Painting Chef - Cheaper Than Therapy

Through no desire of my own, Patrick and I ended up taking a “month off” from our seemingly never-ending quest to de-barren my uterus when we went on our vacation. At the time, I thought it would be no big deal. Of course I had to deal with the barrage of “Oh THAT’S when you’ll get pregnant, as soon as you stop trying” and “All you need is a break and to relax… that’s when it will happen” and I wanted to stab everyone who said such things to me IN THE THROAT WITH A RUSTY BUTTER KNIFE.

But I digress… (do I?)

We took the break. And it KILLED ME. I had this ambiguous cloud of ick and yuck and sad floating all around me. And I was never so thrilled to go back to the doctor as the day I walked in there, barely alive because of the flu that while no longer contagious, still made me not feel like doing anything other than rolling over in bed.

I attacked this cycle with renewed determination and motivation. I dutifully mixed up vials of liquids and powders every night so that Patrick could give me a shot in my ass. I checked the days off on the calendar. I felt like four day old ass and, aside from a few hours this past Saturday, kept that whining and complaining to a minimum. I dropped $200 in co-pays alone in the past week for ultrasounds.

And what started out as a promising cycle has kind of… flatlined. Nothing is being called a bust or non-responsive yet. I still have a turkey baster session scheduled for later this week. (On Thanksgiving, appropriately enough). As if I needed something else to worry about on the day I was having 20 people at my house for dinner…

But I feel the hopefulness slipping away. I can’t put my finger on it because like I said, my RE has been nothing but positive about this cycle so far. “Sure.” She says. “You’re responding a little slow but I don’t think that’s cause for concern.” But I can’t help but wonder if, when I leave, they all give each other the sad look that says “Who does she think she is kidding? Why is she putting herself through this?”

There are two things that have carried me through this on-again, off-again struggle to become a mother. The first is my sense of humor. And there are no secrets. I’ve read the very little I’ve had to say here over the past few months. I know it. NOBODY is laughing anymore. But the second is my optimism. And I’m so scared that if I lose that too, I’ll just become one of those ghosts of a person. I’ll float around, only halfway here with that sad look on my face that never quite seems to leave.

On the bright side… I’m not drinking right now because of the fertility drugs. So those 20 people at my house on Thanksgiving? I’ll be STONE COLD SOBER.

Oh look… that did it… that pushed me over the edge. Send cake.

I would apologize for my absence with tales of some fabulous adventure… you know… if I had one. But sadly, I’ve been sidelined not by wild parties and amazing travel but by a pig. No. Thank you. This is not a case of bacon overdose. I actually have the swine flu. Good old H1N1. For the first time in 10 years, I’m a flu season statistic.

I’m writing this from my medically imposed den of sloth and slack (i.e. my bed) and I have to make a confession… I’m not as into this sloth and slack as I’d like to be. I’m going a little stir crazy and I’m EXTREMELY disappointed in what I would call my inner couch potato if my inner couch potato didn’t reside on my outer person.

But I’m disappointed. I have hours and days stretched out in front of me where I don’t have to do anything but change the channel and stumble to the kitchen for Gatorade or ginger ale when I’m not sleeping all stretched out diagonal in the middle of the bed. And… I’m failing. I was so stir crazy this morning that I went to the office and got some work to bring home.

Are you weeping with sadness? I can’t explain how upset with myself I am to even admit this to you.

Oh sure… I cold probably have cleaned the house instead but then wouldn’t I just be spreading my pig germs all over the place? Better to keep them confined to my bed. (And apparently my office…)

I think I blame the Tamiflu that the doctor gave me. It gives you a false confidence because I feel alright. Not great… but not like I did yesterday morning (which I would describe roughly as the goo left over after you stomp a bug and scrape it off your shoe.) Yesterday I chased the Tamiflu with a healthy dose of NyQuil (original green death flavor of course) and went comatose for a few hours but for some reason I’m hesitant to do that today.

Oh hell… I could probably push around a dust rag. Maybe operate the washing machine? Throw away some junk mail. Put up some shoes? Oh look… the O.C. is on…

So much for my segue into a rant on the suckitude of daytime television…

“Hey man… what’s with the facial scruff? You’re kind of hairy!”

“I TOLD you on Saturday. I’m observing No-Shave November.”

“Really.”

“Well, I’m leaving my options open.”

“This should be fun. Hey… maybe I’ll observe it with you. What do you think about that? Wouldn’t that be fun and festive?”

“You ruin everything.”

“I’m your wife… it’s my job.”