I Did Not Have Sexual Relations with That Woman...

...but she's knocked up anyway.  Annie's husband Q here.  Now that I have got your attention, we got good news on the labs today.  Over four days, beta rose from 88 to 746.  Also, progesterone is now in the normal zone at 60. 

As you know, Annie has been aggressively seeking ways to increase the size of our family for quite some time. It was fun at the start, but after months of failed efforts it started to get a little scary.  Honestly, it is quite stressful for a man to come home and be required to perform on command. Call me old-fashioned but I prefer a little romance leading to the moment.

Sex on Demand

Once we learned that the traditional method of having children wasn't working, we began IUI. Annie has done a great job covering the science behind this so I won't go down that rabbit hole. However, I will provide a glimpse into what the man must do for his part of the process. Let me start by saying that as a kid growing up in a religious house, one was expressly forbidden to "shake hands with an old friend". Likewise, lad mags were a no-no, although I have come to find that the articles are great.

Any-hoo, when it was time for me to contribute for IUI or IVF, I would haul myself into the reproductive center for some personal reading. Each time I arrived, the nurse would have me submit my government ID to prove that I was the man I claimed to be. They then would have me wait in a small closed area until a room became available. During the wait, I would encounter other men's wives who would give me the "I know what you're going to do, you sick pervert" look while they sat in the same area waiting for their husbands to complete the exact same task.

Once a room was available, the nurse would walk me in and provide the necessary instructions on how to dim the lights, raise the volume to the music, and where to put the deposit once finished. From that point forward it's a race to see how fast you can get done with your business. No kidding, I have seen guys go in and come out in about 2 minutes, as if the staff is gonna charge for every additional minute in there. My thoughts are, what's the rush?

Okay, maybe it's the awful music they play in the room. I mean come on, Michael Bolton, really??? Great to wake up to for the wife after a retrieval, but for us guys? I have gotta have a beat - at least play Michael Jackson's "Beat it" or something. Also, what's up with the paper thin walls? I didn't enjoy hearing about the staff's plans for the weekend or grocery ideas when I was trying to focus on the task at hand. No matter how loud I blared Michael Bolton, I could still hear them.  When the deed was done and in the cup, I headed back to work, knowing that was the most action I was likely to get that week or the next.

Word of advice to the wives:  Have your man purchase his own reading material. Basically, it's just wrong handling something that was handled by another guy in that same room. Uuggh!! Nothing is ever too clean there. Besides, Hugh needs some more cash to support all those bunnies of his. For me, I had never bought this sort of reading material before. I quickly learned to have Annie go with me or I would go late at night when women were less likely to be out and about. Oh, the shame of it! People would give me looks when I went with Annie, probably wondering why I needed that lad mag when I already have a hot wife.

Now, after weeks of sex deprivation, I'm still not able to score with the wife. For our 9th anniversary last week, Annie bought a little something from Victoria's Secret and then refused to put out until the OK is given by the doctor. So please persuade her to cave in so I can have sexual relations with that woman.

[Bad news for Q.  Instructions from the clinic clearly state:  It is advised that you avoid intercourse and/or orgasm until your ultrasound appointment with your doctor around 6-8 weeks gestation if you have undergone in vitro fertilization.  So there! - Editor]

Tired of Holding My Head Up

The recent bad news about my endometrioma has seemed like the last straw.  I try to keep holding my head up and pretending that everything is fine, though I feel like I'm about to collapse under the weight of all the accumulated bad luck and rotten news.

Q (my hubby) and I needed a little break from it all, so on Saturday we went out on an actual date!  This does not happen very often.  In fact, the last time I remember going out together for the evening was when we went to an IVF seminar.  All that talk about taking a giant needle in the ovary sure got me in a romantic mood.  My mom called in the middle of it - "Oooh, are you guys out on a date?" "Um, yeah." 

So it was high time for a real date.  We went to see our favorite comedian, Brian Regan.  I thought I'd die laughing, but no such luck.  Ok, so that's not funny.  If you want funny then check out the Brian Regan clips at the bottom of my sidebar. 

Also, here's a little comedy from Margaret Smith.  Sorry, couldn't find a video of it, but you can just listen while you browse around the internet.  There are bits about depression, adoption, and therapy . . . that's comedy gold right there!

Return to Poo Corner

First, some happy news. My mother will not be coming to visit during my next IVF cycle after all. Whew!

Now, remember the plant in poo corner? If not, see here and here. Currently it is happily producing a healthy full-term tomato despite being hopelessly diseased:

And here I sit, feeling hopelessly diseased and NOT currently producing an offspring of any sort. Yes, the plant in poo corner and I have parted ways. And I am jealous. Of a tomato plant.

Geriatric Obstetrics

The other night I dreamed that the nursing home where I used to work was adding on a maternity ward. All the old ladies were having babies thanks to scientific advances in the field of geriatric obstetrics. Obviously, the interpretation of this dream is that I feel like everyone but me is having a baby. I know it's not true, but it certainly feels true.

For now, I'm trying to keep busy and have fun for these last few weeks of summer despite the unsuccessful IVF. Next week I'll be able to talk to the doctor about the plan going forward. I'm also working on getting an appointment with a perinatologist so we can get a second opinion on our case before we do another IVF. It feels silly to be calling the perinatology clinic since I'm Extra Super Infertile, but I want someone to take a fresh look at my case.

Fun with Math: PIO Shots

For the past few days I've been doing Progesterone in Oil shots. Yes, all by myself!  Because the progesterone is in a sesame oil base, it is not only thick and difficult to inject, but it also contains fat. While I was on my two days of post-transfer bed rest, I decided to figure out exactly how much fat I will be injecting into my backside before the pregnancy test:

1 T of sesame oil contains 14 grams of fat, therefore . . .
1 cc of sesame oil contains .946792 grams of fat
There are 12 PIO shots before the pregnancy test

That means I'll be getting as much fat as there is in a Snickers bar, but with none of the satisfaction.

Hmmm...how would you prefer to plump your posterior? A:

Or B:

(This represents the actual amount of oil I'll inject into my booty by beta day)

That's a rhetorical question if ever there was one!  "A" is looking pretty good, but sadly Snickers has not been shown to increase the odds of successful pregnancy. If it did, I'd have half a dozen kids by now. Of course, if I actually get pregnant again I will be delighted to continue with the PIO shots. For now, I'm choosing C: Both.  Mmm-mmm...bootylicious!

The Plant in Poo Corner

This scraggly little plant was featured in a previous post. At about the time life was dumping a load of crap on us (hubby's job loss, my last failed IUI cycle, and more) I planted it in my garden along with a load of manure:

Here it is atrophied and yellowed a month later. This is when we hit the roadblock at The Other Clinic that threatened to destroy our last hope for trying to complete our family:

Here it is now, when we're about to attempt IVF, finally showing some robust growth:

It's been a little hope meter of sorts. I pray that both the plant and I will soon be fruitful and multiply!

What to Do With a Load of Crap

Thanks to those who left comments on my post regarding simultaneous unemployment and IVF. I was very interested to see that other couples have been in the same situation we find ourselves in now. We are having a very difficult time deciding what to do now that we have this huge new problem on top of the load of crap we were already dealing with.

A few days after hubby lost his job, I told him I was going to get us a load of shit 'cuz we just don't have enough of it already. So here I am loading it into the back of our van.



This is a big disgusting pile of free manure that our city provides for gardeners. Here's where I see an analogy to our current dilemma: I could either stand there in the foul mess and become overwhelmed by the stench or start shoveling and hope that I can use this to make something grow.


I planted these a week ago and even though snow was forecasted last weekend (in May?!), we didn't get any. The plants are looking pretty beat up right now, but they are alive! I wonder - what would happen if we tried IVF even now with so much against us? In the midst of all this crap and though some would forecast doom, might we end up with something alive and beautiful?

Dentist vs. Gyno: What's Your Vote?

Next week I have to go to the dentist for a routine checkup and I'm so not looking forward to it - spreading my jaws in front of total strangers, having my gums prodded, people seeing my naked uvula. Oh, the indignity!

So I'm taking a survey: Which is the lesser of two evils - going to the dentist or going to the gyno? I'm talking routine dental checkup and cleaning vs. routine "yearly" (*laughs bitterly*) gyno exam. If you had to submit to one or the other right now, which would you choose?

My best friend can attest that I was a hysterical, pathetic wreck before my first gyno exam ("They're going to do what to my WHAT?! And I have to do this every year??" Sheesh. If only.) Now, though, I would choose the gyno and I stand by my choice even though my friend thinks I am a freak. Here's why:

• I find it easier to "zone out" when someone is commiting acts of medical care on my far end than when they're right in my face

• I prefer quickies - the gyno visit is much shorter than the dentist visit

• After enduring two horrible surgeries, upwards of 60 (!) transvaginal ultrasounds so far, IUIs, saline and radioactive dye forced into my uterus, and a whole lot of other Bad Things, a "routine" exam would be nothing short of delightful.

Sidenote: Q is obviously not qualified to vote on the dentist vs. gyno question since he lacks the necessary body parts (lucky!). He has nevertheless indicated that were the choice between a dental exam or watching a gyno exam, he would choose the latter.

So cast your vote.... what's your pick and why?

If I Only Had A Brain

For the last 3+ years I have suffered from short-term memory loss, much like Dory from Finding Nemo. I assume this is another of the myriad trauma-induced symptoms since my losses. Does anyone else have this?

Sometimes the results have been comical, like the time I shaved a big bald spot on hubby's head. Well, maybe he didn't think it was so funny. I was giving him a haircut and forgot to put the length attachment on the clippers. This was the day before a big job interview. He didn't get that job.

Sometimes it can be scary, like the time I forgot the stove was on. A children's book that was on the stovetop got burned all the way through, but did not catch fire. Whew!

The lowest low point was in the months immediately following my losses. I had to keep a 3 x 5 card with my address and phone number by the phone. This enabled me to rattle off this information convincingly when verifying my identity for paying bills and making appointments.  I don't know who I am anymore.

I forget things all the time - my kids' tennis lessons, swimming lessons, dance class, birthday parties, dentist appointments, etc. I forget peoples' names. I forget what day it is. Last month I forgot to pay the rent. I forget why I went downstairs or what I need to get at the store. I try to compensate by keeping ridiculously detailed lists of EVERYTHING I need to do. . . but what good is that when I forget where I put the list or forget to look at it?

Finally this week I thought I'd figured out a way to get my act together. I programmed my cell phone to beep in advance of every scheduled event to remind me. So . . . this morning at 9:30 the phone alarm went off and I was totally confused. What's that noise? Where's it coming from? Oh yeah - I set the cell phone to go off before Tania's dance class! Hey, at least I'd already remembered that she had dance class today - I just forgot about the reminder. I'm an idiot, a dimwit, a moron. I'm going to get Alzheimer's for sure. It's starting already.

I miss my brain. Not so very many years ago, I was well-organized and intelligent. At least that's the way I remember it . . .

The Answer to All Your Problems

Hope has been steadily declining since Whacking Day, as typically happens during the seemingly interminable Wait. Thus, I was not my usual cheerful self (heavy sarcasm) during last Sunday's obligatory chat with my folks. My dad called back later in the week to see if perhaps things weren't all sunshine and lollipops around here. Answer: NO!!! But can I say that to my parents: Hell NO! They are kept as far out of the loop as possible regarding our unproductive reproductive efforts. Our relationship is deeply shallow. Other contentious topics include: medical issues of any kind, church, parenting, politics, and the economy. Therefore, I take Jane Austen's advice - "If you cannot think of anything appropriate to say you will please restrict your remarks to the weather."

I wouldn't mind my dad having a limited knowledge of our situation, but my mom was such a spectacular jerk after our losses (and on many other occasions as well) that I don't wish to open myself up to further destructive drama. They both have been kept in the dark because I can't have Dad spilling info to Mom, nor can I ask Dad to keep secrets from his own wife.

My mother has a nasty habit of looking down upon anyone with health problems. She has never in all her 60 years suffered from any serious or chronic illness and believes that if someone is ill, it is somehow their own fault. For example, when my father-in-law was diagnosed with cancer, she whipped out a list she keeps by the phone by "healer" Louise L. Hay. It lists hundreds of ailments, their supposed metaphysical causes, and the magical affirmations you must repeat to yourself ad nauseum to make your troubles disappear. I will share a few for your enlightenment:

Bowel problems - fear of letting go :D
Burns - No, not hot stuff! Actually they're caused by anger burning up inside.
Diabetes - longing for what might have been. Make sure to share this with the next diabetic that you meet. They'll surely appreciate hearing that their disease is their own fault.
Poison Ivy - feeling defenseless and open to attack. To think I've been avoiding a certain to plant for all these years! From now on I'll go skipping barefoot through the forest while muttering affirmations.

It's astonishing how many people really believe crazy stuff like this. There are even crackpots out there who think pregnancy is caused by HAVING SEX! Don't I wish!

Sadly, no quick fix is listed for infertility or miscarriage. I'll make sure to contact Louise about this oversight. So stay tuned - I will let you know what affirmations fix these problems just as soon as I hear from her.

Doctor Dammit

When you're just fed up with doctors
Who don't listen, care, or try
And pain has made you go insane,
Lose your cool and cry.

When every doctor's clueless
And your future is in doubt
Then here's a little dammit doll
That you can't do without.

Just grasp it firmly by the legs
And find a place to slam it.
And as you whack the stuffing out,
Yell "Dammit, dammit, dammit!"

If "dammit"s not a word you say
Then wring its little neck
As as you rip its head off
Shout "Oh heck, oh heck, oh heck!"

You may have gathered that I'm a bit frustrated with doctors. Yesterday was yet another disheartening visit to check the status of my "functional" cyst, which measured 6 cm last month and just under 5 cm this time. By the way, the five weeks between these two appointments is the longest I've gone without a doctor appointment in 3 YEARS! I wish I could have enjoyed it more, but I was in pain more often than not.

No doctor has ever had anything more useful to say about these frequent painful cysts than "Huh. I dunno". So very little is known about functional cysts that there's no effective means of preventing or even treating them. To make matters worse, my other issues - endometriosis with resultant infertility and recurrent pregnancy loss - also leave doctors stumped. There just isn't enough known about these conditions (why they happen, how they work, how to treat or prevent them) for doctors to be of much help to me, even if they tried.

Endometriosis has long been recognized as a serious disease in women, and yet there is still so much about it that is unknown. Certainly progress has been made, but you'd think it would get more attention and research given the fact that 10-15% of women suffer from it.

Imagine that 10-15% of men suffered from a painful, chronic, and progressive disease of the reproductive system. Imagine that the drugs to treat it made them hormonal basket cases and killed their sex lives. Imagine that the disease would often lead to multiple surgeries and the lopping off of a testicle or two just for starters. I suspect that enormous amounts of money would be devoted to the cause. The best and brightest in the field of medicine would be on the case. The road would be long but they would act swiftly and boldly to find effective treatments and ultimately, a cure.

Great advancements would have been made by now if men suffered this way. Instead, women are still being dismissed and patronized when they talk to their doctors about the pain they are suffering. And there's no hope for a cure any time soon. Dammit, dammit, dammit !