Not really, I mean, I don’t feel as crampy as I’d like to, and my boobs don’t yet have the shiny, “ouch, don’t look at me!” level of tenderness I’ve come to associate with being sprogged-up.  But I’m thirsty like Death Valley in summertime thirsty.  I’m thirsty like this while I’m drinking my 13th glass of water for the day.  Seriously.  It’s a weird, weird feeling.  Especially since I know it mostly means I’m going to be up all night, because my bladder apparently accommodates this whole “drink water like it’s going out of fashion” fashion when in its upright, librarian position, but when it’s in prone or supine sleeping-Sprogblogger position?  Eeek.  Must.  Pee.  it out.  NOW.

Which is encouraging, if a bit maddening after the 4th or 5th bathroom trip since midnight.

And due to the crazy-making-ness of last time around’s HPTs that barely ever registered an almost-visible-to-the-naked-eye line even when my numbers were in the hundreds, I will be doing my damnedest not to POAS before 9dpt.  I may not make it that long (well, I might need a control test, you know?)  But I’m going to try not to feed the crazy.

Believe me, it’s growing by leaps & bounds all on its own.

Speaking of feeding, I fed the baby bok choy for lunch yesterday, even though delicious fatty meat- &/or deep fried dough products presented themselves. And the bok choy, it tasted good.

I’d like to claim that my superior palate prefers steamed bok choy to golden roasted dumplings, but it just aint so.  Deepfried usually wins hands down.

So my current infatuation with steamed veggies might have been pregnancy hormones, or it might have been the influence of MSG.  I was at “House of Andy”, after all, and I can’t tell for sure.  But Internets?

I’m feeling hopeful.

Now give me another glass of water.

And that sucks.

Early days, I know, but I’m rather, um, impatient anyway, and have had my hopes up so very high for such a long time that it’s really going to, well, suck, if this comes to nothing.

But we’re not thinking about that.  No, we’re not.  Really.  Not at all.

We’re thinking about baby names and nursery themes.  We’re thinking about how much easier the Lovenox shots have gotten since they aren’t bruising the hell out of me anymore.  We’re thinking about putting up a new & improved Lovenox tutorial, in fact, because the ones I found when I was first trying to figure the damned things out just scared me instead of empowering me.  And since I’m going to be taking this stuff for another 7 months or so, I owe it to the Internets to repay some of the help I’ve found therein.  Or so says my must-stay-busy brain.  We’re thinking about new apps for my new iPod toy.  We’re thinking about interviewing OBs and we’re thinking about making up a new excell chart for the iPod.  Hell, we’re having silly little thoughts about learning to write apps.

We’re not thinking about sore breasts.  We’re not obsessively checking the size, shape, and texture of nipples in the mirror every time the bathroom door locks the world outside.  We’re not perfectly happy to wake up with a growling stomach.  We’re not delighted to be constipated.  We’re not smiling at every belly cramp.  No, not at all.  Really.  Not even a little bit.

Really.

Really.

Ahem.  And then I snap back to reality and blink really hard and start obsessing about my sniffly nose.  Sniffles = pregnancy, right?  (And neveryoumind that I’ve had this headcold for about a week now…)

Anyway.  Yesterday, I felt definite cramps.  In the same places.  Over and over again.  But not nicely centered in the middle of my receptive (and oh-so-fabulous) uterus, mind you.  No, these were more ovarian-ishly located.  Or, to coin an even stupider term, fallopian-tubeishly located.  Not on the right or the left side, but both.  At once.  Twingeing at different times, but repeatedly in the same places. Yes folks, as of yesterday I’m convinced:  An embryo is currently implanting in each tube.  Because that’s the only way this could get more soap-opera-y.

(Well, ok, maybe not the only way, but I reserve the right to wait until Sprog’s about to be born before I learn that my cryogenically frozen twin sister – from whom I was separated at birth when I was stolen by pirates who coveted my psychic abilities [and the diamond-encrusted nappy I was wearing when the baroness found and adopted me] – just underwent a sex-change operation and is actually the father of my child.)

Actually, I like that ending more than my double-ectopic story, come to think about it.

The dreams have ramped up, the thirstiness – oh god, the thirstiness! – is present & accounted for, and as a result, the nighttime peeing has gotten out of hand.  At least it’s nicely coinciding with the complete exhaustion, but still, every time I woke from my bizarro dreams to pee, I lay there, wondering if the relief from easing my overfilled bladder would actually be worth getting out of bed, or if I should just tough it out, prone, for the next, oh four or five hours.

I don’t think I’m pregnant, Internets.  (or rather, if I am, I don’t think I can know that yet.)  But I’m pretty sure I’m absolutely batshit crazy.

I mean, granted, I take estradiol via two different delivery methods, and only one stains my underpants, but why-oh-why when you KNOW (as I hope the drug makers must) that not all patients will be swallowing your wares, would you add so very much coloring agent to them?  I suppose it’s reassuring that I know if/how much of the pills get absorbed by me, vs. simply, er, dissipating, but really, it’s messy enough that I’m thinking I’d be able to tell even if the run-off were clear as the purest rain.

And I’ll bet this is just what you came here for: hoping to read about colorful vaginal discharge, eh?

I just don’t have all that much.  A few twinges, but nothing I can point to with a big “Aha!” finger and say, “Totally pregnant!”  Totally PIO, yes.  Pregnant?  Not so much.  If I were truly obsessive, I’d be going back to every other pregnancy to see on which day I actually started whining about the cramping.  It’s been the one unignorable, totally noticeable symptom I’ve consistently gotten – even in my spontaneous pregnancy, I was anticipating one hell of a period, due to the knock-em-sock-em uterine cramps that turned out to be anything but.  But since I’m not compulsive that way, no, not even a little, I’ll wait til, oh, say, tomorrow, to start combing through my archives to see if I can pinpoint a day to be on the lookout for cramping.  Because, really, a week from today before I can start to test?

I’m going to lose my mind.

I will start testing at 9dp3dt, as I always do.  I will start panicking on 10dp3dt, as I always do.  My first beta is on the 12th.  I will try not to have a heart attack until then.

I cleaned out and started adding things to a ‘scrapbook file’ I’ve been keeping with each pregnancy.  It felt oddly hopeful to toss out HPTs (yes, I know I’m gross to keep them around at all) and to take US pictures and put them somewhere else, somewhere more hidden.  I added the ultrasounds from yesterday, and Ms DonorFantastica’s note, and put it on top of my bureau, where I can get to it easily.  Since I’ll have to, you know, for every forthcoming US pix.  Because I’m being stupidly, determinedly optimistic like that.

I’m taking today & tomorrow off work, and I’ll have an easy time of it until next week, really, what with New Year coming up & all.

My mother left the sweetest comment I’ve ever read on my blog yesterday, and my MIL called up to find out how everything had gone – I didn’t even realize she knew what we were up to yesterday.  I am so blessed – my family could not be more supportive, and I know how rare that can, unfortunately, be.

And I’m currently hosting two perfect protosprogs.  (Hey there, guys.  One of you should pick a good spot & settle in now, ok?)

Ok?  Because snotty nose, bruised stomach, lumpy PIO riddled ass – here we come, 2010! Ready or not, here we come.

Ice storm when we woke up, so we headed home a bit earlier than we might have otherwise, which was a relief to me.  I was getting a bit weary of trying to be sunshine-y.  I can’t tell you all what a relief it is to be back online – and thank you for your comments.  It helps knowing that there are people out there who know – from experience in most cases – what I’m going through, and who still manage to say something kind even in the midst of their own shitty days.  Thank you.

Let’s see…sunshine…on the happy side of things, the youngest step-daughter’s party doesn’t seem to have caused any irreparable damage to house or house-parts.  Which is something of a relief.  We had some drama on Friday night when a partygoer accidentally hit the “panic button” on the alarm system & the cops called the boy’s cellphone to find out what was up.  Long-distance hijinks ensued at midnight trying to get other family members over to see what was really happening.  Lots of fun.  Of course, it does look like the party made it all the way downstairs into the master-bath, which is where my meds are laid out on the counter.  Wonder what she and her friends made of the gigantic sharps container on the counter?  Can’t bring myself to care too much, somehow.

See how I managed to bring it back to me and my grief?  I’m good at that.  Ah well.  My blog, my whingeing.  

I spent the trip back to Brooklyn trying to figure out what comes next.  Trying to second-guess what my doctor’s going to say.  Wondering if he’s going to recommend that we give up altogether & move straight to take-out, or if he’ll think that donor eggs might have a better chance of surviving the womb of death than my own crappy eggs.  Tried to talk to the boy about the whole thing yesterday, but he’s spooky about saying such things out loud, plus he’s still in denial-land.  Hell, he still thinks we’re going to get lucky inbetween IVFs one of these times.  Silly boy.  Anyway, I finally got him to tell me what he’s been thinking about a few things – essentially, he thinks that using donor eggs would be “unfair” to me.  You know, related to him genetically, but not to me.  Um, yeah.  I gently explained that I could give a rat’s ass at this point about passing on my immortal Cyrano-esque nose or duck feet.  Human baby is what I’m after here, that turns into a human kid and eventually (and in good time) a human adult.  And if it has a cute little space between its front teeth just like him, hey! Bonus!  

I’m worried that this failure is going to indicate that using a donor egg isn’t even a good option for us.  He’s too old (54) to qualify for a lot of overseas adoption agencies.  Plus, one of his friends adopted a pair of Russian siblings who have had unbelievable problems with FAS & now an autism diagnosis, and that’s spooked us both.  As unsuited as my body apparently is for reproduction, I can’t help but feel that I’d take better care of developing sprog than some young thing who knows she’s not ready to be a mother (even though I suppose someone responsible enough to put an infant up for adoption is probably plenty responsible enough not to be drinking during the pregnancy).  But the thought of adopting and having there be any custody issues ever terrifies me.  The thought of adopting and having a child with some condition that could have been prevented by proper prenatal care just horrifies me.  

And, of course, the thought of never having a child scares me to the edge of bloody screaming death.  

This was a tough weekend.  His family is very close, and very inclusive – they’ve been nothing but sweet to me, and welcoming.  But in a way, it was harder being there in the midst of their family circle, feeling like an outsider both because I haven’t been a member of their family forever, but also because they’ve all got their family around them.  I’m not saying it very well, but it made me feel so vulnerable, like a barnacle clinging to the hull of their boat.  Part of them, but not really.  My husband is 16 years older than I am.  Not a huge difference in some ways and enormous in others.  I will admit that the thought of living the last 20 years of my life alone, with no family at all is a scary one to me, and at holidays like this, that are all about family traditions and the passing-down of family things, it’s even scarier.  

Anyway, a rant of a post, but that’s probably where I’ll be for the next while.  Pondering, waiting for our follow up consultation, waiting to see what happens next.  

And lucky you, since I tend to write while thinking, you’ll be the first to know more than you ever wanted to about the inner workings of sprogblogger’s brain.  

Which should make a nice change from knowing about the inner workings of her womb of death.  

Time to make soup.

The main course is, of course, stuffing.  Yeah, yeah, it’s wrapped in a big old honkin’ turkey, succulent breast, plump drumsticks, and all that.  But really, let’s be honest: the point of a family holiday meal is the delectable stuffing which, if prepared right, will take on all the flavors of the rest of the ingredients.   It’s the only real reason we bother.   Well, that and the pie.

The first item of business is deciding which recipe to follow.  Different chefs have different specialties, but the end result should be the same – a family meal that will be talked about forever. This is a big decision, and its importance cannot be overstated.  How many well-meaning holiday cooks have attempted to “just do what comes naturally” and been rewarded with nothing to show for all their hard work except maybe a glow from – ahem – standing over a hot stove?   Some recipes that call for yogic postures (hips over your head!) or deep-breathing (just relax!) techniques are merely folklore designed to impress the untried.  Some time-tested recipes will, however, produce the best possible results when older ingredients are all that come to hand; others will simply attempt to maximize cooking time for a more succulent bird (and therefore, a stronger-flavored stuffing) Whichever specific recipe you follow, the general order of steps will be the same.  Please adjust for personal taste as necessary – marshmallow topping is rarely inappropriate.

Place naked, plucked turkey on adjustable stainless steel platter with drumsticks raised over neck level for easy access to body cavity.  Pink paper gowns with smiling teddy bears or other infantilizing cartoon characters may be used to decorate the turkey platter as long as they are not actually obscuring the open body cavity.  

In order to make more room in the body cavity for the all-important stuffing, remove heart, gizzards, endometriosis, damaged fallopian tubes, misshapen ovaries, fibroids, dreams of anything in your life ever being easy again, etc.  Chop finely and set aside for gravy.  (Omit reproductive organs for milder taste, if preferred).

Flush body cavity with brine to remove any extraneous bits of tissue. If you can accomplish this step without tears, you’re well on your way to the perfect family holiday meal.  However, if you cannot manage such a feat, do not despair. (If unsure whether saline lavage has sufficiently penetrated the cavity, ultrasound visualizing aids are available at your local medical supply warehouse. Although properly trained turkey-basting technicians are more expensive even than caterers, you should consider taking advantage of such opportunities if need be.   Doesn’t your family deserve the very best?)

Successive bastings with Lupron, Bravelle, Menopur, etc. will transform the inner cavity into a more hospitable place, allowing the stuffing to more readily soak up meat juices.  Draw up the basting solution into the bulb of the basting syringe and swirl carefully to mix with brine.  Inject under the skin for the juiciest, most stuffing-ready bird.  Most needle-basters will need to be manually loaded with ingredients like essence of post-menopausal nun pee.  This sounds more disgusting than it is.  Actually, no, it really is that disgusting.  And it burns like hell.  Use it anyway, in whatever fashion the recipe dictates. 

Furthermore, periodically basting the body cavity with pessaries and estrogen tablets dissolved in natural juices allows essential nutrients and hormonal seasonings to be absorbed by the stuffing mixture, and is critical for the success of the holiday meal.

Prepare the stuffing.  Only the best quality eggs should ever be used.   Sub-par eggs will affect the entire meal, so do not be tempted to take any shortcuts here!  In a small glass bowl, mix extra-large, grade AAA eggs with fresh or frozen spermatozoa.  Fold mixture into culture medium and let stand in a warm, secure place for 36 – 126 hours. Cellular mixture should divide, doubling in size at least 3 to 9 times.  If mixture does not rise, repeat previous processes with fresh eggs until satisfactory outcome is achieved.

Once prepared, stuffing should be inserted into the body cavity using a sterile catheter/syringe while wearing medical-grade latex gloves.  Although one of the simplest steps of the operation, this is the most critical.  Keep your eye on the eventual goal of a delicious family meal centered around golden brown stuffing, rather than on the gelatinous, unbaked lumps of dough you are handling.   Dough-lumps are difficult to form an emotional attachment with, but give it your best shot.  Nicknames might facilitate the process. 

After inserting stuffing, place turkey in a warm oven for at least two weeks.  Try not to check on it too often.  It is not that it is as fragile as a soufflé, but rather that since your hopes have already been dashed countless times, you should try not to set yourself up for failure any more than you have to.  Do not, at this point, bother with trying to read the meat thermometer.  It isn’t finished cooking yet.  Trust me.  No, really.  Actually, now it might be done, or conversely, it might be burned to a crisp.  Unfortunately, there’s really no way to know because the oven light just blew a fuse. 

At this point in the waiting game, basting will be required at evenly spaced intervals. Some store-bought basters will come pre-loaded with mucosa solutions derived from the linings of pig intestines.  Believe it or not, basting with this mixture will create a smooth texture in the flesh of the turkey that will help ensure the success of your stuffing.  Ignore any feelings of revulsion or cynicism at the lengths to which you are willing to go, and inject under the skin at 24-hour intervals.  Some bruising may occur. Rub skin all over with ice cubes if this becomes a problem.  Icing probably won’t help, but it might, at least, distract you from the bruising.

If you have a flashlight and perhaps a magnifying glass (not to mention the persistence and rapacious appetite for detail of Julia Childs), you may notice that the turkey’s skin is turning a nice rosy brown, and that the breast meat is swelling enticingly.  This may simply be a result of the intramuscular and subcutaneous basting, but it may, in fact, be indicative of the succulent and delectable condition of the stuffing.  However, since you really won’t know for a while, try not to pay any attention to it.   Have some pie.

It is now time to start making gravy.  Simply chop up your heart and any other reserved innards you always planned to use someday, and sauté over the low heat of self-recrimination and lost dreams until the concoction turns the rich brown of breast-fed-baby shit.  Add sesame oil mixed with progesterone and whisk until smooth. Season with baby aspirin, prednisone, and micronized DHEA.  Serve hot in a gravy boat.

After two weeks have passed, you may (or may not) know if your holiday dinner has a chance for success or not.  After another ten weeks, you are entitled to pick out holiday themed invitations for next year’s presentation.  After another twenty-five to twenty-eight weeks event-free roasting, serve stuffing – against a pretty backdrop of turkey – on your best platter.  Hand-knit heirloom booties and hats make nice serving pieces, but are not necessary.  

If, however, the turkey/stuffing mixture produces a clear, rather than a pink line on the testing strip near the end of the initial cooking period, not only is the turkey not done, but you must start again from scratch.  This is unfortunate if you have people waiting for you to finish so they can sit down to a family dinner.  They’ll have to wait for grandchildren.  And pecan pie, because at this point, you’ve probably eaten it all.   Probably some pumpkin pie in the back of the fridge, though.  You might want to start in on that one at this point.  With whipped cream.

Take-out or delivery – perhaps from China or Guatemala at the time of this writing – may be a more reliable option than starting from scratch at this point, or you could hire a caterer to prepare the holiday feast in your stead, though it will, of course, be too late for anything this year.  Ignore any feelings of self-doubt which taking this direction may engender. Yes, I know that neither your mother nor your grandmother did it this way, but this is the modern era.  These days, not everyone arrives at a family dinner via the same route.  Some go over the river and through the woods in a sleigh, some go via the F train to their clinic’s subway stop, and some simply call a taxi.  The important thing is that you get there in the end.  Preferably before the meal is over and everyone’s already heading home. 

Me?  I think maybe you should have some more pumpkin pie while you’re trying to decide, because pie is never the wrong choice.

Which bums me the hell out.  

And yes, before you jump in to reassure/remind me about the complete inability of an IVFing woman to exhibit anything like rational thought, let alone calmly perform a semi-complicated bit of self-analysis, let me assure you that I have been second-guessing myself – re-reading old blog posts, even, to remind myself of what day I previously managed to get a positive test last time (10dp3dt) and how all the tests before then were negative.  And even about how firmly convinced I was at the time that nothing had worked because I just didn’t feel that different. And then I had (temporary) good news that changed everything.

So yeah, I guess I’m to the point in this waiting game where I’m sick of waiting.  My brain is trying desperately to protect my heart, and reminding me that this procedure is a crap shoot, no more, no less. I’m to the point where I’m trying to pretend that I’m not waiting for Friday for anything at all.  Trying to pretend that it’s a shame I won’t know it’s a negative by Thursday, so I could have some of the most excellent wine my father-in-law is likely to serve at Thanksgiving.  I want it to be next Tuesday, and I want to be surprised with good news (permanent good news this time, please) but what I really want is for the 2ww to be done.  Finished with, one way or another.  

Or, barring that, I’d like to have the freedom to curl up in bed and go to sleep for three or four days, until it’s time for me to test.  

Surely that’s not too much to ask.

• vivid dreams.  like dreams that you could walk into and stay there forever, kind of vivid dreams.  coupled with…
• restless nights.  waking up many times to pee, or stare at the ceiling, or just pat the dog or the boy.  not insomnia, just not too sleepy.
• boob tenderness is still there, and I’m getting tenderer, but I’m still not sure that’s more than the PIO. 
• I’m still getting twinges – center of the uterus, pin-prick cramps – every so often.  I know I said I wasn’t going to count them as a symptom, because I recognize my own wishful thinking/hyperawareness, but I am going to count them.  So there.  I’m thinking these were the ONLY reliable symptoms last time, so I’m wishing for them this time, wishing they’ll become unmistakeable. 

The PIO is bruising me already, but the Lovonox, so long as I’m careful to get the airbubbles out first, really isn’t so bad.  The damn needles aren’t very sharp, though, which pisses me off.  Bad enough to stab yourself in the belly with an awkward, preloaded syringe, but with a dull needle?  Please. 

I’ll be ready to test officially on Friday, though if I’m honest, I’ll probably start testing on Wednesday.  And what the hell – I’ll be honest about the degree of my obsession to you all, since I suspect you’ve been here before!  And really, why else would I have bought a 25-pack of those internet-cheapie HPTs if not to have the freedom to POAS every single time the spirit moved me?  I still have a digital in the cupboard buried somewhere under the massed boxes of drugs, and I’ll spring for a pink-line test next time I’m in a drugstore.  Cover all my bases, you know…

Other than that, I fnid that I’m feeling eager to do baby-things again – look for baby-gear on Amazon, make up a list of books I want to have on hand, start special ordering baby/pregnancy books from the library – whereas for a long time after my miscarriage, I was too superstitious to bear thinking about it.  Yesterday, I finally went back onto some of my favorite “baby sites” and went through the annoyingly complex task of deleting my February due date.  (They really should have a simpler, one-stop, no-grief way of doing that.) 

I’m starting to feel hopeful again, like even if this time doesn’t work, it WILL work next time.  Which takes some of the pressure off. 

Big lie.  Pressure’s on, I’m just trying to find ways to live through this week without losing my mind entirely.  Not that I have far to go…

Argh. 

Let’s see:

• Early am period-type cramps, centered exactly where my uterus is?  Check. (Though nowhere near as noticeable as I’m hoping they become.)
• Peeing like mad all night and crossing my legs all day? Check.
• Sore boobs? Check.  (But I’m still putting that down to the PIO. The Boy commented on my sexy new cleavage yesterday, but again, I remember them getting sore to even look at, last time, and we’re nowhere near those proportions yet.)

Other than obsessively detailing signs, I’m just trying to live normally, and – of course – waiting. Waiting more patiently than I would have thought possible, actually. I feel a bit like I’m back on my DHEA high, and have, since learning that our embryos’ quality was so good. I’m still feeling very serene. Hardly crazy at all.

Honestly though, it’s not because I’m feeling so very confident that this will work. I just feel at peace just knowing that if it doesn’t work, it’ll not be for lack of response to the drugs. The drugs did what they were supposed to do, and I think I can attempt to be fatalistic about the rest of it. We know I don’t have any problems with implantation, so if one of those little guys can’t manage to stick, then I guess I can live with that, since we did everything right.

Which is not to say that I’m not going to reserve the right to lose my mind if this doesn’t work. It’s just that right this very second, I’m feeling calm – a nice change.

(And, of course, part of me can’t help but remember how placid and calm I was all through this summer’s pregnancy. I was like a great big doe-eyed cow, just grazing and smiling beatifically on everyone around me. So maybe this feeling of calm is a sign, too!)

Going to go graze for some chocolate now.

Moo.