the end

Which sucks because I just took a pregnancy test.

I wanted this to be a late period. I wanted to know that I wasn't ever pregnant, that this wasn't a faint positive, and that I' not having an early miscarriage.

Pause here for dramatic effect okay, because I AM a drama queen and this doesn't end well.



I'm pregnant, and now I'm miscarrying.

hey guess what?

No news.

Which is probably kind of significant news.

I haven't done another pregnancy test because the stores were all closed last night by the time we left MacDonalds because we were both having a great time, and I was all "OF COURSE the after hours supermarket will have them", but OF COURSE they didn't, and neither did any of the other convenience stores we went TO either. By the time I got to asking to teenage BOYS if their store had them, I was obviously desperate. Daniel was asleep in the car and I'd been driving an hour. One boy said "YES! We do!", and I said "Yay!", and then the boy said "Wait, I THOUGHT we had them...". Then the other teenage boy said "The petrol station near where I live has them...." and I said "WHERE?" and he lived on OTHER side of town which, helpful, but not, you know?

Then I worked this morning from 8.30, and I've only just got home now: hungry, tired, and with no desire to prolong the Not Eating, Not Not Sitting On My Ass sitch by driving to a pharmacy and delaying myself food and rest even longer by taking three minutes out to pee.

YOU'RE WELCOME.

waitingwaitingwaitingwaitingWAITING

I had a blood test on Wednesday and I didn't call for the results and I didn't say anything about it to anyone because you all would be "GET THE DAMN RESULTS ALREADY".

But today I'm feeling restless and crazy and, while I'm not cramping, there's this round ball of cramp-ish (or pressure or I don't know) in mah belleh that it feels really weird so I called for the damn results.

First phone call: the phone wouldn't connect.

Second phone call: the call went to their It's The Weekend, Loser message, when it clearly is NOT.

Third phone call: Connected. Score, talk talk talk, and then the nurse trotted off to find my notes to give me the results and....they're not there. They must be in my doctor's LOCKED rooom and he isn't due in all day. Perfect.

So I went through the Facts As I See Them with her:

My LH on the seventh and the ninth of this month was in the forties, which means it probvably surged on the eighth. Ovulation occurs 24 to 36 hours later so THAT happened on Monday or Tuesday, the ninth or tenth of November. My day 21 bloods were taken on the seventheeth (progesterone of 56, wootwoot, as it's proof I DID ovulate) and my period was due on Tuesday or Wednesday this week.

Mary was all "Relax! Go for a walk! Bunnies! Kittens!", and I was all "Okay, good idea!", because I am a LIAR.

so let's talk about how INSANE I am

So. Still no news if you know what I mean and I think you do.

I wish I was better at taking pregnancy tests.

Thing is, I'm actually really fucking scared that I AM pregnant. What the HELL am I going to do with a BABY??

Because continuing with fertility treatment has become NOT about getting pregnant, but about finding closure.

I'm old, this is SO UNLIKELY to work, etc etc yaddah, and I'm AT THAT POINT NOW, the point where I'm going through the motions (which involves lying on treatment bed, thinking of England ETC) and I can't wait for the year to be over because I will be SO RELIEVED to be DONE with this shit.

That's not to say I REGRET doing this. I'd have regretted NOT doing it. Fertility treatment is made of Win. It's not about having a baby, it's about challenging your worst fears (ie the NOT having a baby mindfuck) and coming out the other side with a baby or not. Having a baby is made of JUST AS MUCH win as not having a baby and being ready to let go, because you CAN, and you've SAVED YOURSELF from a lifetime of regret and all the what ifs and maybe ifs and god I wish I'd done mores.

Doing this is WHY I'm at peace now, it's why I'm happy to high five myself and MOVE THE FUCK ON.

Let me just say though, a month ago I wasn't at peace. A month ago I was sad and bitter and tearful because, until the end was in sight, I didn't realise how going through this has been keeping ME going. I lost hope and was in that crappy place where it's all What Now? OH YEAH NOTHING.

and then I sorted my shit out and I'm okay about it.

Oh, and I don't mean Going Through This as an experiential process either. I mean Going Through This as in one step in front of the other, the solution being the process not the outcome, the journey being the destination WHATEVER.

The conception rates for DI are SO LOW, as in, I have maybe a half a percent chance of getting pregnant doing this, but even THAT is being VERY generous, because I have around THAT much of a chance of getting pregnant doing it the old fashioned way anyway, because of my age, and DI is pretty much a Fail, even for someone who's young, fertile, and is doing it only because of male factor infertility or her social infertility. Not that you can do the latter in this state. We're still stuck in the dark ages where nuns and lesbians can't get medical help to get pregnant, not if their bits are all functioning.

(SO FASCINATING ie it's NOT)

And here I am now, with boobs that FEEL HUGE and HOT and not in a Mrreow kind of way, more in a BURNING kind iof aching way, and until NOW, I'd forgotten how much my rack hurt when I couldn't have been pregnant back then because NO WAY, etc. And look how THAT turned out




Additional weirdo things going on are: my eyes, my god, MY EYES. I keep not being able to see, like, five inches on front of me. Read a book? OH HAR. Good one. Then there's the cramps that I'm STILL having that started on the weekend and I'm NOT an I Get Period Cramps person. My pelvic floor aches like a motherfucker for a day AFTER I get my period (the internet: Good to know!), but cramps? Pshaw. They're not bad, but they're periodically (OH SNAP) there and wtf, you know? Then I scrubbed the floor on my hands and knees the other day, and didn't realise I was acting like a FREAK until I'd cleaned the whole house. And wtF is going on with my nipples?? Which is a word I can BARELY READ because my eyes, MY EYES, etc, but I can see THEM because okay TMI. Hint: visible from MARS. Then there's the peeing and the peeing and, oh yeah, THE PEEING.

And that second line that you can't see here. You guys are probably all "poor girl slash OLD LADY is delusional.", but I took the damn test to lunch yesterday, you bet your ass I did, and my two girlfriends were all "OHMYGOD", and I was all "HA. Take THAT, internet", until I realised the implications of winning THAT argument.

This is going to be SO embarrassing when I get my period later today or tomorrow or whentheeffever, so be gentle with me when I do, okay?

you bet your ass I enhanced it

I peed at when I got home last night slash this morning at 3.40am. Then I peed again at 7.05 and took the pregnancy test. Work that out, okay? (hint: higher concentrations of hcG would be in an I Didn't Pee All Night pee)

And I got this.

Exhibit A:



And I was all *yawn*.

However.

Then I looked again and then I blinked and then I took a photo and then I jiggled the contrast and brightness and then I took THAT image to the internet. Behold. Also, click, make bigger, look closely.

Exhibit B:



I can effin' SEE that second line with my naked eye. Granted, it's lightlightLIGHT, but I can see where a line WOULD be, and what if No Second Line really means No Second Line AT ALL.

Conclusion: I'm not pregnant but man, it's fun to play the What If Game.

in short

My period is due tomorrow and it'll probably come tomorrow NIGHT because that's how my uterus rolls, and because I've got an MRI* scheduled for tomorrow morning, I blew ten bucks on a pregnancy test so I can pee on it in the morning and then chuff merrily off to the hospital with no qualms about what if I'm pregnant bla bla bla, which of course, I am NOT. But what if, etc, hence the ten bucks, blown.

Yes I did another cycle this month. I do them every month and then not report on it here because how many times can you slam face first into the goal post instead of tossing the ball through it each without feeling like an idiot? Answer: about as many times as I reported here, minus one.



*I'll explain later.

(you: Schyeah, like we haven't heard THAT before)

before I faint

because Swistle (because Jesus H, people. SWISTLE) linked to me.

This is how you don't 'poo.

Now go read some more archives because I swear, they're SO MUCH BETTER than running shoes.

And thanks ever so for dropping by! I'd LOVE it if you left a comment to say hello.

(I really really would :) )

I'm not paid to do this, obvs

I've bought my last several thousand billion pairs of running shoes from running warehouse. Yes I opt to have my shoes travel halfway around the world, and agree to paying upwards of USD30 postage because the prices there, compared to prices HERE, are incomparable. Before I checked out the internets, after I'd ordered a pair of Brooks Glycerin (which, if you're askin', YOU NEED THESE) from The Athletes Foot, at a cost of around AUD275, it took fucking THREE weeks for them to get back to me and say they were STILL waiting on the order, next week, bla BLA. (aside is, if you have a "neutral" foot, you're fucked, especially in smaller stores, though WHY Westfield has a SMALL Athletes Foot is beyond my realm of understanding because Westfield = The Largest Shopping Centre in the Southern Hemisphere. Or some shit. ANYWAY, you're fucked because stores are chock full of "stability" shoes for all you pronaters out there, and us neutral kids can go suck it, apparently) Three weeks later, still no shoes, so I went online (hooray!) and did a search and my god, the prices were, like, HALF what we pay, MINIMUM. So I ordered from running warehouse because they actually got back to me with an actual real figure for postage to here, and I didn't need to do all sorts of bullshit like email copies of my passport or drivers license which, HUH? I used PayPal and, including postage, my new shoes cost LESS THAN HALF of what I would have paid here - and they arrived within days! and (haHA) the day they arrived, the Athletes Foot staffer called me and said "your shoes are here!". No shit they are, they're right here! In my hand, loser.

And I keep going back to running warehouse for each new pair I buy because, I look around each time, but RW CONSISTENTLY have the best price/customer service/shoes.

So anyway, bla bla bla. You're getting to read all this shit because I LOVE buying running shoes and I LOVE sale prices and they're having THIS sale and shoes are CRAZY cheap - and if you have a family or a running group or just a bunch of people who vaguely know each other, it just gets better.

If anyone cares (you all: NO NOT REALLY), I'm umming and ahhing over these Sauconys. Weep for me because they only have FULL PRICE Glycerins (which, ASIDE! even with postage included, are STILL cheaper than buying them here), probably because they're wicked good and people will pay. But the Triumphs look like they might be wicked good too, but I need to get my head around the whole NOT BROOKS?? thing first. Encourage me. Which you would maybe do if this entry wasn't SO BORING. I KNOW.

But go buy some shoes. Running shoes are like soul food for your feet.

TRUE STORY.

from baby to boy

I have no idea what I was originally looking for (lost treasure?) but I found this one folder that Mac Guy had created when my old eMac theatrically crapped itself (think: smoke, flames, etc), which was a scary day because I'm suck at backup, so YEARS okay two of Daniel's life, which at that point was his ENTIRE life, was only patchily backed up. Anyway, I found old video off my old phone, and that led me to YouTube, because I'm going to upload the old videos I've found and call it "Backup", and then I found this video, and I thought "Well, I bet THAT never made it to mah blawg", because it's overly long and was only made because my family kvetched about their lack of presence in this blockbuster.

it's really hot

We like the beach oh I'm sorry should I say LOVE the beach? So we go A LOT. It takes a fucking AGE to sunblock us both though, so I'd like someone to invent a Sun Block Booth that does the job in a snap.

We've both got wicked awesome olive skin. At first, I thought I was buying defective lotions and creams because everyone else and their kids were still lily white, and we were both SO BROWN. Then we went to the beach with some friends, used the same stuff, and she and her kid remained Casper-like, and my son and I ended up looking like we'd been basted in olive oil and baked for a half hour at 180 degrees.

I grew up BAKING in the sun because I rarely burn and a tan was considered HEALTHY back thens. Berry brown kids were HEALTHIER kid. We all had tan lines like that old Coppertone add. The Tan = Healthy delusion lasted for about one (OUR) generation though, and now my arms look like an aging farmer's. I found a spot the other day and began planning who Daniel was going to live with after my early demise. I ended up CRYING because it's dark and uneven - it has effing LEGS, for god's sake - and it appeared and grew QUICKLY and it has this halo of paler skin around it which HAD to be bad, and holy fucking shit, melanoma?? So I panicked until I saw my doctor, and tearfully presented my death sentence for his perusal and he declared it a freckle. A freckle that will probably disappear, because the Halo Of Not Death around it means my body (GO BODY!) has recognised the cells as being all Meh, and is cleaning them up.

We're in the middle of our first heatwave for the season, and for some reason, I think I LOVE heatwaves, even though I don't like them at all. I think they remind me of being a kid though. I think that's why I think I like them.

starting again, again

Daniel's going well. He doesn't seem muay better than when we came home, but we ARE spacing out his medication and he's not on prednisilone any more, so I guess that means he IS doing better. Dude is still coughing like an emphasymic old man, and has needed extra ventolin (slash albuterol slash Sambuterol oh my god people can we stick with ONE name??) on two occasions, which kind of sucked because he isn't SUPPOSED to be asthmatic, not according to MY plan, so suckysuckSUCK that, for now at least, he kind of is.

(note to self: BREATHE. Also, focus on the good, you idiot. The GOOD. Fucksake)

Still and obviously, he's still recovering from the acute attack which was only a few days ago so it's probably to be expected that, while in this phase and while his airways are still all precious and flouncy and are still full of crap, any extra exertion could increase his symptoms.

And this is how my brain spends its time.

I keep reminding myself of the inconvenience of all this asthma crap. For him, not me. I mean, it's not me who potentially has to stop whatever he's doing to whip out his inhaler when what he really wants to do is keep playing (been there already) , or jumping on the bed (and there) , or riding around the block on his bike (and there too) , or whatever (AND THERE TOO). I feel sad that this might be a consideration for him for a good chunk of his childhood. Even if this wasn't a one-off event, he probably WILL grow out of it anyway (bright side!), but just because 1 in 5 kids have asthma too, doesn't mean I'm okay with him being one of them, you know? I don't feel pissed or impatient or anything. I just feel sad. And scared.

Remember how, when you first bring your baby home, you listen to them breathing, keep checking that they're still breathing, canNOT believe they keep on breathing because, so little! So vulnerable! No longer in your tummy! (um, only me?) Then they keep on living and you kind of ease off on the checking.

Yeah, well. I'm kind of back at point A. I stand in the doorway at night after he's in bed and listen. He sleeps with me so I wake up DURING the night and place my hand on his chest while I listen.

I know I'll get back to assuming he's got the whole Breathing thing down and doesn't need my worry to keep it up, but right now it's tiring. I'm tired. But I can't not worry, which is such a self defeating statement so let's just say I WON'T stop worrying. Not just yet.

He went to school on Wednesday. I wanted to keep him with me but really, school is more experienced with asthmatic kids than I am because of that 1 in 5 statistic. They have a copy of his action play, will have an extra spacer and ventolin to keep there at all times, and one of the directors is asthmatic herself so kind of knows a whole shitload more about asthma management than I ever will. So I handed him over, not just because I trusted them, but because I don't trust myself yet. This is all too new and I think and rethink and wonder if I'm medicating exertion, and then the medication improves his breathing and I have no idea where I'm going with this.

School. He went to school.

I understand too, that this isn't only about managing Daniel's asthma, it's about managing ME. I can't allow my fears impact upon his life, which is ANOTHER reason why I packed him off and waved him goodbye the other day.

I think parenting is a LIFETIME of doing that, of trusting your child is going to be okay, and of never allowing your fears for their success or failure stand in the way of them grabbing life and relishing every moment.

we're home!

We got home late last evening. Daniel's doing really well, which is why we were able to leave, duh.

It's all so surreal. The last two days seem like they're memories from someone else's life, you know?

As Mary noted, Daniel HAS handled things with his usual "WHERE'S THE PARTY?" aplomb (dude still talks in capslock) so, when we were getting out the car early Sunday morning, I was LECTURING him, all "Daniel, don't look like you're having so much fun" because Daniel was all alert and happy and running around in the carpoark outside the emergency depaertment, and was totally BUZZED about being packed up and raced to the hospital. "Pretend to be sick!", I whispered through the side of my mouth as we walked through the doors "lay it on, mate, or they'll NEVER take a look at us!".

Jesus.

The triage nurse stuck on of those clippy things on Daniel's finger, and Daniel went over all Go Ask Alice with his hand in the air, all "whoa, man. I can see MOLECULES" or some shit, and I was clenching my teeth and willing him to Act Sick! Be Convincing!, and I may have even said smething like "remember our little talk, son?" because he was having WAY to much fun at this point. Granted, after dancing (DANCING!) in the carpark (me: "do you need to wee?", him: "no, mummy. I'M DANCING". me: *groans*), he was now hanging limply in my arms, but I figured he was just tired because it WAS 4am, and we HAD been up all night, when really and actually and truly it WASN'T fatigue, it was freakin' OXYGEN DEPRIVATION, probably from the I'M A BALLERINA!'ing he was doing outside.

Anyhoo, when his oxygen saturation came back at Oh Shit and I started crying for a millisecond, which was a truly dumbass thing to do because I saw Deebs' expression change from "WEEE!" to "OH FUCK", but shit, man. SHIT, you know? Because I've watched enough ER to know that this was Not Good, where by "Not Good", I mean "Truly Fucking Scary FOR REALS". The triage nurse paged the paeds nurse, and the paeds nurse stuck his head out of the resuscitation room and said something about NO ONE being available because they were ALL in the resus room, you know, RESUSSING, but triage nurse gave him The Eye and all of a sudden, we had that nurse AND a doctor, and were being rushed through admitting and the nurse stayed with us, which I realise now wasn't because he was waiting FOR us, all tapping his toe and checking his watch, he was there in case Daniel stopped breathing.

His sats dropped some more while we were at the counter, then Daniel barfed, and the admitting clerk was all "I can get this all later....." and we were rushed through some doors and the doctor was saying stuff like "are you SURE it's 85??", and I was actually holding it together, go me, and then Daniel was on the nebuliser.

*waves on beaches, sands through the hourglass*

The treatment worked, but ultimately, it didn't work enough so we were admitted sometime around 7am. I can't praise the ED staff enough, or the paeds staff who came straight away from upstairs once the order went through. The only waiting around we had to do was the Waiting And Seeing. Nebulised, then wait, nebulised, then wait. We didn't have to wait to be seen, for treatment, for results, nothing. Even radiology came straight away: by the time the doctor told us she was ordering a chest screen, the radiographer was at the door and confirming this was Daniel Bee.

He looked SO LITTLE standing in front of those BIG machines (Daniel, not the radiographer), and was very brave because that room is SCARY. All dark with machines humming, and he stood still, even when the two grown ups telling him there was NOTHING to be scared of, rushed behind a screen like there WAS something to be scared of. It's very humbling to be that trusted. I mean, in the scariest of situations, my son stayed calm and stood still in what HAD to feel like Mortal Danger to him, and he did it because I asked him too. Even when, to him, it probably looked like I was too scared to stay there.

Yesterday was agonisingly slow. He had a couple or three more treatments with the nebuliser in the morning


and would like you to meet Scruffy. Say "Hi Scruffy!"








and then albuterol in the puffer every hour for the rest of the day. I came home in morning to eat and shower, and came back again last night to do the same. We live, like, five minutes from the hospital, and while I felt SO GUILTY to leave him there, I really had to because by late evening, I was losing mah shit.

I did go through this alone. I thought I was Being A Weiner, and that I should be Holding It Together better than I was, but a nurse told me this kind of thing was HARD, but I'm me (ie stupid) and I still feel like I should have been able to manage how I felt. Feel. I hate that he wasn't quite asleep when I walked away from him, and I hate that I have to bargain with my head to get a grip because I KNOW Daniel will, when I sit with him at bedtime, sometimes bask in the glory that is me rather than drift off, and I KNOW the albuterol was helping him wallow in my presence, ahem, and I KNOW that leaving was probably the key to him kicking the albuterol high's ass and going off to sleep.

Whatevs.

At the moment, Daniel's on albuterol every four hours. We have an Action Plan that takes us through the next five days and tapers its usage until it's only as needed, which I hope means "maybe once a year, if that".

It MIGHT be like that. When we got to the paeds ward Sunday morning, the ward was half empty. By Sunday night, they were diverting ambulances and had closed the ED to all paeds cases because the ward was full and they were all respiratory cases. Thank you hot north wind + springtime pollens. It stirred up a LOT of known asthmatics, so it's not entirely WTF? to imagine a kid with hayfever so bad he hasn't been able to breathe out of his nose for two months would suffer a leetle more with that combination too. The paediatrician he saw this morning said he fits the profile, but as it's his first evah attack, we wouldn't be nuts to cross our fingers and hope it doesn't happen again.

Still, we can never leave the house again EVER without his puffer and spacer. EVER. And I imagine it's going to take a while to not worry (ie stress the fuck out) whenever he's not with me, which is really only twice a week because apart from preschool (oh yeah, THAT. No updates. I suck. He loves it, the end), we hang out together all the time.

Daniel says hospital was "REALLY GREAT", which considering there were bedside magic shows





balloons AND balloon animals



and all day non stop Thomasfests broken only by the all day, non stop access to Maisie, isn't surprising he kind of dug the whole ordeal.

He was ready to go home though



and is doing really well.

I'm tired and sad and scared and a whole bundle of emotions that are probably more due to sleep deprivation and lack of food than anything else because my boy is healthy and happy and HOME, and those things make me very, very happy so why the sad face, dumbass?

Rhetorical question, by the way. Feel free to have a stab at it though.

Love to you all,

xx

not a very nice day

I've just come home for a shower, and will be returning soon with a Thomas DVD, some crayons and books, and Thomas and Percy, and a change of clothes and I don't know what else but I'm sure I'll forget something vital.

We've been at the hospital since at around 4am this morning, and Daniel's still there now, with Scruffy V.7 for company. He had an acute asthma attack last night, and at triage his O2 sats were 91, then they dropped to 85, and even after being nebulised(?) three times, he needed oxygen because his oxygen and god oh god oh god, etc. The etc being chest x-rays and admission to the paeds ward.

When I left, he was fine, having had three more sessions with what I thought had to have been a party drug, but what in fact was, albuterol, and he cheerily waved me away, all "BYE MUMMY!!" because he found cars and friends in the ward playroom, and was, you know, HIGH.

But still.

He'd already been to the doctor yesterday because he had a sore throat and I wanted to get right on top of it if it was tonsillitis. The doctor thought it was just a cold, so then I thought the night air was making his more chesty. I checked the internet when I should have called the hospital, and I second guessed myself when I told myself not to panic - not that I should have panicked, but I should have done something more than watch him and tell myself that labored breathing wasn't THAT labored. I thought he'd be better off at home than in an ER on a Saturday night, which he would have been, had it been just a cold and had he not been fighting for every breath.

People die of asthma, and (and you all know I'm not a drama queen, right?) last night, my son could have been one of them.