I want to believe!

What comes to mind when you see the word unexplained?  A grainy black-and-white picture of a UFO? A blurry wisp of a ghostly figure in the window of an abandoned hospital? The phenomenally normal results of my recent blood labs? (No? I guess that last one’s just me then.)

I am healthy. Absolutely healthy. If my test scores were any more perfect, Doc probably would have called me a cheater and sent me to the principal’s office.

I decided to illustrate my frustrations artistically using my amazing computery Paint skills.

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(You’re impressed, I know.)

Cue the X-Files theme, because there’s just no way to explain why I’m not pregnant yet. (God, I am so lame and I really should stay off Hulu for a while… )

Why am I so unbelievably pissed about those results, though? How spoiled am I? There I am, listening to a smiling, cheerful doctor list off my numbers, hearing that everything came back normal, and yet I was…

…disappointed? What the fu-…?

Thyroid? Normal. Glucose? Normal. All those other fancy words I don’t understand? All amazingly normal. People bargain, plead, wish, and pray every single day to hear results like that, but I was hoping for an answer today. I was really, truly hoping that one of those little numbers would be so far out of whack that the Doc could take one look and go, “AHA! THERE IT IS!”

But it’s never that easy, is it? It is literally a mystery why I am having such a hard time popping out a kid. Damn you, little ovaries. Something is wrong with you, why won’t you speak up and tell me what it is?!

We also found out the results of hubby’s SA, and he’s good to go. No problems there. Super fertile. Must be nice! (Does this mean we throw him in with the others and pelt him with passive aggressiveness and old chewing gum wrappers? No? Awwa… )

So of course, the spotlight is turned back on me, and at this point it’s less “spotlight” and more “light bulb inches from my face while I’m strapped to a chair with my interrogator coming out of the shadows with a pair of pliers.” We have ways of making you talk…

 What’s next? I’m being referred to a specialist. There’s nothing more my PCM (or my Nutritionist) can do, since my results clearly have them both scratching their heads and questioning everything they think they know about science.

In the meantime, I’m just going to keep my fingers crossed, keep cheering for my fellow hopeful-babymakers, and try really hard not to beat myself up too much for stopping by Starbucks for a much-deserved treat on the way out of the hospital today.

But oh man, as someone who rarely indulges in caffeine, it was soooo worth it. 

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A little mercy…

It is a very well known fact that chocolate and crying can sometimes magically make things better.

I don’t know how it works. I don’t question it. I just let it happen, embrace it, and thank all of my lucky little stars that it does.

I cried and I pouted. I threw a little tantrum here on my blog. I made sure that the universe understood that I wasn’t a happy camper. And every few minutes or so, I checked to see if a miracle would happen and an earlier appointment would show up.

And guess what?

An empty slot opened up just moments ago on my Doc’s calendar.

And it is only 6 days away.  😀

I rubbed my eyes, I double checked the date, and I’m pretty sure I heard a choir of angels singing in the distance…

Ok, I’m just being dramatic about that last thing, but I grabbed that appointment as fast as I could. Waiting a week for answers is a lot easier than waiting an entire month.

I just really wish this could have happened before I consumed an unfortunate amount of sugary happiness…

DOES NOT COMPUTE

Blood labs results are posted where I can see them!!! CRUEL! 

Frustration = looking right at the numbers that could potentially reveal what is/isn’t wrong with me and not being able to read them!

I don’t speak “doctorese,” so I am doing what every frantic person does when they are handed a set of numbers that could determine the course of her future: Google.

Why. WHY. Make me STOP! Dear whoever-is-up-there-listening, I never thought I would ever ask for this but now would be a good time to cut off my internet or something!

In a brief moment of clarity and self control, I logged in to schedule an appointment to see Doc so he can talk me through these results, and WHAT?! No appointments available until DECEMBER?!?! NO! NO! WHY!! 

DYING.

MUST GO CRY.

DO NOT APPROACH WITHOUT CHOCOLATE. 

 

I r dum.

Sooo…

Nutritionist appointment went really well. It was nice to finally have someone listen to me explain what I’ve been doing and agree that my body rebels against every natural law known in the nutritional world. I mean, it wasn’t nice to hear that, it was just nice to know that I’m not crazy, and there aren’t evil little creatures force feeding me chocolate cake at night while I’m sleeping.

(Although… weight loss sabotage aside, I would probably be okay with that on some level…)

She did recommend that I step up my game when it comes to exercise, and she’s right. I don’t even go to the gym anymore even though I really should. It’s just not nearly as fun to go now that my workout buddy moved away and ABANDONED ME. (Just kidding, T! Love and miss you! Haha!)

It’s just a scary thought to go there all alone with no one to giggle with when I spectacularly fail at trying out a new machine, and I can’t ask anyone to go with me because I have zero friends within a 400 mile radius. Military life problems. 😥

Anyway, no more using that as an excuse. I want this weight gone. I want regular cycles and I DEFINITELY want to ovulate again, so tomorrow (no really, I’m not just procrastinating, I promise!) I am going to restart my gym routine. Might even look into signing up for a class. I’ll keep up with my walking/jogging of course. I just need to push my body a little harder, because if it wants to play rough, I’m going to torture it into submission! Hah!

Now, you would all be very proud of me because I was poised to take that building by storm after my scheduled appointment to find out what the deal was with my Doc and to demand a new one. I was ready to fight tooth and nail to make sure that someone with an IQ over 14 was put in charge of my case and, damnit, find out where my baby is!

But it never came to that… here’s why:

Nutritionist asked me if I had any lab work done to determine what my crazy body was doing. I believe I grumbled something about how I was supposed to have some done a few weeks ago but my doctor forgot about me…

She taps out a few things on her keyboard and then turns the screen to face me.

It’s all listed. Every test he ordered, right there.

I made a face, “but when was I supposed to have these things done…?”

Apparently, guys, all I had to do was go to the lab at my convenience. No appointment necessary. She told me it wasn’t a problem, that it was all still waiting on me, and all I have to do is make time to get it taken care of.

I r dum.

Actually. I r an ass, because I have been cussing Doc up, down, and sideways to my husband, to my dog, and on this freakin’ blog for the last few weeks, and it turns out it wasn’t even his fault.

It was mine.

So, smart alec of a husband waits until we are just barely out of earshot of the nutritionist and goes, “I guess this means you owe Doc a blog apology!”

You have no idea how much I hate it when he’s right. I mean, this is like the second time it has EVER happened, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

Here goes:

Dear Doc,

 

sorry

 

Love, Me

I am immensely sorry that I accused him of abandoning me, of being lazy, and of not taking me seriously. It was all a big misunderstanding. He obviously had no way of knowing that I would stupidly assume that these things would have to be scheduled. Maybe he just didn’t take me seriously when I told him that I have no idea how this doctor/army/MTF stuff is supposed to work.

Although, I want to point out how awesome you guys are for being ready to eat his face when we thought he was just doing a crappy job. I am so in love with all of you for trying to look out for me. Warm fuzzies all around! :3

Friday morning = lots of needles for me, and a semen analysis for the hubs!

GETTING SOMEWHERE, PEOPLE. IT”S FINALLY HAPPENING!

Yay, potential answers!! 😀

Caution: Infertility hellcat on the loose…

Guys, this is just nuts. Nuckin’ futs, to be exact… (And I do apologize for the terrible movie reference, but it was about the nicest way I could put it!)

Cycle Day 68. Did you hear me?! 68!! Now ask me if there’s been any sign of ovulation. Go on, ask…

That’s okay, you don’t have to. You already know the answer is a big, fat, flying NO. Nada. Two – count’em TWO – pee sticks a DAY, looking for any visible pattern or inkling that would suggest that my little ovaries are doing their part. But no, I am simply asking too much of the useless little scraps of flesh, apparently. And now I have to buy another 50 pack of ovulation predictor pee-stick thingies (thank you, Amazon!) because we all know AF is nowhere to be found when we actually want her. Bitch…

And as for my doctor… Oh man. OH MAN. You do NOT want to open this can right now. Like the little purple line that screams OVULATION AHEAD, PROCEED WITH EXTREME SEXINESS or AF’s arrival to herald the dawn of a new cycle, he is also curiously missing. I actually made an appointment with the intention of exploding on this guy just so my poor husband can catch a break from the infertility hellcat that stress and confusion tend to turn me into these days…

But then I chickened out and cancelled it. And then immediately regretted doing so when I reminded myself that I haven’t seen or heard from him since September 9th.

I need to grow a pair and stand up for myself. I started this blog like I was big and bad, ready to face my fears and do whatever I had to do to become healthy, and by extension, become a mother. Yet, here I am, barely two months later, and I’ve already crawled back into my safe little hole, painting the walls of my lair with denial and laying down a nice comfy carpet of self pity…

For shame. Honestly.

On a lighter note (pun intended!) I moved bead #20 over to the “Lost jar” recently. I have officially shed 20 pounds, and I’m actually beginning to see (and feel!) the changes. So, there’s that… It’s good to know that I haven’t completely given up since I’m still making progress, albeit slow. But slow is good, right? Better than stressing my body even more and risking a complete and total relapse back to where I started, or worse!

Tomorrow afternoon is my first official nutritionist appointment. When I scheduled this last month, I did so with the hopes that I would have a diagnosis by now, or at the very least some bloodwork results that would shed light on what my body was up to. Unfortunately, it looks like we’ll be heading into this blind, which means I will probably mention my suspicion of PCOS and/or insulin resistance once or twice, just to have it waved away so she can give me the standard “calories in/calories out” spiel again.

And God have mercy if she breaks out another slideshow…

Duh 101

As we climbed back into the car after my “incredibly informative” nutritionist appointment, I remember telling my husband, “Why don’t they just call that class ‘Friggin Duh 101?'”

I use the term “appointment” loosely, because what I thought was going to be my chance to explain my history and have an educated dietician agree with me that something is obviously wrong was ACTUALLY a class. A presentation. A colossal waste of my time.

Hand to God, there was a slideshow. A slideshow. With pictures of food and charts of calories. One slide talked about the importance of drinking water. She even gave us the equation to find out our BMI’s. Meanwhile, I stared at the freakin’ app on my phone that could tell me the very same information in a matter of seconds without fussing with a calculator. For the duration of the presentation, I fought the urge to roll my eyes every. time. she mentioned that there are 3,500 calories in a pound of fat, that fast food is bad, that you should keep a journal of what you eat… etc., etc,.

Really? It’s that simple, huh? Why didn’t I think of that? *Insert epic eyeroll here*

If only I’d thought to mention to my primary care doctor that I have tried every trick in the book, so to speak. If only I’d thought to tell him that despite a decade of struggling with my weight, I still have a hard time getting (and keeping) results. If only I had somehow conveyed to him that my body doesn’t want to follow the rules set forth by science.

Oh, that’s right, I did. 

And his first move was to subject me to this? A slideshow that literally looked as if an 8th grader had put it together as a last minute project for health class?

After the torturously redundant slideshow was over, a few of us who were a little more serious about getting healthier were herded (yes, I said herded) by a second uniformed dietician to a tiny office where we could make appointments to speak with a nutritionist one-on-one and hash out an individual plan. I snagged an appointment for the beginning of November and hustled back to the car before the profanities of rage and sarcasm began.

Up until then, I had tried to give my primary care Doc the benefit of the doubt. I tried desperately to hang on to those feelings of optimism he had given me after the first appointment. But now? No… I’m angry. I get that he’s busy. I get that my inability to have a child of my own is probably the least of his concerns, BUT STILL.

He said he would call me after the results of the well woman’s exam came back, and he didn’t: I got a generic card in the mail with “results normal” checkmarked. He said he would schedule me for some blood work, and he hasn’t. He also said that he would have the husband scheduled for an SA so that he could be ruled out before we did anything “drastic” with me, and guess what?

He hasn’t done that either…

So, basically, the panicky part of my brain is flipping out and is trying to convince me that I got one of those doctors who takes one look at you, sees that you are heavy, tunes out everything else you say, stubbornly believes that being fat is always the cause of the problem and could never be a symptom of a much larger health issue (Hello, PCOS!), refers you to a classroom with a slideshow about calorie intake and pats himself on the back for attempting to make the world a much more beautiful place…

That’s not rational, is it? Am I overreacting? Or am I right to be this anxious about feeling like my baby journey has come to a complete standstill before it ever really had a chance to get started? 😦

I kept putting this update off because I knew I was going to whine the entire time, and that I wouldn’t actually have anything of value to say… again.

But… What can I say? I am a basket case these days. Sex isn’t happening, since it’s cycle day 37 and I am still. freaking. bleeding. My doctor has forgotten about me and apparently wants to blame all of the world’s evils on my fatness. (Maybe if his penis had a tendency to bleed for several months at a time he’d be a little more sympathetic? I dunno.) I am kicking my own ass SO HARD for waiting so long to get this started… If I’d known it was going to be like this, I would have made that first appointment as soon as we moved here last November. Damn my pride and inability to admit when I need help. 😥

Oh, and now my husband is talking about getting another dog, which basically makes me feel like he just kicked me in the mouth and told me we aren’t ever going to have a kid so we might as well load up on the furbabies… 😦

Again, I’m sure that’s just my panicky brain talking, right…? Right?

And don’t even get me started on how I feel about my birthday being one stupid week away…

So, it’s official.

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“I’m sorry to say that since you have been trying for over a year, that means we are looking at a case of infertility.”

There it was.

The “I” Word. 

Glaring at me from the other corner. Knocking its gloves together. Staring me down with a smirk, thinking I was going to be an easy KO…

It really wasn’t a surprise. I knew when we walked into the appointment that we would have to put our brave faces on. I smiled weakly and nodded my head to show that I understood. I knew this was officially where the fight would begin.

But I’m ready.

The entire appointment wasn’t too bad. This was my first visit to a Military Treatment Facility, so it was a little unsettling at first to have Doc walk into the room in ACU’s. I like him though.

The actual “exam” portion of the day only took a few minutes and was (thankfully) uneventful. Then he took the time to talk to me about where we were with TTC, and immediately told us what our next steps were going to be. He was understandably concerned when I explained how irregular (and abnormally long) my periods are, and said that I can expect plenty of lab work so we can find out the cause. First things first though: a SA for the hubs to rule out any problems from his end. (and hubs is just so excited about that, too…not.)

I also brought up the fact that I have been trying to lose weight but results have (and always have been) slow and frustrating, even with experimenting with a vegetarian diet and hitting the gym almost every day. So Doc wants me to make an appointment with a nutritionist to find out if there’s anything more I can do. (I didn’t fess up about the cheesecake I had to scarf down just to work up the nerve to face him, buuuut… I don’t make a habit of that so it can just be our little secret, ok? 😉 )

He was glad to hear that I’ve been taking my prenatal vitamins and offered to put in a prescription for them. When I asked if the prescription version was better than over-the-counter, he replied, “Well, no, but they’re free.” Like I said, I like him. He gets me. By the time the appointment was over, I felt like I was in good hands.

As we were heading back to the car, I couldn’t help but notice that I was feeling more optimistic than I had in a long long time. No more pity party!

So…

I’m officially climbing into the ring with infertility.

I am going to fight. Hard. 

And I’m going to win.

I got this.