Cougar

Have you ever asked a psychic about your reproductive future?

I haven’t and while I both have a hippie streak and live somewhat close to California, I am not sure I will fork over some hard-earned cash for a glimpse into my future.

But Cowboy did. Kind of.

A few months ago – before AF had even reappeared on the stage – Cowboy ponied up to the bar at the mountain and was lured into conversation with a (in his words) cougar. Who ended up telling him she was a psychic who earned close to 200 G’s telling people around Portland what was coming. She had just bought a ski house nearby with some of the proceeds.

Cowboy – as cowboys are wont to do – played his cards close. He says he alluded that he had a child but didn’t tell cougar-psychic-lady that Missy was a missy. Over the course of their conversation, cougar-psychic-lady gave him a bunch of freebies, including:

1. Your daughter (right) is a fire cracker (right, again).

2. Between ages 16 – 17, she will be hell on wheels. (great. Then again, what girl between the ages of 16 and 17 isn’t?)

3. Then she will right her ship and become very successful. (really?)

4. Between this December and April, you will conceive a boy. (you don’t say?)

5. He will be the opposite of his sister: mellow (thank God).

6. By the way, is there someone close in your life named, Mark? (WTF! Cowboy’s dad with whom he is very close is named Mark).

Maybe I should be obsessing about the kind of trouble my daughter might get into commencing with her Sweet 16, but really the whole son-conceiving-between-December-and-April thing is what sticks in my head. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t pop into my head at some point every damn day.

Why!? Why am I willing to hang on to a thread of bullshit free advice given to my husband by a cougar-psychic-lady at a bar (when, by the way, he should have been out skiing)?????

Is this really how low I’ve sunk of the reproductive confidence scale?

What do you think? Should one ever believe free psychic advice? Have you ever seen a psychic and were his or her prophecies true?

Or am I just fucking nutty cakes?

More patience required

I think that in the past 3-1/2 years of miscarriages and infertility and then a baby who wouldn't sleep, I might have gotten semi-decent at one thing: being patient.

Which was never, ever my strong suit.

Patience rules the day again. Chart Day One again, that is. Sigh.

Fuck it & Wing it

While perhaps a good strategy for DIY during the holidays and a ski road trip, did not pay off in the end. Sigh.

Today is CD28. I greeted this morning with a sick, whiny toddler and a BFN after hoping, hoping, hoping that actually making it this far meant, well...very good things.

Patience is my mantra today.

Three years ago I would have been devastated about this morning's main event. Today my attitude is more keep-calm-and-carry-on. There was breakfast to be made, doggies to be walked and the cutest nose on earth (hers, not mine) that needed wiping.

I can only hope that I remain this resolute in the coming months.

All You Need to Know about Road Tripping with a Toddler

Sorry not to post while I was on the road. Between all the mountains and friends we wanted to visit across Idaho and Utah, we ran a tight ship. Organizing, hauling, packing and unpacking all that gear was quite the feat. And we didn't even pack that much. Five pairs of baby socks for 10 days of travel, for instance. My secret: Smartwool socks turned inside out and dried by the heater. (No laundry this time. I can only imagine spending a few hours in a laundramat with an active toddler.)

Cowboy ended up being quite the sherpa. That man is amazing. We only lost one snack trap during the entire trip, which included moving into and out of five different temporary residences with the port-a-crib, ski boots, boxes of Annie's bunnies and an assortment of gloves for each of us.

I am so grateful for the mountains, for the fresh air, for the snow. I am grateful we've chosen to have the mountains define our lives as a family. I am grateful that we do this for Christmas instead of presents. Each year has its own memories and learning experiences.

This year we learned to pack more of Missy's favorite music CD's for the long hours on the road. In an effort to bring as little as possible, we only brought TWO.

Both of which will be ceremoniously burned one night after Missy goes to bed.

In an effort to conserve space, I didn't even bring the CBEFM. I got to CD15 without an indication of peak fertility before we left. I considered bringing it briefly but in the end decided to fuck it and wing it old school style. I guess we'll just hope for the best this cycle.

Of course, to ensure a little good luck, I made sure to drink some beer and wine, sit in a few hot tubs and eat shellfish in the back half (I think?) of this cycle. Should make for some good babymaking karma, eh?

My Work Here is Done

Kind of.

During the past 2-1/2 years of keeping a blog, I amassed a small list of other women in the throes of infertility whose blogs I followed. Today is a happy, happy day. Because – with only 2 exceptions – and I don’t know what is going on with those two writers because they haven’t posted in many months (Carrie? Where are you? I miss you.) – every one of the bloggers I follow regularly has made it through to the other side.

Last fall I wondered if I should end my blog as a way of closing the door on infertility for me. I decided, however, that I could not leave all my comrades who hadn’t closed the door themselves.

All are now mothers. Many are on a successful second journey. It makes me exhale a deep sigh of relief. Of contentment.

But a few are still struggling for a second shot at pregnancy. Myself included. So I’m not giving this space up.

Cowboy and I decided that while we are late in the game, we want to give it another shot. My cycles are finally back now that I am nursing only once a day.

So I fired up the CBEFM and set it to CD1.

Holy shit. Here we go again.

Missy and the Girls

Or I guess another apt title would be: you reap what you sow.

I live in a region of the U.S. that has one of the highest rates of American breast-fed babies. It is just as common to breast feed in public as it is to shake up a bottle of formula. No one bats an eye. Until your kid can walk up to you and nurse, that is. That still seems to skeeve people out. Even if they do sport a "Keep Portland Weird" bumper sticker on their Prius.

At 1 year, Missy doesn’t seem close to walking. Which is great. Because she is so not close to weaning either.

I don’t mean to suggest that I would raise my child based on what I perceive are the perceptions from total strangers – or even good friends. But after 1 year of age, it seems like the scale goes quickly from "my, what a healthy thing for your baby," to "good lord, when is that kid going to get off the boob."

Don’t get me wrong. I really, really, really wanted breast feeding to go well for us. So much so that I forbade the nurses in L&D to give Missy a pacifier in her early days for fear that she wouldn’t develop a good latch.

Where my body failed me with pregnancies, my girls made up for it in spades. Nursing was easy as pie for Missy and me. Now it has gone so well that I fear that Missy won’t be inclined to give it up too soon.

She still insists on nursing to sleep for naps and night-night. We are working slowly at dropping the nursing session for her morning nap. But she also nurses in the night a few times. I can count on one hand the number of times she has slept through the night since her birth. Over a year ago. Sigh.

When we go out – which is almost never because we spent all of our money on day care at the mountain – I leave a sippy cup of expressed milk for the sitter and Missy won’t touch it. She goes to sleep for Cowboy and the sitter with no milk and only a little fussing before putting her head down on their shoulders. But for me, she literally shoves her way down to the girls and gets seriously pissed off if I don’t oblige. Which I resent. Just a tiny, tiny bit.

During the day, I comfort her with hugs, kisses and distractions -– thank goodness it is so easy to distract a toddler. At night, however, it is just easier for everyone to let her have a little nursing sesh and we all go right back to sleep. Besides, I can see my refusal becoming a battle of wills. And with a mother-daughter Taurus combo, I don’t anticipate a fabulous outcome in that scenario.

But – and this is so Are You There, God? It’s Me Margaret – but I really want my period to come. I am seriously jealous when I hear about other new moms getting AF. Nursing - specifically the night nursing - is preventing my auntie from returning for a visit.

On the other hand, I want to have my cake and eat it, too. Because I don’t want to force-wean Missy when she (I?) is clearly not ready. What if I wean her and give up the close bonding we have and then I piss her off and she needs years of therapy as a teen? Only so that we can try again before my eggs dry up (and, trust me, that window is getting very, very small). Yeah, because all that timed sex and thermometer-induced rage was super positive for our marriage. Maybe we won’t even have another successful outcome.

Gosh, I sound like such a chicken shit.

But at least I have a great looking rack.

To Every Season...

I have a love-hate relationship with fall.

On the love side, fall always feels like the start of something new for me. New school year (I loved school. I know: lame), new school supplies ready for all that planning and organizing, and the like.

This season, I am starting my own company. My primary job is I am a contractor to my old job – how is that for poetic justice? – plus I’m picking up a few freelance market research projects as the fall rolls around. So I’ve been busy.

My business also treated me to 2 new office supplies yesterday: (1) my favorite Uniball fine point black ink pens, which I discovered in grad school and (2) Ms. Planner’s favorite new business accouterment: a new academic school year calendar. Squee!

At my old job, I tried valiantly to be an electronic-only MS office kind of gal. Really. I tried. But to no avail. I ended up printing out the calendar by months, scribbling appointments and ‘to do’ lists in the margins.

Back in grad school I kept an old-school, spiral bound calendar with each page full of commitments, assignments, meetings and mid-terms. I went to business school full time, was a graduate teaching fellow and worked part-time at an REI store. I still have my calendar from second year as a testament to how much one person can cram into their schedule and still have a life. Sad, but keeping that schedule and pulling Dean’s List is one of my proudest achievements to date. I’d like to supplant that proudest moment with becoming a mom, but that’s another post entirely.

I also bought one new planning device for fall.

After getting aced out of a couple of eB*y, I splurged and bought it brand-spanking-new:

Hello Clear Blue Easy fertility monitor.

Good bye cashmere sweater fund.

And since it recommends starting on CD4 or 5, I’ll be breaking it out tomorrow. One cycle to go in the Summer of Love.

Which brings me to my hate relationship with fall. Fall sucks in the Northwest. It gets dark earlier with at alarming pace. It rains. A lot. It is cold and damp. There is not yet enough snow in the Cascades to act as the silver lining to rain in the valley.

Last fall, I was pregnant so I had a bright and cheery look on fall – until, that is, I miscarried in November. This fall, I am anticipating a slog.

I can only hope that I get pregnant this cycle while the sun is still shining. There I go again, silly me. Hoping and all.

Stalker

I am stalking Clear Blue Easy fertility monitors on eB*y.

Because I need a new strategy.

The no chart way is working well for my sanity but not for the Summer of {DIY} Love. Is is Labor Day already?

This cycle I used OPKs for many days in a row and always got the same pale blue second line. I gave up on CD 15 or 16. I don’t think I even ovulated this month. My body does this after a stressful spate of work and travel. It pisses me off but I think it is my body just asserting herself.

I don’t know, she says, hand on hip. How do you expect me to pump an egg out of your old ass when you work for, like, four weeks straight through with barely any exercise while subsisting on lunches of chocolate kisses and Clif Bars? And let’s not even bring up ALL that stress about your job ending. Yes, your job is ending! We all KNOW that. My goodness, when can we just get on with being normal again?

See, while I am kind-of-sorta on a “break,” it is more a break from having my whole existence revolve around my fertility. I just want to go to yoga, run, not swallow nasty herbal tea twice daily, not shell out a hundi every 2 weeks for acupuncture, thus not raise my hopes that this month I might get pregnant naturally (shocker!). But I still want to be cognizant that Cowboy and I are at least giving it a shot.

Gross, I just realized what I wrote. No pun intended.

It is like I am in this weird, quasi-limbo of IF-land.

Is it denial that we have an issue, hence the new-to-me monitor?

Is it impatience with this process? And why do I accuse myself of impatience when plenty of others I know – both older and younger than me – get pregnant so easily?

Or is it that I am done and I am ready to move on to the next step? And deciding, really deciding, on what that next step may be? I may talk all tough about going straight to adoption but I am scared. to. death to take on the cost of IVF w/ PGD with no guaranteed outcome.

And, lastly, is it acceptable to take a prenatal vitamin with a slug of red wine?

According to Plan

What’s going on? Kind of nothing.

On one hand, I am slightly jealous of all you Cyclesistah’s who are suppressing, stimming, transferring and two week waiting or ultrasounding. I feel kind of left out and old school as my Summer of (DIY) Love rolls by.

Actually there is something a bit sneaky and a bit, dare I say, dirty going on. Check it out.

I can’t go into major detail because (1) I’m not a good kiss-and-tell kind of gal and (2) Ms. Planner’s mom, Mrs. Super Planner, reads this blog occasionally. But I can tell you that it has been one heck of a follicular phase.

I’ve even taught Cowboy some new pony tricks, which left him waking up early this morning asking - no, wait, begging - to perform them again.

A huge shout out to Anns, who suggested this therapy instead of my incessant charting & planning. I *heart* this method so much more.

Life is better in the house with the very clean windows.

Raise your hand if you’ve read any infertility book that suggested taking a break from exercising for a few months to see if your exercise regimen had anything to do with your fertility.

Yep, a lot of them say this.

Because I’m so fucking eager to do everything right, I took this suggestion. I stopped my Ashtanga yoga practice. I stopped trail running. It’s no longer ski season. I still do yoga-lite about 3x per week at our corporate gym and while it is fun and the instructor is a wonderful woman, it is not the same. I receive neither the same psychological nor physical benefits as I do with my beloved Ashtanga.

The result? I am flabby and unhappy. Not a good combo.

Ashtanga (aka power yoga) takes about 90 minutes to complete the full practice. It’s probably more famous for its famous followers, Madonna and Gwyneth. I started practicing in 2002 after my boss put “get some stress relief” as one of my professional goals for the upcoming year. I didn't even know that I was stopping in on an Ashtanga class when I went to my first yoga session. But now, I luv Ashtanga. I even missed it while I was on my honeymoon.

My acupuncturist also practices Ashtanga and has suggested I curtail my habit because it can deplete kidney yang (which is the Eastern equivalent of Western medicine's low progesterone). My Western doctors just hear the word “yoga” and say, keep exercising.

During pregnancy #1, I practiced nearly every morning, modifying the practice where suggested. But when I miscarried, I was concerned that my practice might have caused it. I don’t know why I thought this. Grasping at straws, I guess.

Should I become pregnant, the Guruji – who developed this type of practice in India - suggests that women with a history of miscarriage not practice during the first trimester. And I’ll take his advice. But for now…what do I do?

I emailed experts on Ashtanga and pregnancy, but the information is anecdotal, limited at best and mostly geared for when you are already pregnant. Is Ashtanga too demanding an exercise regimen for those trying get knocked up? No one can tell me.

I am so confused. How can something that feels so good be so bad for making a baby?

And then came these baby announcements: Click here. Click here.

Now, the first one, OK, she’s like 25 and at the peak of her fertility even though she weighs under a buck. But the second one? Come on. Look at these pictures, which given publishing schedules, were probably shot just before she conceived. She looks hot, no? And she’s in her late 30’s.

Seriously, how can demanding exercise and low body weight be that significant of a factor in a successful pregnancy if these 2 can get pregnant? Not to mention countless others (see above for just a few).

I feel duped. I am so over it all.

So, along with giving my BBT the buh-bye, I am resuming my Ashtanga practice on Thursday. Why Thursday? Because Thursday is CD4 (yeah, happy Monday for me – but I knew it was coming) and both TCM and Ashtanga principles suggest not practicing or engaging in excessive exercise during the first 3 days of AF. Looks like she is good for something after all.

Namaste.

May Day, May Day

I need to get help.

I am hopeless. I cannot concentrate. I am sad most of the time. I don’t even find pleasure in yoga and skiing (yes, we are still skiing up here) anymore.

Cowboy and I started seeing a marital counselor occasionally after a big blow out about ovulation sex last winter. She’s a nice lady and I like her, but she’s just been cheerleading me on. And I don’t need a cheerleader. I need someone who really gets what this fertility shit (or lack thereof) can do you.

I am afraid that I’ve let it get so far that depression may be a factor in my fertility as we continue.

So I found two shrinks who specialize in infertility in our town. And I’m calling them both today.

God, I need to get control of this before it ruins everything.

Rookie ISO Help w/ Progesterone Protocol

Today’s good news is that my RE said that we only had to wait one cycle before trying again.

In about 5 days I get to whip together a new chart. Oh, the possibilities! Yeah. Whatevs.

Then, out-of-the-blue my OB called to follow up on me. While I had her on the phone – usually an impossible feat to manage – I asked her about the progesterone supplement protocol. When should I start taking it? How do I get it from her office? Etc.

See, the day before I miscarried Junior #2, I had a beta (= a pitiful 9, so I knew what was coming). I also had a progesterone test done (= 2, yeah a tad underachieving as it should have been at 21 or so). Hmm. Kind of like the math percentile score on my first GMAT. Okay, let’s save that one for another post.

Anyway, my luteal phase has never been over 12 days. Usually it is around 8-10 days. Given this they are just assuming I have a progesterone deficiency. YAH THINK?

So here’s what my OB said: call her office after we nail the target dates. (Absolutely no pun intended.) Start on a prescription of progesterone immediately. Before we even know if one of Cowboy’s ponies successfully jumped through the ring of fire.

I assume this will be the suppository kind (yuck), as we are completely untrained in the fine art of injectables (save for Watson’s step-by-step video).

So, I am actively seeking out ass-vice. What did progesterone do to you? Did it completely whack out your cycle? What kind were you on?

This sounds a little OMG-where-did-you-get-those-totally-cute-jeans, but I am at a loss as to what to expect. And while I plan to have a long sit down with Dr. Google tonight, I know you ladies will give me the goods.

Thanks in advance, Ms. Planner

Fun Times with Blue Cross Blue Shield

After my miscarriage with Junior #2, my OB referred me to an RE. The city I live in does not have a recurrent miscarriage specialist clinic, so REs usually handle the habitual aborters by default. Lucky them.

The RE, Dr. Stretch, ordered 2 of the 4 tests given to recurrent miscarriage patients: (1) Clomid Challenge, which indicates how good my eggies are, which in turn can clue us in to whether the embryos are more likely to have abnormal chromosomes and (2) an HSG to rule out things like endometriosis, cysts, and the like. He also suggested we consider to other tests: (3) DNA / karotype analysis for me and Cowboy, which is done by analyzing a blood sample and gives us info on potential abnormal chromosome issues and (4) immune work-up for any clotting issues or antibody concerns for me, again, requiring a blood sample.

Since I’m risk averse by nature, I like to cover all my bases. Why not have all the tests? Let's put the issue(s?) right out on the table and see what we are dealing with. Plus, a looksy into what kinds of tricks Cowboy’s ponies are up to. Why waste any more time? Fo’ sure I am not getting any younger.

Sounds like a plan, right?

Only today I found out that because our insurance company excludes infertility treatment, including diagnostic treatment, exactly NONE of these tests, which cost about $3,000, will be covered by insurance.

So let me get this straight. Finding out why someone has massive bleeding and jaw-dropping cramps for days, not to mention the following hormonal imbalance and emotional trauma each time they get pregnant (by accident or not) is considered infertility treatment and is thus excluded from coverage?

Yep.

But – and just so I’m clear on this – drugs so a guy can get an erection are covered? (Sorry to anyone’s whose partners have ED. I am sure it is not cool at all, but I am just trying to make a point).

Yep.

If ONE man ever had to go through the physical trauma of a spontaneous abortion, missed abortion or a D&C, I can guaran-freakin'-tee you that the procedures required to solve this shit would be legally mandated to be covered by insurance companies.

I realize that three grand is chump change as far as infertility treatments go. The shit ain’t cheap. But we’re talking three K just to find out what is wrong. Treatment is, for sure, not included.

If you ask me, all 50 states should mandate ALL types infertility treatment be covered by insurance companies. Period. It’s not like you choose to have this happen to your body. And it is debilitating as all get out, both physically and mentally.

But, gosh, I mean, GOSH. Not covering the diagnostic tests just to find out why I keep having miscarriages?

This. (Sigh). Is just insulting.

TCM and shit

I freaked out on my acupuncturist today.

Since late February, I have been – faithfully I might add – going to an acupuncturist who specializes in fertility every week. I have paid the co-pays, sucked down the awful tasting herb teas. I have maxed out my annual complementary insurance coverage.

On her advice, I have quit doing Ashtanga yoga, which I love, in favor of yoga-lite classes at our corporate gym. I have stopped running as much as I used to, and it wasn’t like I was training for a flippin’ marathon. Just a friendly little trail run or jog.

During our first meeting, she asked me to commit to 1x per week for 3 months. She said that was all she thought I needed to get me back on track. I was sooo hopeful, so I agreed and honored that commitment. I also incorporated every suggestion she made.

After today’s session, I casually noted that we were coming up on my 12th visit. She looked stoically stunned (is there such a thing?). She wanted to know why I didn’t want to continue with the “treatments.”

I mumbled something about her comment 2 weeks ago – while I was in the process of miscarrying Junior #2 – that perhaps my issues were beyond the scope of what she can provide.

She (stoically) admonished me. TCM doesn’t happen quickly. It can take months. And, in my case, since she has come to know my body, she thinks it will be another 6 months at least until my kidney yin & yang issues are fixed. She goes on that she had merely suggested I seek out other practitioners, such as a naturopathic doctor, because she sensed that I was frustrated that my getting – and staying – pregnant wasn’t happening according to my timeline.

Well, fucking excuse me! I am sorry if I am a little anxious that on May 15th I will have been charting for exactly 1 year. And June 23rd is Junior #1’s due date. That right now I should be hugely pregnant. Oh, or starting to have morning sickness with Junior #2. Let’s not forget about the middle child.

So, yes, this is SO not according to my plan. My plan is now chucked out the window. Actually, I have angrily ripped my plan off the wall, wadded it up in a ball and taken a blow torch to it. So I have no plan. My fucking “plan” each day is to keep myself from breaking down and crying at my desk. I’ve stopped wearing eye make-up to work for chrissakes.


Yeah, um, so that -- the aforementioned tirade. That’s what kinda happened in the zen little space of my acupuncturist’s office today.

And now I’m embarrassed to go back. I think it is because every visit there reminds me of what a failure my body is. Every visit there makes me either (1) hopeful for like 2 seconds or (2) completely despondent. Jeez, not only is my body so effed up according to TCM but I’m also horribly impatient. And I left wondering how it can be good for me if it makes me feel so bad emotionally?

But my RE said that acupuncture was good. And I should keep going.

So I am torn. Not to mention how stupid I feel for putting hope in this. I mean, it’s not like my acupuncturist has ever asked for my info from my Western doctors. But she has supposedly built her practice around this fertility shit. I don’t know what to trust.

So much for the daily meditation I have added to my regimen. RUHLLY fucking helped me today.