The Long and the Short of It

Is: when I sit down and try to write a new post, to fill you in on what's happening/not happening here, I am also forced to figure out how I'm feeling, how I'm doing. And that's when I start feeling sorry for myself.

Unimaginably, embarrassingly, pathetically sorry for myself. It is beyond pathetic.

And I hate it. Cue in the self-loathing.

I hate writing about that. I hate feeling it. I hate anyone knowing or even sensing that it's happening.

Cuz I ain't looking for pity. From others. Most of all from myself.

Confession: I have a hard time accepting random acts of kindness. Because sometimes I cannot tell the difference between that, and pity. I am still angry about the free ice cream from the cashier at the Ponderosa who knowingly looked at my balding head, my 12-year old face and conspiratorily whispered, "go ahead. You can have it. Don't worry about it..." Angry at her for thinking her fucking soft serve would make things better. Angry at myself for taking it.

See? See how ugly this is? You don't want to read this. I don't want to write it.

I don't even want to mention the shock and joy that M and I felt this morning when someone said, "measuring....7.2"

Because before it even registered, it was followed with a, "oh wait. hang on. I think that was just the angle. No, no, more like 4.8."

But it did. It registered enough. The hope sparked long enough for it for it to really hurt when it was quashed.

Suckers. That's what we are.

And then it all starts again. M and I laughing it off. Playing it cool. In truth, this isn't a bad read. It isn't anything other than what we expected it to be. In fact, it might even be better than what I expected for such a brief time on estrogen compared to the month-long session I had to get to 4.9 for the mock cycle.

Because, you see, our expectations are rock bottom these days. But still.

And then I remember the days when I trudged back to the train station crying to M. about a 6.2 or a 7 mm lining. Crying because we would have to wait a few more days, take another u/s...

Fuck me. Those were the golden days.

And then I remember how god damned hopeful we were back then. How we felt we had a chance. A real chance. And then I acknowledge that we will never. Ever. Feel that way again.

Cue the self-pitying, follow up with self-loathing, And running after it comes the "stop blubbering you stupid fucking baby. are you the only person in the world with problems??" inner voice.

Sigh.

So this is why I haven't been writing. I've been trying to handle all of this. Keep it under wraps. Work it out with yoga, breathing, acupuncture, other things. Anything other than thinking about how good we once had it. If only for a few moments. For the most part, honest to goodness, it has been working. I felt calm getting in the car this morning. I felt ok this week. I have been repeating to my body over and over again, "it's ok. It's cool. I'm not mad at you. We're ok. I love you. Don't worry." Every moment I think about it I whisper to myself, "My heart is open for what comes next. My heart is open...." hoping that I will convince myself.

Something has to be said for persistence, right?

Taxed by Taxes and Other Things

Dear IRS:

I appreciate that you are so kind as to let me "claim" my daughters on my income tax this (although, frankly, I think it blows that you don't extend the same courtesy to mothers who children were born still). But I am wondering why you need the social security numbers of Iso.bel and Jo.vita? I am wondering what about that big, all caps "DEAD" where their SS# should be on my eFile (thanks for the auto-fill HR Blo.ck) makes additional information necessary? You must be sticklers for it, because after hours of chronicling my medical receipts and donations, it seems that I can no longer continue any further with my return. At least not with the program I am currently using.

Sigh.

So, off I go to the Social Security office on Monday to inquire nicely where the cards we requested 8 weeks ago today are. Did someone make a decision not to send them, so as not to offend the grieving parents? Goddess forbid someone acknowledge their existence without prompting. Did they somehow get lost therefore explaining why they haven't appeared after the usual 3 week processing period in my state? Or is this more like the situation with the birth certificates where things usually processed automatically require my actually asking for them, you know, to make sure we really, REALLY want them? I guess we'll see.

But the trip to the SS office on Monday will have to wait until after a more pressing issue: first, I need to schedule some surgery to get this chunk of something out of my uterus.

Yesterday's HSG, while far less painful than the first one way back when (something about childbirth loosens things up down there), didn't exactly give me the pictures I wanted. There is a pretty large (think a good 25% size of my uterus) mass in there that could be:

1. scarring from the D&C needed to remove the placentas after the pre-term delivery,
2. "retained tissue" - as in, pieces of placenta that never got removed (my doc's guess), or
3. a combination of the above.

Whatever it is, it can't stick around.

The procedure is minor, the same process (more or less) for any of the options. Outpatient surgery. I get to walk around with an inflated balloon up my cooch for about a week (to maximize healing and give everything space to get better) and then follow everything up with 4 weeks of estrogen. After a flush of that new post-op lining (read: a period to rival all others) and a quick scan to see what's what, if everything is clear, we'll go for IVF#4 (FET#3).

I don't mind prolonging our next attempt if it means taking the time to make sure everything is as good as it can possibly be before we unfreeze any embryos. But this complication does feel a bit like a kick in the gut.

My acupuncturist said to me this morning - don't see this as a delay; see it as giving your body more time to heal. Why do you forget that you only recently gave birth? Give things time to get back into their rightful places. Give you mind more time to be peaceful.

Ok. I will try to be peaceful.

After I give the social security office a piece of my mind.