OHB

First of all, thank you all for your fantastically wonderful comments. You guys make me happy. You complete me. I want to be in you.

I’m not going to beat around the bush, so here’s this: the ultrasound this morning was great. It was everything I wanted in an ultrasound. One gestational sac (WHEW) in the right horn of my messed-up uterus, with one little blob of something, flickering away at exactly the right number of beats per minute. Perfect.

Dr. Redux was decked out for the weekend with his Saints jersey under his scrubs (Louisiana has gone entirely football crazy, with “WHO DAT?”* printed on every available surface). He was very happy with how things looked.

Here’s another view of things – in this picture, you can see both horns. On the left (my right) is the gestational sac and embryo, and on the right is some fluid that he thinks will eventually be absorbed. At first he thought it might be another gestational sac, which promptly freaked me right the fuck out, but he decided it looked too “disorganized.”

I’ll go in again on Wednesday the 10^th, before we leave for a long weekend in San Diego with friends.

Why the cryptic post title? Because, in a nod to Arrested Development, Brad and I are calling our current predicament Operation Hot Baby. I think it works.

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*What I like best about that link is the comment from the British asshole who says, “Just a shame they cannot speak correctly, still no suprise, but the sad truth is that this lack of ability to speak correctly is infecting the UK!” Yeah. As if we Americans don’t realize that Who Dat is not proper Queen’s English. It’s a sports slogan, you twat. Now go back to your cricket game. Your crumpets are getting stale. (Wow, vitriol. I never realized I bled red, white, and blue until this moment.)

So, change of plans.

I suppose you thought you would click over here sometime in late January and find me gamely swallowing letrozole, having my ovaries wanded, and crossing my fingers over lining thickness. Until about Wednesday of last week, I thought about the same thing.

But then Thursday came, and my period still hadn’t shown up. And then Friday came, and my period still hadn’t shown up.

Can anyone see where this is going?

Uh, yeah.

!!!!!!

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Beta #1 (1/22): 128

Beta #2 (1/25): 667

Beta #3 (1/29): 1618

6-week ultrasound scheduled for Friday, Feb. 5th.

Wait, how the fuck did THIS happen??!!

The illustrated abdomen

Do you think I could get a tattoo artist to draw up a bicornuate uterus for me?

It would be much easier to explain to people if I could just unzip the front of my pants.

Facebook, you wiley fox.

After months of marking “IS YOUR BABY CUTER THAN THIS?” and “OBAMA WANTS MOMS TO GO BACK TO COLLEGE!” and “ADORABLE BABY SHOWER INVITIATIONS!” ads as “irrelevant” or “offensive” on Facebook, I think that ol’ bastard has finally gotten me figured out:

The Return of the Prodigal Infertile

I’m back in the stirrups again, girls.

I had hoped that something magical, like what mysteriously happened to our lovely April, would happen to me. Has not been the case. It has only been 8 months, but knowing my history of infertility my gynecologist (who claimed he specialized in infertility, though that only consisted of testing and handing out unmonitored Clomid prescriptions — eeeeeep) handed over the referral to see the RE down the hall — the one who miraculously, fortuitously happens to be the only RE in the area covered by my insurance. The heavens opened, angel choirs sang, etc.

Yesterday the fortuitous day of the first consult came. I mentioned that the RE’s office is right down the hall from my OB/GYN, right? This office is in the middle of this enormous women’s hospital complex, full of OBs and GYNs and ultrasound offices, etc. I saw, I shit you not, 9 heavily pregnant women between the moment I left my car and the moment I got back into it. It was like dodging cars on the highway, my friends.

But entering the RE’s office was weirdly like . . . coming home. The hushed staff, the bookmarks advertising infertility support groups, the receptionist sipping from a mug with a Menopur advertisement– yup, I’m back.

The doctor was great. Let’s call him Dr. Redux. On my intake form, under “What do you expect out of today’s visit?” I had listed, “Having my knowledge taken seriously.” Thinking back, Doc T ‘n’ B (ahhh, remember him?) was kind of a prick. Dismissive, laughing at his own lame jokes (and not mine — and I mean, come on guys, I’m fucking hilarious), waving aside any questions with his tanned, finely-manicured hand*. Dr. Redux knew his shit, and listened to mine.

Dr. Redux said, from the beginning, that I was an unusual client, and as such, I would be treated differently from most clients. I’m young(ish — I turned 30 last month), I’ve got the weird uterus, and not only did Clomid not work for me, it actually affected me adversely (thin lining, no change in luteal phase length). He said I had two options — try letrozole, or go straight to injectibles.

Frankly, I’ve been waiting for someone to suggest letrozole for a while. It’s generally as effective as Clomid in follicle stimulation, but since it’s not an estrogen-blocker but an aromatase inhibiter (it stops your body from converting male hormones into female hormones, so your brain produces more hormones), your uterus can get the estrogen it needs. It also has a lower twinning rate that Clomid — and with my uterus, twins are really not an option. The only thing that made my doctors leery about it before was the lack of FDA approval for fertility use — though that hasn’t stopped doctors from using letrozole as a fertility drug internationally for years now.

Dr. Redux has used it successfully for years, and is all for it. He insists on closely monitoring any medicated cycle, as any RE worth his salt does. He and I discussed our options, and Brad and I discussed those options, and we have A Plan.

We’ll be out-of-state often between now and the new year, so starting with my first full cycle next year, we’ll be doing letrozole IUIs. Because my insurance will cover the procedure and the ultrasounds, our out-of-pocket cost will only be lab costs and possibly meds (some meds are covered under my insurance, but I don’t know which) — CD 12 estrogen level, semen prep, 7 DPO progesterone, the letrozole itself, and the HCG trigger shot — for a total of about $500. Heck of a good deal for an IUI.

I’ve dabbled in ART before, but now I’m about to become a hard-core user. Hold me.

Unless, you know, something happens in the next 4 months, which . . . ha. Right.

Glad to be back, ladies. Keep an eye on this space.

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*Remember oh, a trillion years ago when my old clinic was in the midst of creepy-sexual-harassment-scandal land? All three doctors who were there at that time (the accused – Doc T & B, the accusee – Dr. Perky, and the accusee’s husband – Dr. Dildohead) have since fled the scene. Drs. Perky and Dildohead have opened their own clinic across town, and Doc T & B has surfaced in San Diego, where he can perfect his tan yet further. The clinic itself closed entirely, but a new clinic has since opened at the UW Hospital.

Not a banner week for you, bits.

YIKES.

First, just so you know, “Welcome to TMI land! I’m Molly, and I’ll be your tour guide today.”

This is one of those weeks where I feel like singing “I Enjoy Being a Girl” highly sarcastically at the top of my lungs. The joys of ladybits, ya’ll.

Sunday I realized that, goody, I had a yeast infection*. Off to Walgreens, Monistat purchased, used, things cleared up quickly.

Monday, my old friend the cyst returned. I have a sebaceous cyst right on my underwear line in my inner right thigh. I’ve had it for close to a decade now. It’s been drained twice and entirely surgically removed once, but there’s basically no way to totally get rid of them. So now, it’s back, directly under the scar where it was removed about 5 years ago.

And it came back with a vengeance, infected and pissed off. Soon I was limping about the house wearing only a long tshirt, moaning. Brad kept telling me to go to the doctor, but I kept explaining that I’d had it forever, it would go away eventually, etc. Finally, after two days of moist heat did nothing and I was running a low fever and getting chills, I saw the doctor**.

He told me that if I wanted the cyst removed again, it would have to be done under general anesthesia due to its size (it was over an inch long at that point, and very angry looking). He gave me an Augmentin prescription and told me to take sitz baths, as hot as I could stand, until it drained and the infection left.

Got home, took Augmentin. Oh hey, remember what happens when you take antibiotics and you just had a yeast infection?

Yes. Lovely, that. Got some Diflucan, feeling better.

So now I’m still lounging about the house in long tshirts, taking unbearably hot baths, and large while pills. Still can’t bear to wear underwear, which is great because — remember how I had a 22 day cycle last month? Today is cycle day 23. Yayyyy. So much to look forward to.

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*This is only my second yeast infection ever. First was last spring when I decided to try out the NuvaRing (hahaha, birth control, ahhhhh). The stupid thing just would not sit right — it’s the same problem I’ve had with Instead Cups and the Moon Cup — which is too bad, because I know many people who love all three of those things. It may have to do with my tilted uterus, but then 1 in 4 women have a tilted uterus and surely they don’t have this problem. Maybe I’m just, to quote Julia’s troll, a “super special snowflake.”

**Let me tell you how OLD this dude was. Super old. As in plaid-bowtie-and-suspenders-with-tweed-jacket old. As in I-was-spelling-his-name-for-the-pharmacist-and-the-woman-in-line-behind-me-at-the-pharmacy-told-me-that-he-had-DELIVERED-HER old. OLD.

I don’t think we’re in Wisconsin anymore.

Moving to Louisiana has been surprising in many ways – the obsession with crawfish, the flowers that bloom all year long, the changing of every word that ends with an “oh” sound so that it ends with “eaux” (for example, the rally cry for LSU is “Geaux Tigers!”). However, one of the strangest, most foreign things from upper-Midwest life that I could imagine was the phenomenon of the Southern Prison Rodeo.

We’d heard about the Angola Prison Rodeo since we had moved to Baton Rouge in August. In fact, we had tried to go in October and then realized that they were on Sundays, not Saturdays. We were glad we had driven out to Angola State Prison despite the date mix-up – the prison has its own Museum, which was fascinating.

The Louisiana State Penitentiary, known as Angola (and also referred to as “The Farm”) is a truly fascinating place. It’s one of the largest prisons in the country, and is called Angola for the plantation which once stood on the land. The prison sits on 18,000 acres of beautiful farmland, bordered on three sides by the Mississippi. Crops and livestock are raised by inmates on the rolling hills.

I make it sound idyllic, but it was a place that once ran rampant with abuse.  In the early years of the 20th century, guards were fired and replaced by inmate trustees to save money.  Conditions were so appalling that in 1952 31 inmates sliced their Achilles’ tendons in protest. It wasn’t until the 1970s that the prison was fully reformed.

This tragic history has inspired some fantastic art. Stephen King’s The Green Mile was based on life on death row in Angola in the 1930s. Numerous blues songs immortalize the prison. The films JFK, Dead Man Walking, and Monster’s Ball were all partially filmed at Angola. In fact, the prison uniform that Heath Ledger wore in the latter film is on display at the prison’s museum.  Those uniforms are the same ones that we saw when we returned to the prison on Sunday.

We went Sunday to see the Angola Prison Rodeo in person. The rodeo has been running annually since 1972, and the inmates constructed a new 7,500 seat stadium specifically for the rodeo in 2000. In addition to rodeo events, there are some carnival rides, lots of food (jambalaya, shrimp on a stick, pig cracklins [the rest of America calls them pork rinds], chili cheese fries, etc.), and a wide variety of inmate-made “hobbycrafts.” The inmates display and sell just about everything – landscape paintings, children’s shoes made of candy bar wrappers, roses intricately carved from wood, plaques featuring lacquered pictures of celebrities taken from magazines, and sturdy, beautifully-made rocking chairs.

It shocks many of my friends that live outside the South when I tell them that the prisoners themselves are the ones competing in the rodeo: the inmates, in their semi-comical black and white striped shirts, ride the bucking bulls, wrestle the steers, and gallop their horses around the arena holding the various flags that have historically flown over Louisiana. One of the most nail-biting events to watch is called “Convict Poker” – four inmates are seated in plastic chairs around a card table. The gate is opened, and a snorting, bucking bull enters the stadium. The four inmates are to remain still and seated while rodeo workers incite the bull to charge – and charge he does! By the end of the event, three of the chairs and the table were completely destroyed. The last inmate left sitting in his seat is the winner. In another event, a bull is released into the area with about 25 inmates. Each inmate is vying to remove the poker chip that has been taped between the bull’s horns. That lucky man (yes, all of the prisoners participating in the rodeo were men) wins $600.

I’ve always been kind of iffy about rodeos – the whole animal exploitation thing, and fear that the animals would be hurt. But despite a good deal of slippery mud, no animals were injured on Sunday. A few of the inmates were definitely hurt – when you mess with the bull, you get the horns – and one even left in an ambulance.

The two best parts of the rodeo were definitely the monkeys riding dogs, and leaving with a bottle of this:

Things that could be worse

1. Nutria rats. I know that those of you who didn’t immediately pop on to Google and look them up are imagining a hideous beast, like those found in the subways of New York, only larger more fearsome due to the warmth and dampness of the Louisiana bayous. I assure you, they aren’t as fearsome as you imagine. In fact, these only-slightly-insane people have a nutria as a pet. They look like miniature beavers with rat tails. The fact that they are an invasive imported rodent that are doing their part to help in the destruction of the already-disappearing Louisiana wetlands are the only thing that makes them scary. Oh, and those teeth.

2. TTC 2.0, I guess. Though I really hoped that I would never see a 9-day luteal phase again. You know, I hoped that 2 more years on the pill might provide some normalization. So much for that hope. Who wouldn’t want to get their period every three fucking weeks? Well, we all know what this means: wine. Tonight. Please.

You guys deserve it, damnit.

Here it is: the big, luscious, linger-on-your-tongue and stick-to-your-hips post you’ve been waiting for. I’ve put it off long enough.

Hi, how is everyone? The last time I posted anything of substance about my life was back in September, when I had gotten married, moved to Louisiana, and weathered a hurricane within the space of a few weeks. It has since been, umm, 7 months.

Being married to Brad fits as easily my favorite pair of flip flops. There’s a huge feeling of, “Oh, so this is how it’s supposed to be.” Knowing that I can plan our future without a moment of doubt — without always keeping an escape plan in mind (that used to involve meeting Clive Owen and moving to Bali) — is so comforting. I finally can say, without a shadow of a doubt, that I adore my husband. It’s a fantastic feeling.

I also truly love living in Louisiana. Moving from Wisconsin to Louisiana was culture shock, and I’m still getting used to calling them crawfish instead of crayfish and pronouncing it praw-leen instead of pray-leen and seeing nutria rats swimming in the local lakes. But the weather alone is reason enough to love this place. It is currently 75 degrees out and breezy without a cloud in the sky. I planted my vegetables and herbs last month and my tomatoes and peppers started blooming last week. We had one day of snow in December, which caused everyone in the state to promptly freak out, cancel every public service, and go build snowmen. If it hits 50 degrees, people pull out their wool coats. It’s a foreign place, but having enjoyed one winter of it makes it harder for me to imagine ever battling a Midwestern winter again.

In February I once again became a gainfully permanently employed citizen of the United States. I’d been doing long-term temp work at a local medical company, which was financially helpful but not intensely satisfying, when the perfect job popped up exactly where I wanted to work. I’m now back in a library where I belong, making sure the public information published by our government can be accessed by its citizens. It’s a good job with good pay and good benefits, and I’m a happy girl.

Way back in . . . um . . . 2004 (OMG!) I started this blog due the remarkable stories of the infertile blogging community. Well world, I’m back. I’m here, I’m demonstrably infertile, and we are back in the conception business. Today is cycle 2, CD 14, 1 DPO. Remember all of those ridiculous acronyms?

Here goes . . .

Almost famous. Almost.

Yesterday I realized that I hadn’t blogged — hell, hadn’t even visited my blog — in far too long.

Yeah.

Maybe I should blog more often.

I know I’ve blogged about this once before, but I can’t find the post way back yonder. The sheer oddity of it has led me to blog about it once more.

Of course I am a happily married woman now, but once upon a time I was an eager young lass who enjoyed the company of various men. And strangely, many of them have, since dating me, become at least semi-famous. I take total responsibility for that. Also, more than half have since come out (or at least SHOULD HAVE come out), but I take no responsibility for that. I mean, every girl plays Barbra Streisand for their boyfriends, right?

The first of the famous was my first high school boyfriend. Good kid. Incredibly effin’ tiny — I remember at the time he was 5′6″ and weighed 115 lbs. He had a big tin of that protein powder he would make smoothies from every day. After high school, he ended up reviving the title role in Hedwig and the Angry Inch in regional theater, and soon after had a small guest starring role in Prison Break (after a few episodes, he was knifed in the shower). Then he went very crispy Christian and left acting to do some kind of religious films or something. Married, and straight, I guess.

Second was my second high school boyfriend. He was so very young (a freshman when I was a junior) and so very talented. Since graduating, he has performed with many regional theater companies, is a frequent performer at the Ordway in Minneapolis (that means something to you Twin Citizens), and has been in at least one commercial. Yeah, he was adorable. Gay as a maypole.

The third was a college boyfriend. I found out from Facebook that after graduation he was one of the six finalists on a network television singing talent reality show. It’s weird seeing your ex on network TV. I’m not going to go any further in describing him because I have it from the other horse’s mouth that the poor fellow is a can’t-quite-get-out-of-the-closet homosexual (thanks to the vagaries of religion in his life — yeah, I dated lots of Christians back in the day) and I don’t really want to internet-out the poor lamb.

The most famous person I know, however, is Rich Sommer from Mad Men. Never dated him, but went to college and sang in choir with him. When he guest starred on The Office, I pretty much freaked out. I remember writing on his Facebook wall that if he tried to steal Pam from Jim, I would never speak to him again.

And I met all of these people in Minnesota. Home to the stars.

I know this post isn’t exactly an update, but hell — I’ve gotta start again somewhere.

Do you know anyone famous?