. They still make rude comments about the colour of your child’s skin, or “jokey” comments about how much (NOT! is of course implied) he or she looks like you, but you take things one step at a time because you have your child and that is all that matters. But also, there’s the whole charity angle, like you’ve gone and rescued the youth of some unfortunate nation, and oh, aren’t you just a giving person for doing that? Please. It has nothing to do with charity. What it DOES have to do with is holding a baby in your arms, knowing that they are YOUR child, having them call you “mom”, smelling their baby smell and all the other romantic notions of motherhood. It just so happens that your baby happened to be born somewhere else. You carried them in your heart, not in your body, but otherwise, they are yours. Charity schmarity.

But being a woman over forty and giving birth? Oh no. That is somehow WRONG. It is RUDE. It is SELFISH. It is WEIRD. God forbid you should be taken seriously like any younger first-time mom. God forbid doctors should give you and your very real fears and your questions and your problems the time of day because they think you MUST have done this a few times before. God forbid the younger parents of your child’s classmates would understand the love you have for your child, instead of making mean, hurtful comments to their child or, worse, within earshot of yours, that “Tommy has an OLD MOMMY” or “How DARE she bring a child into the world at HER age? She’s going to DIE before that poor child gets through high school.” Do I really want to put everyone through that?

Sure, if I were rich and a beautiful actress, then it would be perfectly fine. I would have money and nannies and good looks and all that to make sure my child is okay when I am old. Celebrity moms over forty are celebrated for their “baby joy”. Celebrity moms don’t really have an age, anyway, because once they were 25 or 30 in a movie that you loved, so they will always be young. God, how I wish I had that luxury. But I do not. I am a young-looking 39, soon to be 40, and I do not have nannies and a beautiful image of me on celluloid to comfort my child through my old age. I just have me.

So this extended cycle has given me much time to think about all these things. And the fact that it is longer than all the other cycles is like the ultimate torture, because I feel time rushing by me like a bullet train. I am powerless to stop time, as I would be to stop the train. I just have to stand firm against rushing wind, against the dirt and the garbage and the leaves it blows at me as it thunders by, and resolve to not let them get to me.

Ah, the smell of baking in the afternoon.

I’m making bread. I’ve been debating since yesterday what to bake. I thought about making cookies, but today I settled on a couple of loaves of bread. It’s work, but I enjoy it. There’s something about the smell of fresh baking that makes the house smell… homey. I like that.

At this point, poppets, you are saying to yourself, and this is blog-worthy WHY, exactly? Well, I will tell you.

The smell of baking emanating from my home is a sure sign that the hormones, they are a-changin’.

Seriously. One of the bizarre “side effects” of these infertility treatments is the incredible amount of baked goods coming from my home. I’ve made bread, and rolls, and cookies, and quick loaves, and muffins, and scones. In the early days, I even made a cheesecake. As soon as the hormonal changes begin, I start thinking of what to bake. I look at different recipes. I experiment with breads. I feel calmer and more relaxed by the smell of baking.

Two factors make this baking compulsion more bizarre still. One, BDH is a diabetic, and so most baked goods are verboten. The processed flour and sugar makes his blood sugar spike, and while he loves fresh bread or homemade cookies, he can’t have them. So I often make things that he won’t like. A case in point would be the two dozen scones I made one afternoon: one batch lemon cranberry, and the other cinnamon raisin. BDH hates fruit. The second reason that baking is strange for us is that I am on Weight Watchers, and so I can’t actually eat what I bake, with the exception of the bread in very small increments. Which means, we NEVER run out of bread. We have it in the fridge and the freezer. I have rolls in my vegetable crisper.

Sometimes, I make things specifically for BDH to take in and distribute at work. That works well with sweets. Cookies are always nice for coffee breaks. But it’s more than a little strange to, say, raffle off a loaf of sourdough among your colleagues.

And so, two days into the pills, I am baking. It was inevitable, really. Whether my hormones are adjusted up, down, or sideways, you can be sure there will be lovin’ from the oven soon to follow.

Come. Join me for something tasty and warm and homemade. But bring your own cuppa tea or coffee to drink. What, you think I can afford to just GIVE that stuff away?

It’s day three, which means I was up at 5 am. And not happy about it, I might add.

Five in the morning comes VERY early. As a rule, I generally ascribe to the theory that if you’re getting up when there’s a 5 in the number, it’s just rude. But up I was, hair in a ponytail, and out the door by 5:20 or so. It is very DARK at 5:20, in case you are one of the fortunate few who has not seen 5:20 am in some time. Also, this morning it was foggy. I did not realize it was foggy outside until I had driven a block or so. I thought it was just my eyeballs that were foggy. Nope. So I stopped, quite wisely given my lack of mental fortitude at, what was it? FIVE. FRICKING. TWENTY? to clear the windows of my car.

I headed to Tim Horton’s for a coffee. Because it was only a blood test, coffee is a-ok. On ultrasound days, I generally have nothing. Because, and I’m sure you’ll agree with me, nobody wants to partake of a large beverage which is ALSO a laxative a few hours before you’re going to bare your nether regions to a room full of people. I trust you follow the way I have drifted. And that is all I am going to say on THAT issue.

So, yes, Tim Hortons. I got my large with milk and sugar (the double-double days are long gone, thanks to Weight Watchers, those BASTARDS!) and I hit the road. Now, it’s been a while since I have been working, and so I have made coffee at home most mornings. On occasion, like test days, I will head to William’s for a dark mochaccino, but generally, I brew my own coffee. So I had forgotten just how vile Tim Horton’s coffee is when you are accustomed to lovely slow-brewed high-quality coffee. MAN. Those first few sips tasted like wet stewed death. But it was a necessary evil, to stop my eyes from spontaneously crossing on their own from tiredness. And I was off.

5:30 is actually not a bad time on the 401. Traffic is fairly light, especially headed away from the big city, and it’s quiet. Normally, I make the hour-and-a-half trip with BDH, who has faithfully been a part of every procedure he can. He’s part of this process too. But this morning, it was only a blood test, in and out, so I told him to sleep in and I would do it myself. I put on the radio to keep me company. I find singing VERY LOUDLY helps while away the time when I am alone, as well as keeping me from dozing off. It was foggy this morning, and I needed to be alert, between the fog and the possibility of wildlife wandering onto the highway and the construction limiting 401 traffic to a single lane. Radio is also necessary to keep you updated on the traffic situation, being that time is of the essence on blood test days. But morning radio is also very BAD in this area. And my car has no CD player, so you make do. I brought my iPod along for the trip back. And I pushed on.

I made it to the lab with 5 minutes to spare. The REI ladies are priority at the lab, and there were a few queued up outside already, waiting for the doors to be unlocked. It’s an odd dynamic, that queue. No one wants to talk. Everyone keeps their eyes averted. It’s like they are shy or embarrased about being part of the REI program. (More likely, it’s tiredness.) But not The Peevish Kitty. Oh no. She barges in like an excessively cheerful bull in a china shop, as always, cracking wise and chatting with the staff. Nothing gives me greater perverse pleasure than cracking infertility jokes very loudly in a waiting room full of quiet, patiently waiting people. BDH and I have always been of the mind that this process, these places, should be places of joy, not least because they are places where people are going to fix your broken, wounded self, and help you achieve your goal of having kids. But also, we’re also going through this embarassing, uncomfortable process together, so let’s make it as pleasant as we can. The staff have come to know us, and it makes things a lot more fun if you can laugh. And, it’s also fun to see, one by one, the nervous women and their spouses come to life, and smile, and relax. For a few moments, it’s all normal and okay.

So I got my blood taken. One of the lab techs periodically stuck her head in the door to stick her tongue out at me. We had a discussion about hair colour. And five minutes later, I was done and back on the road. Easy peasy. But still tired.

On my way back down to the 401, I stopped in at Williams for a dark mochaccino. It’s my reward for going through whatever indignity or annoyance I had to be present for that day. And since the drive back is far busier at 7:30 am, I can usually use the added caffeine. I put on my iPod and sang very loudly. I’ve been listening to the playlist I am preparing for my retrieval procedure recently, refining it, making it something that will work for me. BDH and I discussed what to put on it. The REI nurse recommended something relaxing and calming. But, as BDH says, when he thinks of me, “relaxing” and “calm” do not instantly spring to mind. Instead, he said, put on the music that makes you happiest, that transports you elsewhere. So my playlist will be full of my favourite songs, sonically interesting, full of pleasant memories, jangly, shimmering guitars, and interesting turns of phrase. And so, I took great pleasure in butchering several songs by Midnight Oil, the Cure, James, and Crowded House, all the way home.

And now, thanks to consuming great buckets of caffeinated beverage for 3 hours on an otherwise empty stomach, I have the traditional post-procedure gut rot. Ah, the complex world of infertility. Indignity AND indigestion. Who knew?

Today I called in my day one of what could be my last cycle of infertility treatment. I’m going to try to document this one fairly carefully. It’s a big one.

And so, with that, let me put the disclaimer out there RIGHT NOW that there could be TMI in this and subsequent posts about this cycle. So if you’re not interested in knowing about just what goes on with my reproductive organs, or you wish to remain blissfully ignorant of what happens during a gynecological procedure, or if you are just squeamish reading about girly bits using all the proper terminology, might I suggest clicking on a different site? Go no further. Do not pass go; do not collect $200.

Also, if at any time during my infertility posts you feel compelled to come back with a response like “Oh, you think THAT is bad, just wait until LABOUR!” or something equally helpful, take this opportunity to consider the following before doing so:

1. I am cranked full of hormones.
2. That is in NO WAY helpful or productive to the conversation at hand.
3. I am now cranked even MORE full of hormones than I was in point 1, and, also, in the interval, may have grabbed a sharp pointy implement to hurt you with.

If that is you, please go look at the People magazine site or something. Thank you.

On the other hand, if you’re cool with all that, carry on.

With a day one, you call in and plan the next step, or few steps, in your cycle. For me, this means I’ve got to get up on day 3 (Thursday) and head out around 5:30 am (earlier if the weather is bad) for the 1.5 hour drive to the clinic. In this case, I just have to go to the lab they work with. I have to be in town by 7 am for a blood test. I have to be there between 7 and 7:15 at the latest so they can get the blood drawn and ready for a 7:30 pick up, so they can have same-day turn-around of results. On most cycles, day 3 blood work just makes sure blood levels are normal, before you can proceed.

I had thought that this protocol called for a day 3 ultrasound as well, but, as it turns out, it’s not on the charts. And to this I say praise the Lord and pass the beer nuts. Let me just say, I do not enjoy transvaginal ultrasounds as much as some people. Perhaps I am just an old stick-in-the-mud, but there’s very little I enjoy less than having someone jam a wand up my person and yang it around so that it pushes sideways against my vaginal wall like it’s a balloon just needing to be stretched out before you can blow it up. But if there’s something I enjoy even LESS, it’s having that same procedure in the middle of a period. Because, you know, you’re uncomfortable already with cramps and bloating and soreness and stuff, so let’s just add to that discomfort, and then throw in a whole lot of embarassment and ick factor to make the day REALLY memorable. Oh YIPPEE. So I am happy that they’re passing on that exquisite joy this time.

So once my day 3 blood tests are back, I will get a call back with instructions. This will either be to stop, because my tests came back irregular, or to wait until day 5 and begin a cycle of birth control pills. It seems a bit odd, doesn’t it? Taking birth control pills to try to get pregnant. Well, here’s the explanation behind that. (Bear in mind, this could be COMPLETELY wrong; this is just what I understand happened. But it was explained to me while I was in a bit of shock and denial, so you know, don’t take it as gospel. I was wigged out, and might have misunderstood. Okay. Sorry for the interruption. Carry on.) This is what’s called a microdose flare protocol because — well, because the MICRODOSE protocol I was on LAST cycle caused my hormones to FLARE. The microdose was of a drug to stop me from producing any hormones or any follicles. But my system went into a freak out and went “OMG, they’re trying to shut us DOWN! Get a follicle out STAT! MUST! REPRODUCE! MUST! PROTECT! GENE! POOL! Fire in the hold!” So I produced 2 follicles all in a hurry before I had even started taking follicle stimulating hormones, and THEN my hormones shut up shop. They had wanted 10-15 follicles from that cycle. So I spent 6 days injecting myself with a drug that cost $450 a day, and it all went into those 2 little follicles like I had called in the reinforcements.

So because of the microdose flare, I am starting birth control WAY in advance. Sneak attack. Paranoid hormone bastards won’t even know what hit ‘em. I’ll have everything snoozing well in advance of the follicle stimulating hormones. And that way, I’ll be a blank canvas, waiting for the Da Vinci of REI, Gonal-F (*insert heavenly choir here*) to create a masterpiece of 10 to 15 follicles on my ovaries. Okay, at this point, I’d take Kinkade creating a less magnificent but at least commercially viable 7 or 8 follicles. Because last time, it was some guy who draws stick figures. (Yeah. Metaphor. Keep up, willya?)

And after that is done… well then, poppets, I get to begin injecting myself with abut 5 different hormones and drugs! YAY! But that’s another story for another day.

For those of you who know the very bad 70s song (and I am sorry for the earworm if you do), you know I am paraphrasing slightly. But today is not Monday.

It is a rainy weekend here. We’re getting the tail end of the rains from the hurricane down South. So it is a weekend for staying indoors and finding something to amuse ourselves. It’s not cold, just damp and windy and gray.

Normally I like rainy days, because it gives me an excuse to be lazy and sleepy. But I am in the waiting period before I can start my (probably) final shot at IVF, so the days are kind of hanging heavy. I’m sitting around, waiting for my poor, drug-addled system to wake up and start a period and get going on my cycle. But it just. isn’t. happening. And God only knows when it will. All the drugs and hormones and chemicals I have ingested and injected and inhaled over the last year and a half have my poor body so confused and puffy and tired, it doesn’t know whether it is coming or going. And so, we have nothing we can do but wait. We make lame-ass jokes to make it easier (“Oh, honey, you’re so late… maybe you’re PREGNANT HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”) We try to find ways around the frustration (“Why don’t you call the clinic and ask them about it?”"What are they going to do? Tell me to put the phone in front of my belly so they can yell ‘OKAY! You can START now!’?”) I try not to eat us out of house and home in the meantime, which I think is the hardest part of all. Dear dotGod, but I am STARVING.

So people crack wise about all the blogs and webpages and stuff I’ve got set up, but what they don’t see is that I need something like this to keep my mind otherwise engaged. If I am concentrating on futzing around with PHP or HTML, or posting in a blog, or whatever, I am NOT focusing on the enormity of the upcoming procedures or the decisions that must shortly be made or my own wounded self. With something fun to do that requires my concentration, I am busy and happy and not sucked into the usual whirlpool of emotion and stress. Some people believe in “shopping therapy”; I practice “technology therapy”. There’s only so much you can buy from the Victoria’s Secret clearance section.

So big, dark, gray clouds continue to shuffle across the sky overhead, and the rain comes in fits and starts. Maybe I’ll bake some cookies today. Maybe I’ll edit video. Maybe there’s a Nebraska game on the internet. Or maybe I’ll just set up another webpage or blog a bit. There’s always something to do on a rainy Sunday.