My Dear Watson

So, ummmm…Yeah. 

My Mom told me I wouldn’t eat for a month if I didn’t pose for these crazy photos.  She said her ‘Blog Readers’ (Yeah right!  Like anyone would read the drivel she comes up with. HA.) demanded to see pictures of me in this silly outerwear that I do not — I repeat:  DO NOT — enjoy wearing. 

All of the other dogs at the park make fun of me.  Even the POODLES for chrissake!

Every night we go through the same routine:  Mom comes home, I jump all over her (although secretly wishing it was Dad because to be honest I love him more, but she’s better than that ass-faced Fed Ex guy) and then she greets me with a series of names that are not Bosco, including but not limited to Bossy Boo Boo, Booga Bear, Bear Bear, Stink Butt, Scramy Saurus and a million other humiliating monikers. 

GAWD.  What is with her?

Then, she pets me and throws my favorite toy (the purple football) around the room.  Then, each night she says this:

"I’m going upstairs to change Bossy." 

PAUSE. 

LOOKS AT ME.

"You should say, ‘don’t change Mommy, I love you just the way you are.’"

Yes. You read that correctly.  She talks to me, and then answers her own statement as if she WAS me. 

And you people said she wasn’t a crackpot! 

I was not happy about this little endeavor.

"But it’s for the people," my Mom whined at me.

"Not unlike the Masai warriors of East Africa," I responded, "I believe that taking photos steals a piece of my soul."

She was not buying it.  She arranged the outfits in order and waved a treat in front of my snout to provide me with the right motivation.

"It’s all about the story. You bring a character to the shoot and despite the clothes or make-up, YOU should shine through. You really should be paying attention when I watch America’s Next Top Model," she said.

"Model THIS," I snorted under my breath.

 

I feel like freaking Suri Cruise with all the hoopla surrounding these photos!   

 

 

OH SNAP.  This shot makes me look old. I need a better art director, stat.

Here I’m getting into the spirit of things.  This red coat isn’t too bad, but the quilting does make me look fat.

I’m ready for the next outfit.  Can we please hurry up?  I feel like dragging my butt across the carpet, just for the hell of it.

Now this little number is a Gortex wonder!  It totally keeps the rain off me.  My Dad conned my Mom into paying for it last winter, the cheap bastard!

OK folks.  This is getting old. Here I am with my football and I wish with all my heart I could take this jacket off and just be left alone to bite the plastic toy and drool all over the carpet.  Mmmmmmm….drool.

I cannot believe she put me in THIS monstrosity.  The bitch.  And I don’t mean that in a good way.  My grandparents gave this to me, and believe it or not, it has a battery pack in it that powers an illuminated strip down the sides.  THAT BLINKS. "For those late night walks," they told me.  I feel like throwing myself under a speeding SUV when I have to wear this out in public.

I want to cry.  Or pee on your bed.

DOG!

So the photo shoot with Bosco the Dog is planned for tonight, I swear! 

We went through his clothing selections and chose just the perfect raincoat to demonstrate his modern and ultra chic taste in outerwear.

And he wants me to be sure to tell you he’s NOT gay.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  He just wears coats.  When it rains.  And only because I make him.

But!  The prospect of all this attention is clearly getting to him.  He wanted to go by the mall and look at some stuff in Abercrombie & Fitch, just to see if they had any really macho-looking Gortex.  I refused.  I just cannot support a chain that markets thongs to young girls.  Low-rise pants, mid-drift-showing tees and skinny jeans are bad enough, but PLEASE!  Thongs?  For 12 year olds?  I think not.  Bosco started to ask if HE could have a thong but as soon as I started my little tirade about the tweeners he shut his trap.  He knows better.

He’s mad at me because we haven’t done his nails in ages, and he looks positively PREHISTORIC with those long nails.  (In my defense, he can’t just get them clipped like a normal dog.  Noooo…Bosco has to get his mani/pedis at the vet, because his nails get TRAMMELED or some other word I’ve never heard before that means worn down with a loud buzzing machine of some sort.  Basically it’s a total pain in the ass and like the responsible pet owners that we are, we wait until he’s practically prancing around on nothing but nails, skidding across the hardwood floors and leaving hideous scratch marks all over the house, before we finally take him for the trammeling.)

He’s been getting ready all day, fasting because he said he feels ‘bloated’ and doesn’t want to appear fat in the photos. DOGS!  Such freaking divas.

And TAG!

I was recently tagged by the fabu Electric Lady and not-so-recently by the delish ‘Nilla and I will also do my best to get to one or both of those. 

Seriously.  I need some material other than "I’m so infertile…"  "How INFERTILE ARE YOU?" and crazy Mother stories and watch me have a myocardial fucking infarction because my dog isn’t at home when he’s supposed to be.

SNORT.

I said infarction.

Do you ever have moments of total and complete self-awareness?  Like the clouds part and the sun shines down on you like a golden halo and you have an amazing insight into your own character?

For some, this might occur when finally, after years of planning and preparation, they summit Mt. Everest.  For others, it could be the moment they run, without thinking, into a burning building to save a small puppy.  "I am strong," they might realize.  Or, "I am brave."

For me, a profound realization such as this happened yesterday. Only instead of seeing into my innermost humanness and thinking I am strong or I am brave, I thought:

I am a fucking crackpot.

Now, in my family we use the term ‘crackpot’ quite liberally.  In fact, one of us is always saying to another a variation on this theme: 

"Are you cracked?" we ask rhetorically.

As in, my Mother wanting to use ACE bandages to tape magic healing crystals to various parts of our body.  "Are you CRACKED?"

Or, the time she fell and smashed her head on a hotel room floor and taped a photograph of a Russian healer to her head, which she kept hidden under a floppy straw hat for the next few days. 

"It’s working," she claimed.  "I know I don’t have a concussion and my headache and blurry vision are improving!"

"Are you CRACKED?" my sister, Dad and I would retort. (And that time we meant it.  Given the head injury and all.  You know, like she cracked her…anyway.)

So, the fact that yesterday the term ‘crackpot’ was the first word to pop into my head during my moment of self-awareness is not surprising.  It’s really depressing, but not surprising.

Here’s what happened:  I arrived home early (mid-afternoon) after getting yet more blood taken for yet more tests. (I had asked my doctor to order the CD3 panel of tests, for my upcoming consult with Dr. Fertility Specialist in a couple of weeks, which is not at all relevant to the story but I know how you like details.)

So, I got home and Bosco was not at the door like he usually is, wagging and panting and mostly just thrilled someone is finally frigging home to pay attention to him and throw his purple plastic football around the living room.

I yelled for him, and normally if he’s not at the front door, I hear a loud thud upstairs which means he’s been sleeping soundly on our bed, most likely with his butt right on BeBop’s pillow which always, for some disturbing reason, makes me smile.  But I didn’t hear a thud.  So I yelled some more, and looked around the living room.  No Bosco.

Immediately I felt my heart race and I swear I could feel my cortisol levels hitting the roof.  I ran up the stairs to check BeBop’s office and our bedroom, Bosco wasn’t anywhere.

I started to panic.  And I do mean PANIC.  Shortness of breath, heart jumping through my chest, scrambled thinking which made it hard to do anything constructive.

Just for some extra background:  we live in a small condo, with no yard.  There’s no way for the dog to let himself out (like through a doggie door).  And the cleaning lady had been there that morning.  And my super secret fear is that she will mistakenly leave the door open and Bosco will make a run for it. Not that he’s ever done anything like that — he hasn’t.  You just have to know about my completely baseless paranoia that one day this will happen in order to comprehend the absurd level of panic I experienced.

It’s happened!  I thought, my worst FEAR HAS COME TRUE. Bosco has escaped and it’s raining and what the freaking HELL do I do now?

In my panic, I thought to call BeBop. Which?  WORST. IDEA. EVER.  Please use me as an example and learn from my mistake. Do not call your husband in a moment of total detachment from reality. 

"OMIGOD, heh heh," I panted into the phone.  "I just.  Got home. And Bosco.  ISN’T HERE!!!"  At that moment I thought to look in the basket where we keep the leash. "And. His leash. Is Gone.  AND IT’S POURING RAIN!!"

"Don’t worry, I’m sure the dog walker came by to walk him," BeBop said calmly.  As if by now he’s grown accustomed to my panicky phone calls of doom.

"But today’s not her day and she e-mailed me and didn’t say she was coming," I croaked into the phone.  I was on the verge of a total panic attack at this point, sweaty palms, shallow breathing, overall freakoutedness.

"Do you think Bosco put his own leash on and took himself for a walk?" BeBop asked, again in the calm, my-wife-is-a-whack-job-and-sadly-that’s-my-lot-in-life tone of voice.

"I don’t know!" I yelled. "I am going outside to find them. I’ll call you back as soon as I know something." I said. But what I really thought was, he’s gone. The cleaning lady let him out six hours ago and he’s lost in the pouring rain and my life is seriously, seriously over. I cannot handle this. I can’t I can’t I can’t.  Tiger just died a year ago and that almost killed me and I can’t endure this again. I will die. I will most surely DIE.

And then I opened the front door, and Bosco was bounding up the steps, with the dog walker right behind him. He had on his little raincoat and was so thrilled to see me at the door he jumped up and down and slobbered all over me.

"I almost had a heart attack," I told the dog walker, trying to be all casual and detached about it.  And then I could feel my heart rate slow and my breathing return to normal.

And I was relieved. But also at that moment? The epiphany, the flash of recognition, that I am crazy.  That I am terrible in a crisis.  That I am prone to overreact and that’s an understatement.

The clouds parted, the sun shone down on my head and I thought: 

I am a crackpot.

Then I called BeBop to tell him Bosco was fine, that he was right about the dog walker.  And then he laughed at me, but did I feel bad?  No, because that’s what sane people do. THEY LAUGH AT THE CRAZIES.

Did I feel like a complete moron? you ask.  Well, thanks for asking. Yes, as a matter of fact, YES. I felt like a total asshole. Like a crazy asshole who comes undone over nothing and can’t manage to hold herself together long enough to string one coherent thought after another.

But at least I’m not attaching clear glass beads to my lower back or taping photographs to my head, right? 

At least I got that going for me. 

For now.

I decided I better get off my ass and post something today, because God forbid any new readers stumble by the blog and get hit over the head with the "My Dog Died" story.

What a boring, sad and depressing blog, you would think.

And actually it’s much more like a weird, inappropriate and extraordinarily loooooong-winded blog, so I just want to be clear on that. 

When I last complained bitterly updated you, I was in the throes of yet another poor me phase.  I was hoping that since the acupuncture and herbs had made such a difference the first two months, this month I would ovulate earlier than I normally do.  But of course that would actually be GOOD news and what’s the fun in that?

My body finally geared up to ovulate around day 22, so it was back to its old tricks.  It took its own sweet time, dithering around and probably getting stuck in traffic and throwing me off track by trying to ovulate around day 17, only to fake me out and wait another FIVE days which resulted in me having to have sex EIGHT times in TEN DAYS. 

GAWD.  Can you imagine the horror?!?  I’m only just recovering now.

Currently I am on CD 31, so once again I am cramming progesterone tablets in my gaping maw trying to have a somewhat normal luteal phase.  Which would, of course, mean a cycle length of about 36 days which is just no fun at all.

I guess having this setback after two months of good progress sort of threw me off balance and made me doubt my body’s ability to get pregnant on its own or with little intervention, which is why the whole IVF thing suddenly became a real option.

And I appreciate everyone’s comments reassuring me that I was not alone in having my head up my ass by believing that we would not have to pursue IVF.  Really, your comments meant a lot to me and helped me reframe the issue slightly. 

I think it was depressing to finally be looking at our last option, because if IVF doesn’t work, then fucking what?  But when so many of you said you also felt a sense of relief, even excitement for crissakes, when starting the process because the odds of getting pregnant were so much better…well! 

I’ll be goddamned, I thought. I had not really considered that angle.

When the very wise Thalia said not to make IVF the Bogey Man, something clicked.

Good God, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing, I thought in a rare moment of introspection and self-awareness. Then I went to the kitchen to eat a chocolate-covered granola bar because all that introspection and self-awareness can make a girl HUNGRY, and what’s not to love about a chocolate-covered granola bar??  It has the crunchy, sweet granola that tricks you into thinking it’s healthy and then it’s slathered in a generous layer of yummy chocolate and…wait. 

Where was I?

Oh yeah.

So anyway, as I mentioned in the post we are talking to a local IVF specialist on October 17th and I’m gearing up for the whole thing.  And by ‘gearing up’ I mean screaming at BeBop at the top of my lungs last night when he was in a snit.

"YOU’RE in a bad mood??" I sneered.  "YOU have nothing to worry about my friend.  I am looking at possibly getting the inside of my UTERUS ROTO-TILLED  so I’m pretty freaking sure you have nothing to complain about."

Yes. 

I am always cool, calm, collected and not at all a total ball of nerves and anxiety.  Nor am I someone who frets over things before she even knows if she’ll have to confront these horrible and possibly quite uncomfortable or even very painful procedures.  Nope.  Not me.

But before I totally immerse myself in self-pity, again, let’s take a peep at

THIS:

Apparently in 1898, when you had a Hysteroscopy, it was performed by someone who looks suspiciously like one of the Wright Brothers, or perhaps Alexander Graham Bell. 

I choose to believe the latter, and that this is an artist’s rendering of Mr. Bell testing prototypes of his soon-to-be-invented telephone.  It was a hellava way to get dates back then, but what poor lass could refuse his pleading, "but it’s for science, and I swear THIS one will work.  It’s for the good of all mankind!!"

Oh Lordy, I find myself totally off track again. 

Let’s see…I did promise some good or some does-not-totally-suck news, and I guess the only thing I have to offer is this: My Mother graciously pre-paid for me to see the KEY MASTER four times over the next few weeks. 

Which puts me in a total bind because even though I don’t think he’s going to sell me into white slavery or chop me up into little pieces anymore, I still don’t feel like spending a total of four hours getting poked and prodded by a tiny little Korean man making bizarre breathing sounds and belching (which is, apparently, his way of releasing my toxins which I would prefer to release on my OWN, thank you very much).

But to not go would annoy my Mother and believe you me, you do NOT want to annoy my Mother. It’s like confronting the white hot rage of a thousand blistering suns and going to the "healer" is, in the end, much better than that.

Trust me on that one.

She goes to an Indian ashram every year to meditate and chant and sing Indian prayer songs, but by God if you disagree with her, you better watch your ass.

First, the bad: 

Today marks one year since we had to put our Boston Terrier, Tiger, to sleep.

I wrote about him in my last post.  For some reason, he’s an integral part of my IF journey.  As I mentioned, when I came home from our canceled IUI he literally crawled on my lap and curled himself into a tight little ball of black and white fur.  This was totally out of character for him. He was a stubborn, self-sufficient, grumpy old man who did not like affection lavished on him, nor did he particularly like to cuddle up with BeBop or me.  But for some reason, whenever I was desperately unhappy he could tell, and always did his best to comfort me.

He was an older dog when we adopted him, sadly we only had three years with him.  But after only a few days, I could not imagine my life before he came into our home.  And after he died, I simply could not imagine life without him, he was such a source of light and happiness and humor and love that I could not envision how I would go on and ever be happy again.

I so empathize with Reality, who is dealing with the recent loss of her doggie, Sunshine.  I received a beautiful, touching e-mail from her this morning, acknowledging this sad anniversary and I wrote back to thank her, mentioning that even BeBop hadn’t said anything about what a hard day this might be for me – husbands!  Can’t live with ’em, can’t hobble ’em with a dull butter knife when they piss you off!  Well, I guess you could, but then who would help carry the groceries from the car?

I wrote back that today was a mixed bag, honestly. On one hand I am sad that it’s been a whole year since I’ve seen Tiger and spent time with him, watching TV with him next to me on the couch (but not too close, Mom, come on!), rubbing his belly (Oh how I hate it when you do that…growl..growl…) and kissing him right between the eyes (NOW THAT IS HUMILIATING STOP IT RIGHT NOW YOU CRAZY WOMAN!). It’s been a year since I ran up the steps, just hoping he was waiting for me, which he always was, with his ears just peeking up over the bottom of the screen door.  It makes me sad to know he hasn’t been in this world for a year now.

But on the other hand, I feel almost proud that it’s been a year and I’m almost a fully functioning human being again.  When he died, I honestly thought the grief would cripple me.  I know that might sound strange to the non-dog-lovers out there, but on this day one year ago I thought I would disappear into a dark hole and never see the light of day again.

In fact, I was so utterly depressed I made an appointment with my doctor to request a sleeping pill, because nighttime was the worst and my insomnia (plus the bad dreams) was killing me.  I mentioned to the nurse practitioner that my dog had died recently, and the grief was so intense I was having trouble sleeping.  She took notes and then left the room to speak with doctor.

When the doctor came in the room, she had such a stricken look on her face.  "I am sooooo sorry," she said.  "I can’t imagine the extent of your loss and I am so sorry.  This must be an incredibly painful time for you," she said sympathetically.

Wow, I thought, this is one cool doctor!  She must have a dog and realize the sense of loss I feel.

Then things got weird.

"You might want to consider taking Zoloft," she suggested.  "Because the insomnia could be caused by your grief and sadness, and the anti-depressant will help more than just a prescription sleeping pill."

Hmmmmmm…it was slowly beginning to dawn on me that the nurse had probably misunderstood what I had said. I realized that she had most likely written down "DAD" instead of "DOG" and that’s why the doctor was being so nice and comforting and recognizing my tremendous sense of loss.

FRICK, I thought, why does this stuff always happen to me?

I could have clarified the situation and explained that my Dad was fine, thank you, it was my beloved dog who had passed away, but why bother? I took the sample pack of Zoloft and stashed it in my dresser drawer, comforted somewhat by the fact that I had it and if the depression and sadness were just too much, I could always try it.  I never did.  I was tempted many, many times (and I have nothing against taking anti-depressants!) I just kept thinking I might be pregnant soon and why experience the quandary of taking or stopping the drug once that happened.

I know – STOP LAUGHING! HEY — I could have gotten pregnant. I said stop laughing (balling hands into fists and madly throwing them about in the air).

Anyhoo, that was a year ago and it did get a little, teeny tiny bit better each day.  The fact that I made it through the paralyzing sadness makes me feel relieved and almost proud. Like if I made it through that, I can make it through anything. I have a resilience I didn’t know existed within me.

And that’s a cool lesson to learn, it just sucks that it has to come from such pain and loss.

I know I said I’d also include some good, but I think I’ll save that for another post. 

I am an idiot and don’t know how to post photos, but I’ll give it a try.  Here are two pictures of my little baby, who brought so much to my life.  I hope he’s  watching over me today.  I miss you Tiger.

So which one of you kicked me in the stomach when I wasn’t paying attention?  Seriously, that was so rude. I really feel as though I might vomit any second now…

Oh wait!

This nauseous feeling is probably because I just called and set up a phone consultation at a local fertility clinic.  To explore IVF.

MY BAD.

How did I get here?  I have been in denial for years now, thinking somehow, something would work and we wouldn’t have to jump off the IVF cliff. 

Does everyone feel like this?  Do we all think, "I won’t have to do IVF" until it dawns on us that, "Holy fucking hell, I HAVE TO DO IVF"?? 

Or is it just me?  You can be honest.

As I’ve sort of mentioned, we started trying to get pregnant almost four years ago.  We tried for a year, then sought help.  I went through all the tests, and so did BeBop, and they couldn’t find anything wrong with either one of us.  And as I’ve mentioned in gag-inducing detail, I do tend to ovulate late in my cycle and have always had a short luteal phase.  So there’s something off, but still I’m technically grouped in the super fun cool clique known as ‘unexplained infertility.’

So back in 2003-2004, we did three months of clomid. No IUI.  Why?  I have no idea.  It’s just how that doctor wanted to do things and it sounded like a good idea at the time.  After three months, he decided to proscribe Femara instead of clomid, and we had an IUI scheduled.  In the days prior, everything looked great. 

GREAT I tell you!

{cue ominous music here}

But the day before, when I went in for my last ultrasound, the follicles were gone.  GONE I tell you!  It was so odd that the doctor had other doctors come in and take a look at the cooter cam projecting on the monitor, to see if they could see any follicles.  They were mysteriously absent.

It was like my follicles were cutting class, having sneaked home to a kid’s house whose parents were out of town to drink creme de menthe all day.

Or perhaps they decided all the hoo-hah over my hoo-hah was just too much to bear, and they decided to elope. 

Either way, they were all gone.  But they were just there the OTHER DAY I tell you!

So, needless to say, we canceled the IUI since there was nothing to trigger. I cried so hard driving home I thought I would either drive off the road or spontaneously combust.  I would have stopped at McDonald’s for an emergency chocolate shake but I had way too much snot running down my face.

When I got home and told BeBop in gasping, full-body sobs what had happened, my Boston Terrier, Tiger, crawled onto my lap, curled his body into a little circle, and promptly fell into a deep sleep.  It was like he was trying to absorb my sadness, grief and anger. 

Later that day, I went over to my parents’ house to tell them we had to cancel the IUI. My Mom, being the sweet and nurturing Mother that she is, exclaimed how things are always so difficult for me and how weird it is that things always seem to work out for my sister.

She then went on to offer a veritable laundry list of things that had been hard for me, including but not limited to a high school boyfriend who broke my heart by cheating on me, another boyfriend who was an alcoholic and dubbed (for a good reason) ‘Mr. Cruel’ by my friends, having to move from Washington DC because I couldn’t find work and now, infertility.  This did not, for some strange reason, make me feel any better.

But then, while I was still talking, I had an epiphany.  A real, honest-to-God moment of clarity that once I said out loud, I knew in my gut to be true:  I was not going to get pregnant at that point in time.  It was simply not possible.  My body would not allow it to happen. I know that might sound strange, but as I said those words aloud, it just rang true in every cell of my body.  It was not the right time to get pregnant.  It would not happen, no matter what I did in terms of treatments or medical interventions.

It was a weird thing to have happen, and believe me growing up with my Mother, I’ve had some weird stuff happen.

And when I discussed this later with BeBop, he was in total agreement. Since he was in school full time and I was the sole breadwinner, we were under a tremendous amount of pressure.  To be honest, I think he was somewhat relieved.  So, together we decided we would wait until he finished school.  And even though it was a gut-wrenching decision to make, it just felt right.

So I went to India that summer, and enrolled in a life coaching certification program.  And went to baby showers and saw friends with their new babies and knew that one day, my time would come.  I was really okay with waiting.

Once BeBop finally finished school, we thought it was time to get started again. (Now, we hadn’t used any birth control during our break, but we weren’t timing sex and I wasn’t paying attention to my BBT. So we weren’t trying, but we weren’t trying to not try, if that makes any sense.)

Fast forward to this year, when the start of 2006 felt like the right time to seek treatments.  I really, really believed that the clomid/IUI combination this spring would work.  I felt much healthier, both physically and emotionally, and we were both excited to begin this journey – again. Take two.

When the IUIs didn’t work, I have to say I was shocked.  But this has to work, I would whine, because surely I would not need something as invasive (and frigging expensive) as IVF!

And yet here we are.  Is reality just crashing in on me and I’m finally seeing the situation for what it is?  Have I been in denial and the fact that I’m 38 and not pregnant after four years of unprotected sex just escaped me all this time??

Basically, have I had my head up my ass this entire time?

Or is this how it goes, that we try to hope each level of medical assistance will be the one that does the trick, and only when it fails do we look for the next step in the process?

I almost wish someone had kicked me in the stomach, I think that would feel better.

So, um, YEAH. 

That was fun.

As I mentioned in the last dispatch, we were planning our passionate evenings of togetherness ‘forced nooky’ sessions (love that term, thank you SaraS-P) because, like an idiot, I expected to ovulate around CD17.  It had been Day 17 for the last two months, thanks to the herbs and the acupuncture, and so of course  I expected my body to step up and actually do the right thing at the right time. 

Silly me.

I started spotting that afternoon.  Not just spotting, but SPOT-TING.  As in, holy hell, what is THIS?!? spotting.  It certainly wasn’t implantation, but thank you for the nice thought.

No, this was some kind of mid-cycle breakthrough bleeding extravaganza.  I’ve never experienced such a thing, I remarked as I frantically grabbed for the nearest pantie liner.

I didn’t feel like calling my doctor’s office, so like an idiot, I called the advice nurse for my health insurance.  Ummmm…people? Could you please remind me in the future that this is the WORST idea known to man?  Thank you.

"Are you pregnant?" she asked me.

Once I stopped laughing, I was able to explain that no, no I was most decidedly not fucking pregnant.  She asked me about fourteen gajillion questions, at the end of which she announced, "Well, make sure you get enough sleep.  And if you’re underweight, gain some weight.  If you’re overweight, lose some weight."

Hmmmm…so you mean if I am able to lose these last ten pounds in the next, say three hours or so, the breakthrough bleeding extravaganza will end just in time for the romantic evening of expressive love-making forced death march of baby-making sex to continue?!  YES.  Let me get RIGHT on that!!

So, just to recap and set the stage:  I feel like I’m coming down with the stomach flu.  And BeBop has called earlier in the day to announce in a surprisingly loud voice that HE THINKS HE HAS PUNCTURED HIS EAR DRUM.

"What?"  I asked.

"WHAT?" He said.

"Oh for crissakes, WHAT are you talking about? You think you punctured your ear drum blowing your nose?"

"Oh. Yes. That’s what I think."

"Freak."

"WHAT?"

"Nothing… ."

Add to this equation the BBE, and you have an idea of how the evening started. 

As bedtime neared, I was definitely suffering from that not-so-fresh feeling.  I started walking upstairs and said to BeBop, "don’t stay up too late because we HAVE to have sex." 

I said this with as much excitement as one would say:  I have to report to my chain gang in Northern Uzbekistan.  Or, I have to floss with rusty barbed wire.  Or, I have to watch a seventeen-hour marathon of back-to-back That’s So Raven episodes. You get the idea.

And then?

Then BeBop announces that he slept wrong the prior night and has lost all feeling in his left arm.

When he finally made it upstairs a few minutes later, I was sulking, what with the ear and the stomach and the spotting…

"What’s wrong?"  he asked.

"Um. OH NOTHING," I snarked.  "Just with the stomach ache and the bleeding and the DEAF EAR and the DEAD ARM I’m sure this will be, like, so much fun."

It’s shocking that he didn’t jump my bones that very second, no?  Whining and wallowing and mentioning the word ‘bleeding’ is just so romantic.  But, as all good infertiles do, we pressed on.  (No pun intended.)

And then?  Well, then my goddamn temperature didn’t rise the next morning and I still haven’t seen a positive on the OPK, so I don’t know what the fucking hell is going on with the feminine bits.

Perhaps I should call the assvice nurse back and get some help. 

I could use it.

At some point, I will muster the energy to write a long post all about baby-making sex. 

The entire post will read:

IT.

SUCKS.

Hopefully, many of you out there have no idea what I’m talking about.  But I suspect that others of you understand how the forced death march of conception sex can be terrible.  It puts the trying in trying to get pregnant.

This month, I issued an all-out command  BeBop and I decided together that during my so-called ‘fertile’ time (because, PLEASE, if any word in this blog deserves to be surrounded by quotes this is the one!) we would take turns planning evenings together if you catch my drift.

Over the past, like, BILLION years or so since we’ve started trying, I am the one who has initiated the baby-making sex because I’m more clued into the ‘fertility’ signs, obviously.

And given the ratio of weekdays to weekends, many of these opportunities fall on the random Tuesday or Wednesday night when you would give anything just to be left alone to watch Lost and go to bed. Or even the Bachelor!  Seriously, there have been many nights when I would have preferred to watch a dozen drunken women scratch each other’s eyes out in a humiliating attempt to break into show business by being on a reality show  get a rose from a complete dork who is SO obviously NOT there to meet his future mate.

But, when the right cycle day comes around I scream at BeBop to get his ass into bed because I am tired GODDAMN it and let’s just get this over with already coyly suggest that we rendezvous in the candle-lit boudoir and make the sweet, sweet love. 

Like all good soldiers on the fertility front, I do what is required.  But it is often not the ideal situation.  We’re often tired, not in the mood, worried about work the next day, wondering why the dog is staring at us from his perch at the bottom of the bed, too hot, too cold, and on and on.  I have said before that instead of using the acronym ttc, in our house it’s YGTBKMIJAAHB .

You’ve Got To Be KIDDING Me I Just Ate A Huge Burrito.

Which BeBop uttered to me one evening while rolling his eyes and frantically grabbing for the PeptoBismol.  Yes, SUPER romantic that was.

So, anyway, this month I decided that we should take turns planning our evenings of togetherness.  My turn involved a nightie given to me by my girlfriends at a lingerie party that I’ve probably worn twice in five years.  And candles.  AND a massage.  I’m nothing but goal-oriented when it comes to an assignment. 

BeBop’s turn, the next night, consisted of him jumping into bed, stark naked, narrowly missing the poor dog.

"Okay, let’s go!" he shouted.

"Okay LET’S GO?"  I repeated, sure I had misunderstood.  Where were the freaking candles?  Where was the romantic foot rub?  The hot bath drawn with fragrant bath salts? Where were the flowers or, even better, the fancy chocolates??

"This?" I stammered dejectedly, "THIS is your romantic plan for the night??"

"Yep," BeBop answered.  "It’s all about putting THIS in THERE and making a baby." 

(I probably don’t have to be any more specific regarding which parts of our anatomy he gestured to on the THIS and the THERE, right?  Good.)

"That couldn’t BE any less of a turn on," I grumbled.

But since it was CD15 I didn’t have the option of canceling our little date.  I just made BeBop feel very. very guilty and kept reminding him of all the effort I put in when it was my turn. 

Ahhhh….there’s nothing like guilt, whining and some infantile complaining to get you in the mood!

On a serious note, we have decided if trying au naturel doesn’t work this month, we’re going to try another IUI and then seriously look into IVF.  So, if we’re ever going to get pregnant the Old Fashioned Way, this month is it.

And tonight is the prime candidate for another romantic encounter, timing-wise.  And I feel like I’m coming down with the stomach flu.  And BeBop just called to say he thinks he punctured an ear drum! 

COULD IT GET ANY BETTER?!?

Wish us luck.  Obviously, we need it.

So many others have written about this day far more eloquently than I ever could. 

For each of us in our own way, today marks the 5th anniversary of the day the world completely feel apart, turned on its axis and came back together in an entirely new way.

Each year on September 11th, I marvel at the craziness of life.  Five years ago today I was stuck in the chasm between horror, shock and sadness and relief and gratitude.  It’s the space in between these emotions that I’m still grappling with.  Even now, I’m trying to regain my footing.

Living on the west coast, I slept through most of it.  I was not at work that day, because it was three days before BeBop and I were supposed to get married. We were leaving the next day for Yosemite, so Tuesday I was meeting my sister at a San Francisco spa to get my nails done.  I woke up to seven voice mail messages, which was odd even given the upcoming festivities.  The first three were from my Mom, BeBop’s sister and his parents in Philadelphia.  A couple more were from friends on the east coast and in Washington, DC, where I lived before coming back to San Francisco.

Listening to the jumble of words, turning on the TV and trying to comprehend what had already happened was impossible.  My brain could not process that much horrible information and it literally took me several moments to begin thinking clearly.

Like everyone that morning, I was struck by the unimaginable horror of what had transpired.  I sat glued to my TV the entire day, while BeBop was at school and largely unaware of the scope of the tragedy.  My Mom called to suggest that I drive down to my parents’ house and evacuate the city, since at that point no one knew what was coming next.  I decided to stay home and wait for BeBop.

We had friends and family flying from New York, Boston and DC that day.  Several were coming out to California early to visit before the wedding in Yosemite National Park.  Some had their flights canceled, others were mid-air when the hijackings occurred and were diverted to airports all over the country.  My cousin and his wife were on a plane that was ordered to land in a small Midwestern town.  The airport barely had a runway long enough to accommodate a huge jet.  Once they landed, the plane was surrounded by an armed SWAT team.  Again, at that point no one knew what was happening or what might happen next.

It was not until the following day that we started to think about our wedding, now two days away.  Friends from DC called to say they didn’t feel safe flying, and since they had planned on leaving their small daughter at home they didn’t feel as though they could leave her and fly to the west coast. BeBop’s parents and sister were frantically trying to figure out when the airports would re-open so they could fly out.  Thankfully, we finally heard from friends and other family members that everyone was safe.

As Wednesday morning turned into afternoon, more and more people called to say they couldn’t get a flight out in time, and they weren’t sure it was safe to fly anyway.  We understood and told everyone we probably would have felt the same way.  We were most concerned about my future in-laws.  We didn’t think they could fly to San Francisco and get to Yosemite in time.

Throughout the day, the local news was carrying a story about a young woman from San Francisco who had been in New York City for a meeting on the 11th, in the World Trade Center.  She was recently married and they kept showing her wedding photo —  and she was beautiful.  Just shining in a white veil and bright smile and you could tell from looking at that picture that it honestly was the best day of her entire life.  Her husband was trying desperately to get on the first flight out of San Francisco, heading to New York to find her.  He was sure she was still alive.  They played a voice mail message she left for him when the first plane struck. With the time difference he was sleeping and hadn’t answered his phone. She said she was fine, that something had happened but that they were evacuating the building.  She said she loved him.

They must have showed her wedding photo a thousand times that day.

Towards the end of Wednesday, BeBop and I started talking about what to do.  Along with everyone else, we were still in shock and it took a while for it to sink in that we were to be married in two days. 

We had spent nine months planning our dream wedding in a beautiful national park.  There is a small chapel in the middle of a green meadow, surrounded on all sides by dramatic granite rock faces.  The ceremony was going to be in the chapel, much of it traditional but it was me getting married after all, so we threw in a Hindu ritual as part of the ceremony.  We were to say vows to one another and then walk in a small circle hand-in-hand which would etch these vows into the earth.  At the end, we would walk back down the aisle to Natalie Cole’s This Will Be (An Everlasting Love).

We started thinking about how sad that day would be.  The nation (and much of the world) was in mourning, and to ask people to be happy for us seemed inappropriate.  We worried that it might be in bad taste to try to celebrate after such loss.  And we were afraid that BeBop’s family would miss the wedding, since they were still not able to confirm a flight out of Philly.  We were concerned about asking friends to fly when we knew they were scared.

And so, on Wednesday night, we decided to cancel the wedding.  In the midst of grief and sadness over the staggering loss of life, we felt a personal loss.  But we also felt such gratitude and relief that our friends and family members were safe.  It is this bizarre spectrum of feelings that I can still experience as I think about those days five years ago.

Against the backdrop of feeling sorry for myself, I would see the beautiful bride on the news.  She would instantly remind me of how lucky I was.  As the days passed, it was clear her husband would not find her.  They had just started their life together, and now hers was over much too soon.  Her husband would give anything, I was sure, just to have her safe and sound in their San Francisco apartment.  He would gladly cancel a stupid wedding if it meant he could live a long and happy life with his bride.  So I tried to keep perspective, I tried to keep my balance.

But to be perfectly honest, I was also terribly saddened and disappointed that my wedding was off.  I know that sounds selfish and self-centered, and it was.  And it still is.  When I go to friends’ weddings and think, to this day, they got to have their dream weddings, why not me?  I cringe at my own ugliness and pettiness.

We created a phone tree and family and close friends called over 100 people and told them the wedding was off.  Most were relieved. No one wanted to celebrate a new beginning and no one wanted to turn a wedding into a wake and there didn’t seem to be anything in between.

In a clearly misguided decision, BeBop and I ended up going to Yosemite anyway, to escape the "I’m so sorry" calls.  I spent the entire time crying, watching CNN, and on the 14th marking each passing minute with a running commentary about what I would have been doing then.  Now I’d be having breakfast with my sister.  Now I’d be getting my hair and make up done.  Now I’d be getting my wedding picture taken. Now we’d be exchanging our vows.

And I hated myself each time I had one of these thoughts. I’m lucky!  I should be grateful we’re all safe.  This is nothing compared to the loss that so many thousands of people are facing!

And this went on and on, this back and forth between sadness and self-pity and relief and gratitude.  I would descend into depression, thinking of what I had missed, and then jerk myself up out of it and struggle to regain my footing. I thought often of the bride and wondered what had happened to her husband once he got to New York, only to learn the incomprehensible truth that so few in the Twin Towers survived and that his new wife was among the dead.

We ended up having a tiny ceremony at the end of November, in a church in the city after a torrential rainstorm.  We invited only 15 guests, just our immediate family and some close friends.  We had to tell many close friends they were not included.

We had dinner at a local hotel instead of a reception and no wedding cake.  We went to the Starlight Room to go dancing, and in another moment of complete idiocy I decided to wear my wedding dress and veil.  Supposedly the band, called the Starlight Orchestra, would play the Standards, which sounded fitting for a wedding reception.  But when our first dance was to "Who Let The Dogs Out" I realized I had made a(nother) terrible mistake.  Sweaty strangers danced around our little group, staring at my dress and veil. Some wished us luck.  Someone spilled a drink on my dress during a rousing rendition of "She’s A Brick House" and then it was time to go home. 

We never went on a honeymoon because our trip to Mexico in September was canceled.  Who wants to go on a honeymoon before you’re married?  We thought we would plan something after the rescheduled wedding, but then it was the holidays and we didn’t have the energy to plan anything at that point.  And then?  If you wait too long after the wedding, it’s not a honeymoon. Just a very expensive vacation.

So although it pains me to say all of that, it’s true.  I feel horrible and infantile and selfish when I mourn the loss of a wedding — a day for crissakes — when so many lost their loved ones, their livelihoods, their way of life. Their feeling of safety and security in this world. I struggle with feeling sorry for myself and then feeling horrible for feeling sorry for myself and then I feel grateful and blessed and very, very lucky.  All in a span of seconds.  I have whiplash.

Each day when September 11th comes around, I try to gain perspective and realize that maybe it’s okay to have a wide spectrum of emotions.  That maybe we all constantly strive to regain our equilibrium minute by minute. It’s that range of emotions that makes us human.

So today I’m depressed and full of grief for the tremendous loss so many people suffered.  I’m sad that my dream wedding never happened and that we started our married life together under such a dark cloud.  But I’m so grateful we were able to start our life together.  I feel blessed that our friends and family were safe.  I find myself in this chasm between grief and sadness and relief and gratitude and think that maybe, just maybe that’s what life is all about.  Trying to keep our footing when the world turns upside down.