six weeks

Apart from owning the boobs that ate Paris, I don't feel pregnant-and it's scaring the living shit out of me. I've been bloated and tired and feeling a little odd the last few days, but today?

Nothing, nada, zip.

I'm bloatless, alert and apart from feeling a little het up because I dreamed I miscarried last night and am convinced I'm about to do so in real life, I feel fine.

There. I said it. I'm convinced the baby's dead.

If I'm still gestating now, and continue to do so, it's going to be like this for nine months, isn't it?

Also, I wonder if I'll ever write about anything else again.

Good grief.

something nice

Wednesday, I couldn't wait to see Rose.

She asked me how I was and I told her she'd never guess. She did though, because she knew two weeks ago that I was pregnant, and was waiting for me to work it out too. She asked me when my first scan is (it's on the nineteenth of May) and while she's not certain, she said to not be surprised if I saw twins.

::blink::

(writing this makes me think I need to really ice the father out. I won't, but damn, I do okay until I talk to him, then when I do, I crumble into a sea of despair)

Work is already being really accomodating. I told Jo on Wednesday, and she's rearranged my regular Tuesday shift so that now, instead of four classes, I have only two. She's also scheduled an extra hour of one on one time with clients to make sure my pay doesn't suffer too much.

I heart Jo.

Anyone I've told is so happy for me. Why can't I be happy for me?

incoherent

I'm not doing well. Just now though, this minute, I realised how angry I am.

I'm angry because this is supposed to be what I wanted. I'm meant to be happy. I'm supposed to be excited, he was going to be excited for me. He already was actually, when it wasn't his child. He planned on knowing us both for a long, long time, my child and me, and I planned on knowing him too, but now we're locked together, not because we want to share our lives, but because we have to.

I wanted a child who was better than me, so I chose a donor who was. I chose a the student I've never been. I chose someone rational, a musician, and a thinker. That donor is lost to me now, and the donor I got is someone who, while lovely, won't give this child the pieces missing in me.

I fear for our child, I fear it being the sum of our deficits.

He's a nice guy and I like him a lot, love him too, for who he is, not for who we are to each other. I don't love him in a 'I want to have your baby' kind of way. He doesn't love me, not at all, and especially not in a 'I want a child who's just like you' kind of way.

From his perspective though, and we discussed this (and I use the term loosely. What do you call a conversation that starts and finishes with 'if only it had happened differently'. Him, not me. Oh, I'm stuck on the if onlies too, but I'm a problem solver, an introverted rational problem solver, so use my angst as a platform for solutions. He's, well, he's just stuck) last night, he got someone who, if he could choose, had the attributes he'd want in the mother of his child.

I got someone who's good at soccer.

I didn't want to know my donor's face. I wanted to be able to see me in my child, not because I'm a narcissistic twat, but because I didn't want to know the father. This child is going to look just like him, I know it. It's going to be him all over, and very little of me.

Everything this time was meant to be, and everything I planned our life on being, is gone.

The grief is intolerable, and the guilt, even more so, for this isn't about me, it's about our child, and no one wants it.

a day (or so) late

because Dabby's a jolly good fellow.

clickenzee on the sheet music

I really and truly did write this in time for your birthday Dabby, but I was obsessing about my boobs (which are gunning for their own map coordinates, I swear) or something, and forgot to post it. Oops.

this year, condensed

I'm still really, really confused.

This is for anyone else who is confused too.

I was all set to do IVF. I started my treatment cycle almost two weeks ago, after months of careful planning and thought. Theatre was booked for an egg retrieval sometime around May 9, and the embryo transfer was to be two days after that.

I was set to be at the receiving end of some really good drugs too, dammit. :madface:

The plan was to do this on my own, and the plan kept my emotions under control. I was handling the process really well, both the mental strain associated with it and the physical stresses caused by it.

A bit of legalesse: When I decided to do this, I was only what's known as 'socially infertile' in that I had no partner who wanted to have children with me. Legislation doesn't allow treatment of someone who either isn't getting enough sex, or is getting enough but with the wrong (picture me making bunny ears with my fingers when I say 'wrong', okay?) person. Fertile lesbians miss out too-unless the one wanting to get pregnant is medically infertile. Have I over explained enough? In a nutshell, treatment isn't available to anyone who simply wants medical intervention to get knocked up. You have to need it.

There's a loophole in legislation though, one where being medically infertile trumps being socially infertile, and once you're diagnosed appropriately, the social aspect of your infertility isn't even addressed. It stands to reason then, that I needed to be diagnosed medically infertile to be able to access treatment with donor sperm, and fortunately, I was.

Then I was sent home to wait for my period to arrive so we could start counting the days for treatment to begin. My period never arrived and the waiting was awful, so the unit arranged blood tests to determine where my cycle was at, and following those results, treatment commenced on the appropriate day, April 15.

But what we didn't know was that on that day, I was already two weeks pregnant.

Colour me You've Got To Be Fucking Kidding?!

So I need to let go of the plans I'd hung onto so desperately when things seemed like they'd never happen. These plans kept me focussed when the light at the end of the tunnel was too far away. They kept me sane, and now I have to throw them all away.

I wanted to do this alone, and now I need to get used to the idea of sharing and compromise. I need to stop feeling like the universe is playng a huge joke on me, him and our child, and accept this is a wonderful gift. I also need to accept that while this isn't what I planned, this child wants me - wants us - so very, very much, and that this IS the child I want so very, very much too.

*pats stomach* Hey you in there. I do you know.

for what you are about to read

Please don't hate me. I hate me enough for the whole world.

I feel so guilty because I'm going to be this child's sun and moon and I don't want it. Instead of celebrating what I got, I'm all fucked up about losing what I planned.

I wanted to do IVF. I wanted to do this on my own. I wanted what I wanted, and I didn't get what I wanted and I resent that.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I'm not excited, I'm regretful. I want a child, but I don't want this child. It's so sad, not for me, for it, and I'm sitting here wallowing about how awful it is for me.

It shouldn't be about me anymore. It should be about my child.

I'm my own mother all over again.

:(

speaking of gas

what is that all about?

I'm not an habitual farter, never have been. You'd be lucky to get a ladylike toot out of me, even when there's some serious pooping action involved.

Lately though, I'm either jet propelled or airborne, depending on my orientation in space at the time.


Oh, and as an aside, if anyone ever tries to tell you that water decaffeinated coffee tastes just like the real thing, kick 'em in the shins for me? Thanks.

this entry...

...is brought to you by the letter p, and also by the number 11, which looks much like two lines, doesn't it?

a tale of gift horses and mouths

This is all so confusing.

It wasn't meant to be like this.

The REs told me that a major theme of IVF is handing over control of one's fertility to a team of relative strangers. It's trusting them to know what they're doing, and to do the best thing for your personal situation. For a lot of women, that's the easy part. Their fertilty has let them down, so it's a relief to let someone else take over.

For me, not so much so.

I'm not good at trusting anyone, much less trusting them to look after me, so the hardest part has been to sit back and wait, without question, for the i's to be dotted, the t's to be crossed, to accept they're doing their best for me, and for treatment to commence. I got past that hurdle, quite well in fact, and IVF became not about about relinquishing control of my fertility, but about taking it back.

Getting me pregnant became someone else's responsibility, yes, but I employed them to do the job for me, making my fertilty mine more now than it has ever been. I ws no longer relying on chance, and I was making sure I had every opportunity to make this happen.

Chance won though, and the universe has got to be bent over double from laughing so hard.

This wasn't meant to happen. Do you know the odds of this pregnancy occuring?

m

i

n

i

s

c

u

l

e

this big -><- maybe, and that's on a good day.

I'm a geriatric. That reduces my chances to something ridicously low. Secondly, I'm a geriatric with a blocked fallopian tube, which means I've got fifty percent less chance than someone with two viable tubes. Thirdly, I've had sex once in over two months, and I hadn't even ovulated when we did it. I didn't even know I could ovulate fercryinoutloud. Fourthly, no. Just no.

This is unexpected and unplanned and all the planning and accepting and waiting I've been doing matters for shit.

I know I should be glad, and I am, but I'm also totally fucked up and I don't know what to do. I want this but I don't. It's like being given a Corvette when what you really wanted was a Trans Am. Okay, no. Not really.

What do I feel? What should I feel? I don't know, so I'm going with guilt, accompanied by a serving of regret, and flavoring the lot with the essence of pure terror.

This can't be true. If it is, it's the best thing ever, but in the worst possible way.

I need to go pee on a stick except I don't need to pee. I also don't want to see two lines, I don't want to see one. I have something to love now and so, I also have something to lose.

Also, these cramps I'm feeling? Mild, very mild, but they can't be good. :(

this is Hollie

Isn't she cute?

Please click on the picture so you can go rate my kitten. (hint: high numbers may win you a place on my Christmas Card List)

A word of warning: This site is cat fanciers' crack. If you like cats and you click once, it's already too late. You'll be addicted and you'll never be able to leave. You'll forget to bathe, you'll lose your job and next thing you know, you're be selling blow jobs on the street corner to pay for your habit.

*thinks*

Uh. Scratch that. Wrong confession. Oops.

ps *squeak*

!

day 54

I still haven't got my period, I'm sporting a set of knockers that would put Pamela Anderson to shame, and I'm terrifed that it's all because I'm pregnant.

We've had sex once in two months, and it was three days before a blood test confirmed I'd not ovulated yet. If I'm pregnant, the responsible sperm has got to be exceptionally tenacious, or my twat was particularly friendly on the day, because even if I'd ovulated that afternoon, while it can happen, at three to five days before ovulation, the probability of conception averages at around ten percent. Factoring in my blocked tube, the probability drops to negative forty percent chance. Yes, I know my maths is flawed, but I'm manipulating the law of averages because I need to calm the fuck down.

Eleven days ago, a second blood test showed I had ovulated-but when? It could have been anywhere from a week to a few hours before my blood was drawn, so really, I don't need to officially worry until at least Tuesday.

The home pregnancy test I'm looking at right now won't be used any time soon, because apparently I prefer worrying about the impossible to accepting about the inevitable.

today's words...

..are 'sore' and 'norks'.

Google them.

Go on.

Hee!

buckle up

This is certainly an interesting ride.

Sadness washes over me in waves, and is so profound I can barely breathe. Rather than creating sadness though, I wonder if the Synarel is merely making it more difficult to carry on regardless of the sadness I already feel.

One of the difficulties too, is wondering if to tell, who to tell and how to tell, so generally, I don't tell.

Last night though, in the minutes before my first class started, I told.

One of the regulars put her hand on my arm and asked if I was okay. I wasn't, and her kind touch left me struggling to keep my shit together. Rose took me aside then, and offered a part of her self. She told me that I didn't need to say anything, but that if I wanted to, sometimes it's easier to tell a stranger. She's hardly a stranger, in that I see her each week, but I got her point, and so took what I thought was a risk, and told her simply that the IVF drugs were doing a number on my brain.

She totally got what was going on, just like that *snapping fingers* and I swear, I felt better immediately. Stupid and all, but better. Rose said too, that she knew something big was up and that she knew good things were ahead. She asked me when it was all happening, and assured me she'd be with me in spirit from now on, and especially on the day.

I'm more than misting up right now, just thinking about her. I wish you all a Rose in your life, if only for a minute.

She went on to say some truly beautiful things, things you'd expect from a close and loving friend. I suppose then, that she is one, in the context that we know each other.

The oddest thing about IVF has been the diversity of reactions it invokes. I've told maybe a handful of people, and in doing so, feel I've created distance between some I thought would care very much, and drawn to me those I'd hoped would care, and who do- but so much more than I'd ever expected.

That doesn't sound right, and I'll probably come back an edit some more because that last paragraph isn't meant to be about distance, but about lack of it. I haven't explained well enough how warmed I am by the kindness of strangers, and warmed too by the realisation that while I may not know them very well, they're not really strangers after all.

breaking news

Stef doesn't want to be around for as long as Chris is.

Firstly, Chris is hardly 'around'.

Secondly, even if he was, doesn't being available to pat me on the hand and tell me everything is going to be okay trump being jealous of my ex convict ex boyfriend?

Thirdly, even if it doesn't, shouldn't it?

todays' thought

Doesn't exist.

Sorry.

This is my brain on a drug who's (whose?*) name I won't mention again today.



*can someone can explain when to use what, and why?

but wait, there's more

Yeah, I know. Yawn.

Side effects cannot be anticipated. If any develop or change in intensity, inform your doctor as soon as possible. Only your doctor can determine whether it is safe for you to continue taking Synarel.

• More common side effects may include:
  Acne, decrease in breast size, decreased sex drive, depression, dry skin, hair growth, headaches, hot flashes, insomnia, muscle pain, nasal inflammation, nasal irritation, oily skin, rapidly shifting or changing emotions, swelling due to fluid retention, vaginal dryness, weight gain


• Less common or rare side effects may include:
  Burning or prickling sensation, discharge of milk, distension of breasts, eye pain, flat or bumpy skin rash, fluttery or throbbing heartbeat, hives, increased sex drive, severe joint pain, yellowish-brown spots on the skin, weakness, weight loss.

Five days in and news is, I'm mostly rare with a wee pinch of common.

Distension of breasts? God yes, check. Fluttery or throbbing heartbeat, weakness and weight loss? Check, check, and check. Rapidly shifting or changing emotions? That'd be an affirmative too, Batman.

(*)(*)

Todays item of interest is my norks.

Again.

Over the course a day, I went up an entire bra size.

Considering I'm usually a modest A cup, those fuckers doubled in size and I didn't just take of my bra last night, I unleashed a pair of voluptously bouncy, B cupped hooters.

My nahstrawls*, on the other hand, are fine. Thankyou for asking.



*because I amuse myself, if no one else.

pinky swear

I promise not to make every day a Synarel update day, but while it's all new! and fresh! and the anihilation of my nasal membranes is making it impossible to think of anything else! it's gonna be a Synarel update day.

No need to pop corn, I'll get right to the point: This stuff is burning the McFuck out of my nose.

Riveting news, eh?

question: what's the difference between a vitamin and a hormone?
answer: you can't make a vita min.....

question: how do you make a hormone?
answer: kick her in the bum.

*boom boom*

blablabla

Yesterday was my first day on Synarel, and for that one day at least, I felt unreal!

Synarel's aim is to switch eveything off, and effectively put me into menopause for the next couple of weeks. Yesterday though, this switching off of hormones worked to my advantage. What I think happened is that I've been swimming in hormones for the last week or so, loads of the fuckers, enough so that I'm in nork hell, I'm as irritatable as fuck (justifiably so though, considering every single person driving (and I use that term loosely) is as irritating as fuck) and I have absolutely no energy. Thursday night, my legs were like lead. I had three classes to run, and by the time I finished warming up the first, I was seriously thinking aobut cancelling the rest so I could go home for cup of tea and a lie down-and I don't even drink tea.

So anyway, I think yesterday's euphoria was because I'm in the middle of the good part of the downhill slide to no hormones, and welcome to the world's most boringly pointless entry.

thoughts for today

I had a client yesterday who, like so many of us, feels unworthy of love.

In her opinion, she's not a good enough person to have earned the right to be loved.

As we talked, it occured to me that she's made a value judgement on herself. She's quantified her humanity and in doing so, she's quantified her right to exist.

Thing is, how can we quantify any human being's value?

We can't.

Who we are and the value we have cannot be measured in terms of more or less.

We exist, and because we do, we're worthy of love.

Love isn't earned, it simply is.

It follows then that because we exist, we are lovable. Only our personal value systems quantify our worthiness. Thing is, those systems are inherently flawed, as they're invariably a product of someone else's value system, which is also inherently flawed...and so on and so forth.

(cryptic enough for you?)

of mice and midgets

(for want of a better title)

I have two bosses, one who owns the joint, the other who married the owner's sister and co-manages it.

Before I begin, I'd like to clarify that I'm not anti-authoritarian and given a choice, I'd rather work for someone than deal with the headfuck of running my own business. I don't resent being managed, and I have an excellent work ethic.

Having got that out of the way, my first boss is a squirrel snack, and the second is a law suit that hasn't happened yet.

Mitch will probably never get sued for sexual harrassment because while he packs a whole lot of idiot into his short, short body, he's not dumb enough to pull his shit on anyone who'd understand that his behaviour is totally inappropriate. That's code for, he's never pulled his shit with me, and that's code for, he never usually talks to me, period, and that, in my opinion, says a lot about his lack of character.

So, back to the story.

I work a lot of hours at The Shittiest Gym In The World™, and so, train a lot of people. Last Tuesday, I got word that Mitch wanted to talk to me and so, between classes and clients, I went to his office. I was barely through the door when the midget stood up on his tippy toes, shooved a piece of paper in my face and demanded to know what it was.

First up, dwarf, I can't see what it is when it's an inch from my face, and secondly, back off.

Being the shittiest gym in the world, most clients have never set foot in a gym before, so the first challenge is to help then create the habit of coming regularly. Every new member starts out with a bucket load of enthusiasm, and most thrash themselves for a week or two before they begin to drop off, usually after they've done too much, too soon, and are in pain and exhausted and so, miss 'just one session' to recover. Unfortunately that quickly becomes two, then five, then fuck it, I've missed so many sessions, why bother? My challenge as a trainer is to find ways to maintain that initial momentum.

So the piece of paper Mitch was brandishing was actually a program I'd written for someone who wanted to lose the equivilant of half a cow in weight.

This woman didn't want to work out in the gym. She wanted to do aerobics and super circuit, and to use the cardio equipment on a regular basis, so obviously, that's what we talked about. I suggested ways for her to keep her vision and avoid losing enthusiasm. We discussed setting goals that would allow her to feel she was constantly achieving. We talked about how to progress herself so she wouldn't need keep spending twenty five bucks to get new ideas. And finally, I asked her if this was what she wanted from this particular session, and she said yes, it was.

Until she changed her mind and complained about me-loudly-because now she wanted a piece of paper filled with the resistance exercises she balked at two weeks ago.

Good fucking christ.

Before I even started on this complaining bitch's lack of a leg to stand on, I told Mitch that I'd prefer he qualified what happened before he yelled at me. I disagreed that he was 'merely asking' me what happened, telling him that I felt he was unneccessarily aggressive, and that I didn't appreciate it. I referred to the countless other programs I've written, and he said they weren't relevent. That'd be a negative you Napolean-like freak, of course they're relevent, especially since when you're condemning me and my abilities based on one dissatisifed client, who, for what it's worth, did not contribute anything to our session once she'd folded her arms across her chest, shook her head and announced that no, she did NOT want to do weights.

Either I'm very persuasive or he's easily persuaded (no prizes for guessing which it is) because by the end of our little chat, he was agreeing that I indeed, do rock, and that the client involved, doesn't.

white noise

Sal has been Aria's client for some time now, and a few weeks back, Aria asked me to work on him too.

So I did.

Sal used to run, but stopped when he hurt his back. He didn't run then because he couldn't, now he doesn't run because he's scared. Each twinge he feels is, for him, a reminder of more pain to come. He's scared that each twinge means he's right back where he was.

Having felt his back, and having 'felt' his pain, I wonder if what he's feeling is his fear. I wonder if his back doesn't twinge from time to time to remind him of how far he's come.

So I worked on...no, not on, with him, and as we worked, we talked about moving away from where he's remained for so long. We agreed he'd jog twenty steps, because that's twenty steps more than he'd jogged in a long time. Any twinges he felt would help guide him away from his fear, rather than help him hold onto them. we talked about expecting setbacks, but rather than fearing them, we talked about using them to refine his next move away from fear will be.

I think we sometimes revisit old feelings to remind ourselves of where we came from, and of where we no longer need to be. I think too, that we can't divide between physical, emotional and spiritual pain.

So anyway, Sal called yesterday and he feels better than he's felt in a long, long time. He thinks I did this, but I know it was him. Sometimes, often times maybe, we need to trust in someone else, in order to heal ourselves.

Ouch

That's today's word, and it's brought to you by my boobs which, by the way, look magnificent, but if you even think about touching them, I'll kick you in the nuts.

Thankyou

one egg, sunny side up.

This morning's progesterone level was 61, which means I ovulated last week, probably sometime shortly after my last blood test.

Me? Ovulate?

*blink*

I didn't think I was capable of such daring feats, and as far as I knew:
me + ovulation = lots of eyerolling and a big As If.

It also means this morning's little fit of despair was a complete waste of energy because *drumroll* I start Synarel on the fifteeth of April, and am booked for theatre sometime around the ninth of May. The nurse who called with my results explained the whole process to me again, but I have no idea what happens in between those two dates. I was too busy being totally impressed with myself because I ovulated (I rule. Neener) to listen to anything else she had to say.

All that's left to be done between now and Friday is to obsess dramatically (and I will) about the possibilty of being five minutes pregnant because I think I had sex last week (is it bad that I can't remember if or when?). If it was recent enough for some of those little swimmers to still be treading water somewhere in my nether regions, and if my egg was a southpaw, add one, carry the nine and divide it by my shoe size....

*worryworryworry*

So, how soon is too soon to do an early pregnancy test?

day 43

I know I'm making this wait longer by worrying about it. That kind of makes it harder, what with it being culpa mia and all.

I'm not pregnant, by the way....I'm also not too chipper right now.

The RE prepared me for the difficulty of the three week wait for this and the two week wait for that. I can understand being impatient but difficult? No, not really. Not when the only unknown is the outcome of that known time frame. What's difficult is not knowing how long I need to wait in order to begin the wait for the outcome.

Telling me three-or is it four? weeks ago to go home and wait, when I don't know for how long, seems especially cruel and unusual to me. I don't get why no bloods were taken then, or why I wasn't put on the pill during my last period when I told them my cycle isn't predictable. I'm not sure how they didn't understand what I meant when I uttered the words 'don't know when it's due'.

The blood tests now are giving me something else to wait for, something else with no end in sight. Starting the pill is dependant on my hormones returning to baseline, so yippee, two things to wait for, and both of them could happen anytime or not at all. It's hard too, because I don't want to go on the pill, so this waiting is complicated by wanting not one or the other to occur, but wanting so desperately for the baseline result to not win the race.

I thought I was doing okay because I thought this last week was the worst it could get, and I was handling it, but then it got worse.

I'll handle this too, but I don't feel okay, not at all. I probably will tomorrow, or later today, or in five minutes, and ironically that's yet another wait for an outcome that could occur any time between now and never.

wallowallowboringboringwallow

day 42

Fucksake.

more

On Friday, Chris got news his estranged father had died, which is why I saw him that day, and which is why when he told me, he broke down and cried like his heart was breaking.

Today is his father's viewing, tomorrow is the funeral, and when I said I'd call to see how he was, Chris said he'd appreciate it. Three phone calls later and still no answer.

He's probably offed himself.

I'm worried that I might not be kidding.

busier

Remember Bachelor #4?

I got a message from an unknown cell number last night at 3am asking me if I was awake. I ignored it because c'mon, 3am? As if. I was curious though, so when another message arrived a short time ago to ask me over for coffee, I asked who it was.

On his reply, I thought it was my friend Peter, so once he qualified he was Supermarket Man, and having already agreed to coffee (doh!), I politely explained that by coincidence, I had plans today with the other Peter, and was waiting to hear from him.

Yes it's a lie, but jeebus, the man messaged me at 3am and wants me to go to his place and not some swanky cafe on the waterfront? My dickhead-o-meter was already wavering in the orange section so, uh, no.

Yes, I could have politely blown him off. What's your point?

He then got busy with the buttons and sent another text message (note to the general populace: sms conversations are as annoying as fuck, thankyou) asking me why I gave him my number. At this point, I was wondering the same thing but rather than hitting delete, Einstein over here asked him why he asked, to which he replied 'Drr-chow'.

He's totally won my Prince of Words Award for this week.

it's been busy around here

For the antisocial hermit I am, I do have quite the eventful social life.

Thursday, Chris came over. He called as he'd just finished interviewing for a job not far from here, and asked if it was okay to come over. I was all 'um, erm, uh...' so he said 'It's okay mate. It'd be nice to see you, but I understand', so I said, as you do, 'well, okay-but only for a minute', and twenty minutes later, the man who was so fucking tripped out once upon a time, was on my doorstep.

You know what? It was nice to see him.

Fark.

The immediate lesson here is I realise I'm no longer nurturing anything I'd previously associated with him. Granted, if I'd heard he was dead my reply would have been 'Really? Pass the salt.', but sometime between then and now, I let go of the fear, the anger, the hurt, the everything. It doesn't mean I've forgotten what happened, only that the bitterness of the past is no longer relevant in my present.

Of course, I'm wondering if I'm a pushover or a compassionate human being. The compassion I feel (and I do over analyse everything and think way too much about stuff, so I've thrashed this quandry over the last two days) is for him as a human, not him as Chris, but because it is Chris, the pushover question keeps bobbing back up.

I'm hoping that the second lesson here isn't one about leopards and spots.

*thinkthinkthink*

I've got nothing to lose though really, as I don't trust him anyway and if he's genuine, I could gain some faith in human nature.

He told me straight away that he'd just got out of gaol, which was a relief, even an acid test of sorts, of his sincerity. He seems so different now, so unsure and yes, I do wonder if it's all an act. I want to believe him and he's given me no reason not to. Yet. I won't forget the past though, because while it doesn't define the present, it still happened and it was still unpleasant.

Moving right along.

In the next installment from the Fucked Up files, I bring you the story of how James approached me on Thursday night to apologise for his less than stellar behaviour of several weeks ago. Criminy, two apologies in one day? There's got to be some serious weird shit astrolgy mojo going arund. Anyway and as an aside, knowing James has been quite an epiphany for me as, usually in the face of conflict, I waste a lot of energy wondering about what I did wrong and how I can fix it. Sometime though, between not that long ago and the incident, I realised I'm not responsible for anyone else's nutjobbiness. Rather than being frantic with worry, I shrugged of my shoulders and *poof*, James ceased to exist in my world. I have no desire to rekindle any friendship with this unpredictable fruitcake, but I'll no longer ice him out with my new found ice queen abilities. Apparently my ability to block him from my view really freaked him out. Heh.

I've mentioned I'm a slow learner before, and here's more proof. As a part of his apology, James told me of a friend of his, Nigel. Rich as shit, really nice, owns three houses, works only six months of the year and spends the other six months on a tropical island sipping Mai Tais. Seems Nigel has heard about me and being single, wanted to meet me. I've never had a blind date, and this guy is rich, so when James wanted to set us up, I thought 'Jackpot!' 'Why not?', and while James was blowing smoke up my arse telling me how eligible Nigel was, I was already away on a tropical isle with a cabana boy, and sipping a drink loaded with fruit, umbrellas and swizel sitcks. I was hearing the Cha Ching of cash registers and totally missed any additional relevant information about, oh, sanity?

Fast forward to last night when Chris and I (yeah, again, long story) were at the beach. I'd alreay missed two calls from a number I didn't recognise, so when my phone rang again, I answered it. Yup, it was Nigel.

Fast forward again, to the bit where I told him I was out with a friend, yeah, he's male, and since you asked, no he's not my boyfriend'. Shortly thereater, he began bombarding me with text messages.

Wanna see?

#1: I sense a little hurt from a man well im(sic) glad you learnt to give em(sic) heaps girl take case(sic) and be good.

#2: Complete assholes get a lot of sex that was taken from channel 5 it was a cool show about people whe(sic) have an opinion about caring.

#3: Damn it one of these days im(sic) gonna meet some one who has the same passion (editor's note: 'Passion'? Is that what they're calling 'a few roos loose in the top paddock' these days?) as me

And that, as they say in the movies, was that.

love is all you need?

Assuming the love we feel is love, not need (because if I could be arsed, next in this lecture series is a discussion on the fine line that exists between the two), loving someone and expecting a return on our emotional investment, doesn't mean our love isn't unconditional.

Maybe the expectation is of an appreciation of our love, or maybe we expect our love to be reciprocated. Whatever it is, I don't think their existence means our love is conditional. For if love was conditional on those expectations being met, wouldn't we be able to simply switch it on and off at will?

I think it's interesting too, that while our ability to love is what makes us human, it's also our greatest weakness-and doesn't that then, make it our greatest flaw?

worryworryworry, part deux

I feel I've alienated everyone. Not because of my absence, as I really do retreat when I have issues, (picture me making bilateral bunny ears with my fingers when I say that, signifying wanky air quotes) but because I'm like my mother. Thing is, I retreat because I fear being like her and I don't want to inflict myself on anyone. So I hide. It's the old tree falling in a forest argument though, isn't it? If I'm like my mother and no one can see me, am I really like my mother?

I'm worried that I've alienated people because I didn't retreat soon enough. Having wracked my brains to think of something I've done to create this distance, I can't think of anything outstanding-and that just confirms my fears.

If I'd done something bad, I should know what it was. You don't do or say something that bad without knowing you've made the mother of all faux pas, so it's a reflection of my self involved self that I don't even know what I did. And if it isn't anything I've done, then it must be because of who I am. That's worse because if it was an actual event, I could make amends, not do it again, do something to fix it. But if it's who I am, while I can change the things I do, I can't change me.

And now I'm worrying about being self indulgent and annoying again. I drive myself nuts, I really do. And that better be a cramp I just felt, dammit.

Having a child isn't going to magically make me NOT like my mother. What if I create a child like me? A social misfit who worries so much about hurting other people, and yet, who hurts them anyway, blindly and without consideration? What if I'm a dismissive, self indulgent mother who teaches my child that his or her self doesn't matter one whit, because it's all about me.

Having a child isn't going to make me a better person, so where do I get off believing I'm going to be a better parent? How do I know I'm not going to screw up another life as royally as I've screwed up my own?

the results are in

estrogen 0.2 versus progesterone 8.0.

Which means my progesterone isn't high, it's still too high to start taking the pill any time soon (yay!), and while the levels are levels are above baseline, which side of ovulation they're in is up for debate. Having consulted my boobs, my money is on the useful side.

Like everyone at the RE's, the nurse was really nice. I'm feeling rather inadequate because I'm doing such a crap job of handling this, and she told me that paradoxically, it tends to be the self sufficient types who have more trouble dealing with the unknowns of IVF, because we are so self sufficient and IVF is about relenquishing control and relying on someone else to know what's best. It's ironic then, that ultimately we're the needier bunch, because we're the ones trying to take what control we can.

The concept of being needy, and therefore annoying, scares me more at this point than does the concept of parenthood.

One of my more creative reactions to stress is to assume I'm annoying the living shit out of everyone.

Am I annoying or am I stressed? Or gads, am I stressed and annoying?

>:/

Non sono tante fucking felice con miei scarpi. Non solo perche sono troppo bianci, ma perche sono fucked already.

Jeebus, you'd think a pair of shoes with a retail value of AUD270 would not only cushion the crap out of your feet, they'd also promise to do your vaccuuming, polish the car and peel you several grapes while fanning you with palm fronds.

Instead of taking home the veritable cabana boys of the shoe world, I ended up with sole peel.

:madface:

Take a deep breath and count to ten, my left ball. Throwing the offending shoe at someone's head, there's your Serenity Now.

an update of sorts

Having called my team on Monday, I went in yesterday for blood tests. The results wil be in today, and hopefully we'll determine whether or not I've ovulated, and where in my cycle I am. If my period isn't obviously pending, I have the option of going on the Pill.

If I go that way, then the illustrious Day 21 will be in twenty one days time. Also, if there's any truth in advertising, I'll get a really nice sweater and a drugged-up smile, just like the girl in the picture.

If I don't go that way, then I wait. And wait. And wait.

Given that I've barely been able to hold my shit together over the past few days, and given how sore my norks are, and given that the world is entirely annoying the living shit out of me, my period isn't that far way, so I think I might wait. Stick around though, cuz that decision is likely to change several times before the end of the day.

Where are the cramps?! How am I expected to expect my period if I don't get my usual pre period cramps? Fucksake.

Fortunately, I also had an appointment to see my counsellor yesterday. I'd made the time a few weeeks back, not because I was frantic then, but because I was thinking responsibly, and constructing my support network. It worked too, as I'm really calm today. Go Me! for thinking ahead.

I really like Ann. She's old enough to be convincingly motherly (which I find suprisingly reassuring) and young enough to be my peer. I like that I rattled on and on and on yesterday, and she kept up with me. My favorite thing abut her is that so far, she hasn't put a big red cross on my casenotes and filed them under Too Insane To Reproduce.

When he was a teenager, my friend Jim met a girl while holidaying in Spain.

She asked him how old he was and he, with his schoolbook understanding of the language, told her he had sixteen arseholes.

welcome to my world

Get a load of Mr Stylish over there in his singlet. Be still my beating heart, eh?

worryworryworry

As previously noted, I tend to internalise my concerns so well that I don't even recognise the stressors. Consequently, I've only this minute realised just how wired I am, and why.

It's accepted that waiting for the outcome of treatment is very stressful. Well, fuck that. I'm stressed waiting to commence treatment.

My IVF protocol begins on Day 21, and I'm still waiting for Day frikkin 1.

I'm upset too, because my last appointment at the reproductive unit, was on Day 21, so let's file that under the Lost Opportunity heading, shall we?

On that day, I saw Marc and then had the 'booking on' process explained to me by Whatsername.

How it works is, on Day 1 of my next cycle, I call in to 'book on'. I start Synarel on Day 21, followed by more drugs commencing on days whose numbers I don't recall, which is all in preparation for an egg retrieval a month later and during the following cycle. That's all good and well, but I don't know when my next Day 1 is going to be. It could be anytime between last Monday and when I die of old age. In an ideal world, today is Day 7, but it's not an ideal world, I'm already a week late so today is Day 34, but it may as well be Day seven hundred and fifty two, and I've already been worrying about this for the last few weeks and....hang on, cleansing breath, and stop with the rambling incoherently.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, I was talking to Whatsername on what was an actual, real Day 21. I suggested then, that I commence Synarel immediately, what with my unpredictable cycle factor and all. I thought it was GREAT idea, but she was all 'Oh, I don't think they'd like that very much, it's a bit late in the day, need more notice bla bla wank bla.' so I, like an idiot, nodded obediently.

Why did I listen to my stupid, stupid agreeable self? It's now two weeks of worrying later, and I'm worried that it might be another week or two or three or aaaargh. Even if I start my period today, I've already lost more than ten percent of the allotted time frame. (don't even try to follow my logic here, and is that how you spell 'allotted'?) I can't afford to waste time doing soemthing as menial as waiting around for my stupid period to arrive. Also, I don't give a shit about how 'they' feel about being given short notice. I didn't then and I sure as shit don't now. I feel sick thinking about the at least six weeks that've already been wasted because I didn't insist on starting Synarel last month, and if someone could remind me to breathe, I'd really appreciate it.

I've got to start thinking of punchier titles

Let me preface this story with, I'm in denial or a moron (don't answer that) or a reincarnated nun or something, because if I'd lived in caveman days, Ugg could have hit me over the head with a club and dragged me back to his cave, and I'd have been all 'Yeah, sure! I'd love to see your CD collection', and meant it.

Wow, that was a long, barely punctuated sentence.

Point being, I've never been able to recognise anyone's sexual interest in me.

When I was younger and gorgeous-er, and was (according to reports) a total babe, if a man spoke to me, I thought he were being friendly. Platonically friendly. We're talking hormonally amped young men too, not the geriatrics who are my peers these days. Do young men with perpetual hard-ons even know what 'platonic' means? Not according to my then boyfriend, a young and hormonally amped man himself. Being quite well versed in manly hot-for-the-hot-chick behaviour, and totally getting what was going on, he was always too busy being highly amused by my obliviousnessinithity(sp?) to be jealous.

So anyway, I was training yesterday, which means I was hot, sweaty, red faced, gasping for breath. It's hardly my best look, so I don't understand the sexual interest of four (four!) men that was obvious enough to be detected by my crappy and barely functional Sexual Interest Detection System™.

Sidebar: Punctuation? What is this thing called 'punctuation'?

Number One was all 'So you work at a gym that's a million miles away from where I live? Sounds convenient, I'll see you there sometime. Might even join up...'

I was chatting to Number Two and the gooey look in his eyes suggested he was either on drugs, or smitten with me and my legs. There were no obvious trackmarks on his arms, so....

I worked on Number Three and when I asked him to roll over onto his back, he refused. I missed this one until later in the day, when whole Why A Man Might Not Want Roll Onto His Back phenomena was explained to me in greater detail.

Finally, Number Four stalked me in the supermarket until he eventually approached me and asked me out for a beer.

Sidebar: a beer? ::blink:: Not that there's anything wrong with beer, but I'd have thought my post work out appearance was more suggestive of a smoothie or a wheatgrass shot than a beer.

Seriously, do I smell like a hormone or something?