PLEASE NOTE: If you are struggling with infertility or are currently trying to conceive and you DON'T want to read about my pregnancy (which I totally understand), I recommend starting at the beginning of the blog (March 2010) and reading from there. I find out I'm pregnant in June 2011 so there is a lot of trying to conceive posts in between that you might find funny, helpful or relatable. Wishing you all the luck in the world!

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Snow White and the Seven Infertile Dwarfs

I’ve always thought of myself as Snow White. No, I don’t sing into wishing wells (only because we don’t have any in New York City) but I do have very dark hair, light skin, ruby lips (thanks to MAC Cosmetics) and I’ve always had a fondness for apples.

As you know, Snow White had seven dwarfs she hung out with. I guess she figured she couldn’t get a man at the time, so seven dwarfs’ equaled one prince. I’m not sure. I never really got what the hell she was doing with the dwarfs to begin with so that’s just my hypothesis. I mean, I know the Queen was trying to kill her and all but cleaning up after seven guys doesn’t seem like a good hideout plan. Trust me - I briefly crashed in a fraternity house back in the day and it was NOT pretty.

But I digress…

According to Disney, the seven dwarfs in question were named Grumpy, Sleepy, Happy, Bashful, Doc, Dopey, and Sneezy.

In my little trying-to-conceive-fairytale though, I think of them as more emotions than dwarfs. So, according to me, they are named Grumpy, Sleepy, Happy, Hopeful, Sarcastic, Hormonal and on occasion, Slutty. Whistle while you work indeed Ms. Slutty Dwarf!

Depending on my cycle, my mood, my day or other possible variables, a different dwarf/emotion takes center stage. Sometimes, it’s Grumpy. Other times, it’s Hopeful. Today, it appears to be a visiting dwarf cousin who has a drinking problem. He’s called ‘Embittered’.

Last night, I received a letter from my insurance company that read, “Dear Mommy-to-be: Congratulations!” It went on to describe their pregnancy benefits and included a brochure on where I could deliver my baby. Ummm, what? I just had a hysteroscopy and a D&C. Trust me Blue Cross Blue Shield… my uterus is not only empty, it’s been cleaned, scraped and vacuumed, so what the f*ck with this letter?

Then, last night I dreamed that I was lying down in an examination room when a doctor came in, threw up his hands as if he scored a touchdown and exclaimed, “You’re pregnant!” He looked at me expecting me to be overjoyed.

No, I’m not.” I said. “I have my period.

No really. You’re pregnant. I have two other doctors here who agree with me.” Two other doctors suddenly rush in and stand in their white coats looking at me like a medical version of The Marx Brothers.

Look,” I was getting annoyed. “I don’t care if three out of three doctors say I’m pregnant. I’m not. I have my period. I had a uterine polyp taken out just last month around the time of ovulation so I’m telling you – it’s impossible.

Then, out of nowhere, my therapist made a dramatic entrance and began to enthusiastically sing, “California Gurls” by Katy Perry. That’s when I realized my alarm had gone off and this was very much a dream.

Although I was bummed that I wasn’t pregnant, I was relieved that my therapist hadn’t taken up singing. She can tell you what’s in your subconscious but she could carry a tune to save her life. I’m just sayin’.

After I woke up and shook off my odd dream, I headed to my doctor’s office for my post operative appointment. As I waited in the waiting room with several other fertility challenged folks, a couple came in with two toddlers. You could immediately feel the tension in the room. All eyes were on the kids and the air quickly filled with jealously. You can’t exactly blame the couple for bringing their kids but it did feel like a thin woman had just shown up to Weight Watchers meeting and proceeded to eat one donut after another in front of us. Ouch.

After an hour wait with the infertiles and the two unintentionally antagonizing children (doesn’t that sound like a band? "Ladies and gentlemen, The Infertiles and the Two Unintentionally Antagonizing Children!"), I was relieved to finally get called in to see the doctor. I was told that my tests were normal, the polyp was non-cancerous and that I have the go ahead to try and get pregnant on my own for the next few months.

This is all good news but I can’t help but wonder if it’s going to work this time? I’ve been trying for over a year and a half. I’m well into my thirties, my husband’s sperm count is on the low side, we’ve done several inseminations and an IVF and nothing has worked. Was it really the elusive uterine polyp holding up the process or is it some other currently undiagnosed problem? I wish I knew.

Mirror, mirror on the wall… who’s the most fertile of them all?

At this point, like Snow White, I wouldn’t mind having a nice long sleep in a clearing in a forest somewhere. Dwarfs and woodland creatures could look after me… or at the very least, give me a spa treatment. I could woke up to my husband’s kiss, be knocked up and the evil Queen (a.k.a. “Aunt Flo”) would leave me the hell alone while Grumpy, Sleepy, Happy, Hopeful, Sarcastic, Hormonal and Slutty all rejoiced.

Hey -- who doesn’t love a happy ending?

Thursday, July 22, 2010

I'm Tired of Peeing On Stuff.

Dear Universe,

I’m tired.

I’m tired of peeing on stuff.

I’m tired of people reminding me my age and that the f*cking clock is ticking. Maybe my clock is digital assholes! Back off!

I’m tired of thinking of comebacks when people ask me why we haven’t had kids yet.

I’m tired of getting unsolicited advice…especially from anyone over 65 years old and who have suggested overly provocative positions.

I’m tired of seeing pregnant women everywhere I go and being jealous.

I’m especially tired of pregnant women who somehow seem thinner than me even though they have a whole other person inside them and I don’t. WTF?

I'm tired of taking my temperature before I can have sex.

I'm tired of hormone induced mood swings (and so is my poor husband).

I’m tired of comparing my cervical mucus to something I make my omelet’s with.

I'm tired of second guessing every cramp.

I'm tired of avoiding pregnant friends.

I'm tired of changing channels when a pregnant story line comes on.

I'm tired of wondering if we are going to become 'cat people'.

I'm tired of another Mother's Day for someone else.

I'm tired of thinking that I'm being punished for something.

I’m tired of people I don’t know looking at my va-jay-jay.
I'm tired of waiting for two weeks, just to get my damn period.

I’m tired of feeling like a failure.

I’m tired of worrying about caffeine. God dammit – I LOVE Starbucks!

I’m tired of using phrases such as insemination, implantation and intervaginal sonograms in regular conversation.

I’m tired of the question, “Sooooo, what’s new with you? Anything exciting?

I'm tired of the pity faces I get when people here my struggles.

I’m tired of the patronizing happy face that shows up on my ovulation prediction kits when I'm ovulating. It's like, "Yeah, go ahead. Good luck with that loser!"

I’m tired of paying for prenatal vitamins when they’ve so far been “pre-nothing”.

I’m tired of people telling me they got pregnant by accident with their 7th child. (Ok, I’m exaggerating there but you know what I mean).

I’m tired of buying maxipads.

I’m tired of talking to my insurance company about my uterus.

I’m tired of seeing Facebook posts about yet another one of my friends being pregnant and/or giving birth. (I still think I should have posted a picture of my uterine polyp after I had it removed but I’m sure my polyp isn’t as cute as a newborn baby).

I’m tired of being stressed.

I’m tired of the strain.

I’m tired of thinking about all this.

I’m tired of not being pregnant.

I’m tired of not being a mom.

What am I NOT tired of? My husband, having sex (especially crazy monkey sex), Robert Pattinson (Team Edward! Woo hoo!), connecting with fellow fertility challenged friends and having the hope that one day, this will all work out.

Tired but hopeful,

Jay

Friday, July 16, 2010

Take My Polyp… Please!

As some of you know, I perform stand-up comedy from time to time. When I was younger and single, I use to perform on a regular basis. These days, I prefer staying home and writing in my comfy home office. It gives me more time with my husband, I don’t have the same intense pressure and most importantly, I get to wear my pajamas while being creative. Who else gets to do that aside from prostitutes?

Still, I do enjoy connecting with the public, looking at the humorous side of life and sharing it with others. Also, quite frankly, some shows are just balls out fun.

The best thing about performing stand-up comedy though has to be the overall shared experience of people in general. You see so many of them come in after work; they are stressed, tired, bereft of joy and looking like they desperately need a vacation. During the course of a comedy show, people relate to each other, they connect, and they laugh at universal topics such as marriage, weight, politics, celebrities, taxes and death. What could be better and more stress relieving than laughing at the sh*tty things in life? Whenever I see that same group of people at the end of a show looking lighter, happier and less homicidal, I feel like we’ve provided a service.

In my routine over the years, I’ve shared a lot about my life. Whether it was dealing with my family, trying to be successful, struggling as a single person (my bad dates could have filled several books), or being newly married, I’ve never had a problem putting my issues on stage and making fun of it. So, I’m kind of in an awkward spot at the moment since I know I should get on stage and share my struggles of infertility. Lord knows that I’ve built up enough jokes over the past year and a half!

Is that egg white cervical mucus or are you just happy to see me?

I’ve been trying to conceive for over a year and all I got was this lousy t-shirt!

I’m not having this much sex because I enjoy it people!

I said, ‘Doc, you could at least by me a drink before you inseminate me!’

I don’t know if my eggs are grade A or scrambled or fried!

The trouble is that the topic feels TOO personal. I’m still very much in the middle of it that I don’t yet feel comfortable getting up in front of two hundred people and being like, “Take my polyp… please!” Ba-dum-bum-bum!

It’s not that I don’t have a sense of humor about it and it’s not that I’m ashamed. I just don’t know if I want that many people all up in my fallopian tubes.

I also REALLY don’t want nor do I need strangers coming up to me afterwards saying things like, “Have you tried doing it doggie style?” or “My grandmother used to say that the man should leave his socks on.” Trust me, when a two drink minimum is involved, people’s sense of boundaries become fuzzy.

One time, I was in the bathroom after doing my set and while I was in the stall, someone woman I couldn’t even see said to me, “I loved your joke about going to the gynecologist by the way. It reminded me of the time I had this yeast infection and my husband mistook my Monistat tube for his toothpaste…”Ok... A) I’m in the middle of peeing. B) As f*cking hilarious as that story is (and it is), I don’t really know you and I’m not sure I want to hear about your yeast infection nor do I think your husband would appreciate you telling me this story especially since I’m SO putting it on my blog for everyone to read and C) No really, I’m seriously in the middle of peeing in here.

I have a big show coming up next week so I have a couple of days to decide what I want to do; if I want to talk about it, how much I want to talk about it and whether or not I’m capable of fending off that much unwarranted advice in one night.

Yes, I want people to laugh at my fertility issues with me as it helps. I also especially want anyone in the audience who suffers with the same struggles I do to know they are not alone. Truly - infertility must not be taken too seriously. You’ll go insane if you let it control your life or affect your self esteem. There’s so much in this world, in all our lives to be proud of, laugh about, enjoy, share and of course, make fun of. In the end though, this is my issue and I’m not sure I’m ready to make it a full on public punch line. The only ones I want laughing at this right now is you (yes, you!), my husband, trusted friends and mostly, me.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Sorry I Apologize So Much

Regular readers of my blog know that it’s been over a year or so that we had been trying to get pregnant and it wasn’t until this past June, that we found out that for almost that entire time we’d been having monkey sex, inseminations and an IVF, I had a uterine polyp foiling our very best efforts. Well, at least we suspect he’s the cause but that remains to be seen.

As of July 8th however, I am officially polyp-less. “Jackson Polyp” has been removed and much to my chagrin, he did NOT weigh forty pounds. Hey – a girl can dream. That would have been WAY better than dieting.

Between not sleeping well the night before my hysteroscopy D&C (D & C stands for a virtual “dusting” and “cleaning” of the uterus), waking up at the ungodly hour of 5am and the anesthesia, my memory of the day is rather fuzzy. Here’s what I can recall:

  •  I remember throwing on a cotton sundress from Target as it was seasonal, clean, festive and nightgown-like.
  • I remember changing into a hospital gown (not as seasonal or festive but certainly clean) and having to tell the nurse, anesthesiologist and my doctor how much I actually weigh. I am dedicating an entire therapy session solely to that.
  • I remember when I got into the operating room, them asking me to count down from 100 and by the time I got to 98, I was out. Why they patronized me by having me start from 100 is beyond me. They should just say ‘Count down from 3’ or simply ‘See ya on the other side’ and laugh maniacally.
  • Lastly, I remember not being able to wake up in recovery. No really, I kept sleeping and sleeping. I never knew I was good at impressions but apparently, I have “Sunny Von Bulow, The Coma Years” down pat.
Due to my inability to regain a full level of consciousness, they basically poured me into a wheel chair and then poured me into our car. I proceeded to sleep through the ride home and somehow, managed to get up the stairs to our apartment and continued sleeping until 5pm that night. When I woke up, I was magically back in my sundress. Ta da! For my next trick, I’ll pull a polyp out of my vagina!

For the next few hours, if I lay down – I got a migraine. If I sat up – I got nauseous. If I stood up – I got dizzy. It was around the second hour of this position purgatory that I seriously began to wonder if perhaps I should have just kept the damn polyp and raised him as my very own.

Happily, by the next morning, I was feeling better and was more alert. Alert enough to tell my husband something I had wanted to say ever since we found out about Mr. Polyp, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” he asked.

“Sorry for the whole polyp thing. If that’s been the hold up, then, well, it was my fault.”

Sam looked at me for a second as if I were nuts, which he does often. After a moment, he sarcastically replied, “Yes. Please try not to develop a uterine polyp again, would you?”

I’m not sure when or where it started but basically; I feel like most everything is my fault. Whether it’s the delay in conceiving, that we don’t have more money, that initially I may have picked the wrong doctor, that I’m not thinner, that I’m not prettier, that I can’t cook a decent meal, that it rained on my wedding day, that Lindsay Lohan can’t seem to get her act together, that I can’t cure cancer or that people are unhappy anywhere in the world. It’s all me… my fault.

You had a bad day? Sorry about that.

LOST is no longer on the air? My apologies.

You can’t get pregnant? I’m sure I had something to do with it.

Mel Gibson is a sexist, racist lunatic? Yeah, my bad.

I honestly think one of the phrases I say the most throughout my day is, “I’m sorry”. I’m sorry your conference call didn’t work. I’m sorry I got lost on the way to your house. I’m sorry you can’t find your keys. I’m sorry you walked in on me while I was in a bathroom stall. I’m sorry I don’t know the answer to your question. I’m sorry you have the wrong number. I’m sorry that I apologize so much.

I don’t know if it’s guilt or that I feel like I can’t do anything right but any which way, all of this apologizing is exhausting. It’s also slightly arrogant to think that I have that much control over the universe really. If I did, trust me – things would be different. I’d be writing this blog while sitting in my mansion looking like Salma Hayek.

Obviously, it’s not my fault that I had a polyp and it’s not my fault that we didn’t know about it until recently but still, I can’t help but feel bad about it. If it’s any consolation though, I am sorry I feel bad about it.

Monday, July 12, 2010

Versatile Blogger Award: You Like Me! You REALLY Like Me!


The fabulous and brilliant Slackie O. of “MY LAZY OVARIES” (http://slackieo.blogspot.com/) has honored me and my blog with the Versatile Blogger Award!

You like me… you really like me!

As I understand it, this is how the award works in three steps…

ONE: Thank the person who gave you the award:

Thank you very, very much Slackie O. I’m incredibly honored. You make infertility glamorous you sexy kitten you!

TWO: Tell 7 things about yourself that readers may not know.

SEVEN THINGS ABOUT ME MY READERS MAY NOT KNOW:

1. I have an unhealthy obsession with Splenda. I steal them from diners, restaurants, coffee shops, etc. and I use WAY too much of them too often. I know, I know… it’s a problem.

2. I secretly wish I were from England. I love their shows, movies, their land, their monarchy, their dry wit and pretty much everything about the UK… with the exception of their food.

3. I absolutely can’t sleep unless I’ve showered first. I just can’t tolerate the thought of sleeping while I still have the day on me (so to speak). Ick.

4. I’ve never done any drugs nor have I ever been rip roaring drunk. I find life hard enough to navigate without any uppers or downers, thank you very much.

5. I feel guilty pretty much all of the time for pretty much everything. Sorry about the oil spill everyone. My bad.

6. I could not survive without cover stick (for the dark circles under my eyes) and Blistex Lip Balm.

7. Believe it or not, I don’t find Brad Pitt all that attractive. Yeah, I said it.

THREE: Pay it forward by nominating 8 bloggers you’ve recently discovered:

I would like to bestow the Versatile Blogger Award upon the following:

1. The Big Girl Blog by the Plus Size Princess Named CeCe at http://thebiggirlblog.blogspot.com/

2. The Art of Love and Intimacy by Jennifer Jones at http://www.theartofloveandintimacy.com/

3. Bouler Architecture by Nadine Bouler at http://boulerdesigngroup.blogspot.com/

4. The Sassy Curmudgeon by Una LaMarche at http://volcanicensemble.blogspot.com/

5. Do I Have To Be a Dink? by KeepOnTrying at http://doihavetobeadink.blogspot.com/

6. The Honey B. by Honey B. at http://www.thehoneyb.com/

7. The Infertility Doula by the The Infertility Doula at http://infertilitydoula.blogspot.com/

8. Infertility Blog by Dr. Licciardi at http://infertilityblog.blogspot.com/


Thanks again and happy reading!!!

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Polyp of Passion!

How am I tonight? I can sum it up with these six words: Worried, pensive, anxious and craving cheese.

It’s the night before my surgery to remove my loitering uterine polyp, Jackson Polyp and I don’t know what I’m more upset about: the surgery itself or that I have to wake up at 5am. My sleep is very precious to me… but so is my uterus so what can you do.

I went to the doctor’s yesterday to go over the details and I must say, respectfully, I could have done without that visit. He used words like, “Pull”, “Scrape”, “Cut” and one word that particularly stood out; “Burn”. That’s all I need – a fire in my loins. If this were a romance novel, I’d be ok with that but unfortunately for all of us, it’s not.

If it were though, I’d call it, “Polyp of Passion”. Could you imagine the cover??? Oy.

The doctor also mentioned that I need to get there extra early as I will be meeting a team of people; nurses, anesthesiologists, etc. I can’t think of a worse hour to have a “medical speed dating”. I hope I can form coherent sentences at that time of the morning. It IS an important event where I should communicate well. Otherwise, all my conversations might sound like this:

NURSE: Do you have intercourse regularly?
ME: Zzzzzz. Huh?
NURSE: Do you have intercourse?
ME: (rubbing my eyes) What?
NURSE: INTERCOURSE? DO YOU HAVE INTERCOURSE?
ME: No, I have Blue Cross...

The truth is as nervous as I am about the surgery, I’m more nervous about AFTER the surgery. I don’t mean the recovery part. I mean the “working towards getting pregnant” part. What if Mr. Jackson Polyp hasn’t been the hold up? What if he’s just another plot twist in my attempt to have a child? What if this not the beginning of the end but the end of the beginning?

Dear God… now I’m quoting Winston Churchill.

If I’m being REALLY truthful (and I always am on my blog), I’ll also admit that a part of me is going to miss Jackson Polyp. I’ve given him the best personality. I imagine him as this friendly, well-intentioned polyp that had just been crashing in my uterus for awhile while he figured out what he wanted to do with his life. Yes, he’s a lazy polyp that mooches off of others but let’s face it: he’s the only thing that has grown in my uterus, so I’ve grown attached to him… both literally and figuratively.

However, the time has come for this chapter to end and for the new one to begin. I just don’t know what the hell is IN the next chapter and that’s the scary part. I’m not writing this book. I’m living it and if the author doesn’t give me a happy ending… well… that’s the thing. I have no threat as there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s either going to work out or it’s not. The ending I suppose is how I choose to deal with it all.

And that’s what brings me to my dinner choice tonight: Macaroni and Cheese. Yes damn it – comfort food. When all else fails and I’ve pulled out every cheer up trick in the book, I fall back on what my mom used to make me when I was feeling down. If mounds of cheese can’t ease my fears, nothing will.

Tomorrow night, July 8th, I’m asking everyone I know to indulge in one (or more) things that make you happy that you have either denied yourself or that you don’t get to do very often. It’s my little going away party for Jackson Polyp, but instead of having you over for appetizers, cocktails and party hats, it seemed nicer that everyone got to do something that made them feel better in the privacy of their own homes.

Buy a balloon, listen to that ABBA song you don’t like to admit you like, have a little caffeine, put on your favorite t-shirt, or have a piece of cheese with me. Even though we don't know what the next chapter holds for any of us, let's say "F*ck it all!" on July 8th at 7pm and indulge. If you won't do it for me or yourself, doing it for Jackson Polyp!