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!! 






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…

Warning: This post contains chocolate.

Oh, and period stuff, so if you can’t handle those topics (or the combination of the two), scoot along.

I had a lovely little chat with my uterus the other day…

That is, if you can call “screaming, crying, and ranting at every visible star in the sky” lovely.

You’d think that by now, what with my history and my experiences regarding all things uterus-related, that I would have bothered to teach myself to stop getting my hopes up. But I can’t help it. I’m lame like that. 😦 

So when I say I am disappointed in my body for deciding to bleed again after a two-day “reprieve” last week, I mean it. Here I was, patting myself on the back, thinking that the lighter/shorter period was the payoff for losing a bit of weight. I deluded myself into thinking it was a sign that my body was finally getting its act together.


It’s cycle day 26 (I guess? Or did it start over again when the bleeding came back? What does this mean?! ARGH!) AF is here in full force. She’s unpacked her hideous floral luggage and looks like she’s here for another wickedly long stay… and there just isn’t enough chocolate in the world to console me. Cue the hysterical “it’s all for nothing, my body will never work right no matter what I do so why should I even bother” meltdown that my poor, undeserving (and understandably unprepared) husband had to deal with…

But bless his heart, he baked.

I am serious.

I haven’t taken much time to talk about my husband (because I’m selfish and this is my spotlight, damnit! ;P) but mostly because this blog is new and you and I are still in that “getting to know each other” phase (which is why I keep breaking out the big guns: gross period talk and stuffed monkey mental breakdowns? Oh yeah, you’re totally impressed. Don’t lie.)

Anyway, my husband doesn’t bake. Aside from the occasional bowl of ramen noodles, he leaves the kitchen stuff to me. After a morning/afternoon spent meandering through an art and cultural food festival downtown, I decided to take a lazy little snooze. I thought I was dreaming when I woke up from said nap with a smiling husband presenting me with an ambrosial offering of chocolatey deliciousness a brownie! That sneaky little….!

Yes, I know, bad Manda. But come on, I was doing so well and all I got for it was a cancelled sex life and a pair of ruined undies… You get chocolate for that. It’s the deal. The fact that my husband gets this is just one of the reasons why I keep him around. 😀

I hope I actually have some interesting news to share soon, but in the meantime: remember that we don’t talk about the cheesecake. Or the brownies. And if any of you breathe a word of this to the nutritionist I am apparently going to see in about a week, I will have no choice but to be very, very disappointed in you. I will corner you in a dark alley somewhere. We’ll have a lovely little chat.



The Weight Loss Chronicles


Before my husband and I were married, we never really gave fitness much thought.  A typical Saturday evening for us consisted of video games and (though I am ashamed to admit it) $5 carryout pizza. We drank sweet tea by the gallon. He was always a little too willing to let me give in to my sweet tooth and love of baking. “Eating healthy” was situated on our list of wants somewhere between “getting poked in the eye” and “wrestling a rabid puma.”

Oh, sure, we always planned on getting around to it eventually… but with school and work and everything in between, it was a little too easy to just say “we’ll do it someday.”

Since puberty, I have always been a bit thicker than the other girls my age, but there came a time when I was actually pretty damn proud of my curvy figure (*coughhighschoolcough*). Sure, I was heavy, but it was in all the right places: big hips, big booty, big (and I do mean big) boobs… But by the time Jonathan and I were ready to take our trip down the aisle, our craptastic “college kid” habits had added a “big belly” to it all, and I was horrified to realize that my size had ballooned from a full-figured (but healthy!) 12/14 to a 20/22.

Before our wedding, I did the typical “want to look my best!” routine and started doing the things I knew I was supposed to be doing all along: Water was my new best friend, we started eating more veggies, and I took up an exercise regimen. I was able to slim down a bit. By the time the BIG DAY came, I was strutting around in my laced-up corset wedding gown (tied extra super mega tight) like that church was a catwalk in disguise. I was a beautiful bride, I’m not going to lie. 😉

We were on the brink of enjoying what we considered a healthy lifestyle. We suddenly looked forward to planning and preparing wholesome meals. Desserts and sugary treats were saved for special occasions. Somewhere in all of this, we even bought a treadmill. GASP.

And yet, I never lost any real weight, and everything I did lose, I managed to find again rather quickly. :\ I just chalked it up to my body getting used to the changes. The important thing was that I felt like I was doing something about my weight besides bitching every time I had to squeeze into my one good pair of jeans, and that was going to have to be enough.

And then, my crazy-but-I-love-him husband decided to take on a career in the military.

When the countdown to his departure for basic training began, we had no choice but to accept our fate. It was now or never. Everything had to be taken up a few notches or there was no way he was going to survive the wrath of the drill sergeants (hah!). The grocery bill was dreaded almost as much as the rent payment, but something finally clicked and we stopped thinking of eating healthy as an expense, but instead as an investment. 

While he was away, I tried (in vain) to get back to my ideal size. I knew I was going to be proud of him when I saw him again, and I wanted him to be proud of me as well! I ran every morning, I swam every day (and not just for fun, though he seems to think that I enjoyed a nice little vacation while he was suffering. ;P), and I counted calories and kept track of how much I was burning.

Now, let it be known that I can’t math. But I can at least understand the basics of addition and subtraction.

The numbers looked right, but the scale refused to budge. It’s like my body was refusing to follow the VERY SIMPLE process of burning fat. To say that I was frustrated is an understatement of epic proportions. Our reunion came and went… I pretty much looked the same.

We’ve continued to do better together, and while he continues to build muscle and push himself with new physical challenges, I. am. still. struggling. We’ve cleaned up our diets even more (pushing for eating at least 90% clean, though right now we’re averaging a 70/30 ratio). I walk to the track that is half a mile from my front door and do a little running/jogging. I’ve even discovered that the gym isn’t all that bad.

I set little goals for myself. I would like to lose 2 pounds a week. I don’t think that’s asking too much of my body, is it? Well…

Total weight loss since the beginning of June:

12 pounds.

Although, if you want to add all of the weight I have to keep re-losing (is that even a word? It is now) it’s almost twice that. Up and down. Up and down.

Frustration = hell.

The only victory I can celebrate here is that this is the longest I’ve ever been able to keep any weight off. I’m going to credit that with cutting out as much processed foods as possible.

And that brings us to today. And my current “I really hate my body” mood. Nothing works the way science says it should. It makes me feel overwhelmed, helpless, and understandably unhappy.

My husband is in the best shape of his life. Why does he have to be stuck with a fat wife? ESPECIALLY a fat wife who can’t even give him babies? How long before he runs off with a cute little 19-year-old with a firm ass and perfect 28-day cycles? :\ <——-Do you see these evil thoughts? They’re not welcome here. I know he loves me. He married my pudgy butt and his only complaint about my body is that complain about it way too much…

Anyway, I wanted to share my history of weight loss (or weight loss attempts, I should say) because as time goes by, I will probably share my ups and downs here. Focusing on getting healthier has as much to do with the baby journey as the doctors and the tests and the pee sticks, right? Not only will I feel better, I’ll hopefully get a handle on the crazy, unreliable cycles (day 19 and still bleeding, btw) and even increase my chances of ovulating normally. That will obviously be a step in the right direction.

And when (when, not if) there’s a new addition to our little family, I’ll know that I am physically and mentally healthy enough to give my baby the strong mommy it deserves!

I might be having trouble losing weight, but it is NOT from a lack of motivation. I have the best reasons in the world to do this. Body, get with the program!!