The Week of Highs and Lows

So, the Clomid Experiment is in full swing around the Storms household these days.  In truth, I am pleased with the amount of emotional control I've been able to muster.  While there have been a few low points, overall, I've felt like I'm on an even keel - and dare I say it, even happier?  Perhaps it has to do with this time of year.  There's so much going on, so many parties to go to, presents to buy, family events to attend, that there really doesn't seem to be a dull moment.  The decorations are up, the Christmas carols are playing, and everything about this season makes me downright jolly. 

Where is the sarcastic and cynical woman of yesterday, you ask?  I've sent her packing and into hibernation. 

For the first time in a long, long time, I'm actually optimistic about the future.  Somehow I know that things will work out.  I don't know how they will work out, but I know that they will.  I haven't had that feeling in a long, long time.  I'm concerned though that the Clomid has made me hallucinate and giving me a sense of false hope.  But I'm banishing those thoughts to the back of my mind.  So, perhaps this day is just a "high" day of the week and tomorrow I'll be a weeping mess again, but I'll just deal with that later. 

The actual day of Thanksgiving was rough for me.  It resulted in me, crying on the ride to church and pretty much through the entire church service.  Don't ask me why.  I couldn't tell you.  I think it had to do with something Jeff said to me about the defroster in my car.  Seriously.  That's how sensitive I've been.  As we were leaving church, I turned around to greet the couple behind us, and inquired about her health, as she has been going through treatment for breast cancer.  She told me that she has to be on hormone replacement therapy for five years...yes, five years.  I couldn't do that.  Or rather, society wouldn't let me do that.  It would require court orders and straight jackets.  In any case, her plight only increased the tears.    

Dinner was pleasant, however.  We had a full table, full bellies, and great conversation.  However, my dad wanted to play a game where we had to write down what we were most thankful for this year.  As I was thinking, I started to panic, as I couldn't think of anything I was really, truly thankful for.  In any case, that's when I kicked my own ass.  How selfish and short-sighted I've been!  I've been so wrapped up in this whole idea of conception and my own personal drama that I've failed to see and appreciate anything else in this world.  And that's when my perspective changed.  This is the season for being thankful for what you have, not wasting time pining away for what you don't have.  

And I've been given so much.  

I have a family that loves me, a faithful husband who adores me (and is willing to put up with the Clomid rages and night sweats), a nice house, fantastic and supportive friends, gainful employment, and a very handsome puggle.  The list is endless.  How many people can say that?  

So, for this holiday season, I'm resolving to appreciate what's in front of me.  I want to work hard each day, and make sure my husband, family, and friends know that I love them, and am eternally grateful for the profound effect they have had on my life.  The baby obsession can wait, for now. 

Of course, I say this today.  I'll get back to you tomorrow. 

"C" is for Clomid...That's Good Enough for Me...

I spent a good portion of last week in Iowa.  Being that I'm a native Minnesotan, I can safely say that I hate Iowa.  The land of cornfields...Idiots Out Walking Around...you get the picture.  I was "fortunate" enough to stay at the Holiday Inn near downtown Des Moines.  Apparently, this Holiday Inn books up like a Las Vegas Hotel during Convention Week.  There wasn't a spare room at the inn, so to speak.  I arrived down there at 8:30 on Wednesday night and checked into my room.  I was on the top floor, which pleased me and I was put at the end of the hall, which pleased me more.  However, as I entered my room, I was hit with a blast of frigid air.  Working quickly to identify the source, I note that my window is open, sans screen, and I'm ten floors above street level.  Code violation!  Code violation!  I call down to the front desk, requesting that they remedy the problem since I couldn't figure out how to close the window.  Instead, they brought me a space heater.  The formidable housekeeper was also able to slam my window shut (almost) but it was open just enough to allow a draft and the noise of the highway into the room.  Ugh.  Still, the space heater proved to be a lifesaver, as it quickly brought the room up to a satisfying and sweltering 85 degrees and provided just enough background noise to allow sleep to overtake me. 

So, I wake up the next morning and turn on the news.  I usually lay in bed for a few minutes, take my temperature, check my email, and make sure I didn't miss anything important while I was sleeping.  As I'm lying in bed, a commercial comes on the television.  A young couple is seen, getting busy in a darkened room when there's a knock at the door.  The couple initially ignores the knock and goes about their biz-nass only to be interrupted again.  The woman gets up to answer the door, and there's a stork there, wearing a Baby Bjorn, complete with infant.  The message of the commercial "Ninety-Nine out of One Hundred Couples Who Practice Unsafe Sex Will Become Pregnant."  It's a good (and scary) message.  Is it true?  Eh. 

According to Colonel Sanders (er...Dr. Rhodes), you're only able to get pregnant thirty-six hours out of every month.  If you take an average calendar month of thirty days, that's 720 hours.  Therefore, you can only get pregnant 5% of the month.  The remaining 95% of the month is safe.  Kind of crazy statistics, huh?  Granted, if (and when) Jeff and I are ever blessed with children, they will be raised with the message that, not only can you get an STD 100% of the time when you practice unsafe sex, but you can get pregnant twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year.  No sense in throwing statistics at them they can't (or perhaps can) comprehend easily.  Still, when looking at the facts, you can understand why conception is called "a miracle" because in actuality, it's a statistical improbability. 

However, let's take someone like me.  I haven't ovulated since June.  We know that.  So, let's assume that I'm on a six month ovulation-rotation.  There are 8,760 hours in a year.  If I ovulated twice this year, that means that I have less than a 1% chance of getting pregnant.  FML. 

Which brings me to the present.  Today is my first day on Clomid.  I woke up this morning and popped the pill.  I'm waiting for my miracle now.  The idea behind Clomid is that it should turn me into an ovulating machine  I should resemble a Las Vegas Slot Machine that hit the jackpot.  In theory.  In actuality, I have no clue if it's going to work.  However, I will say that I took the pill a little over three hours ago and I haven't wanted to strangle anyone yet, so I guess that's progress.   

A Departure from the Norm...I Think

I'm sick of talking about fertility.  Jeff and I were watching "How I Met Your Mother" last night, and Lily, one of the characters on the show, is trying to get pregnant.  She kept bringing up all sorts of random baby issues when someone mentioned relatively benign words, such as "rattled" or "crib" that people wanted to stop hanging out with her.  Granted, it was comically dramatized, yet I received a few pointed glances from Jeff, but he kept his mouth shut, lest Hurricane Estrogen should choose to hit land. 

So, out with the old, and in with the new (or the old). 

This blog has seen rebirth several times throughout the years.  I started it in law school and passed along my random thoughts and experiences on life.  Mostly, it was self-depreciating, as I continually find myself in awkward or embarrassing situations. 

When I was a sophomore in college, my roommate, Mindy, and I went over to the boys dorm to "hang out."  Because that's what you do when you're a sophomore in college.  I'm sure one of us had a crush on someone over there (or perhaps both of us did) and we went over to play "wing man" or "study" or "something."  I can't remember why we were ever over there in the first place.  Regardless, that's not the point of the story.  We must have had a few cocktails or we missed the last bus back to St. Ben's, because we called our friend, Cristin, to come and pick us up over at St. John's.  Cristin drove this fabulous grey Buick, I think...it had wonderfully cushioned back seats, and the front seat felt like a couch.  It wasn't unusual for several of us to pile into the car because you could pile four people alone in the front seat.  Anyways, another friend of ours, Molly, rode along with her to pick up Mindy and me from St. John's.  Cristin drove around to the back of the dormitory and pulled up a relatively steep hill and waited for Mindy and I to make our way down.  Of course, I was probably wearing completely inappropriate shoes and it was wintertime.  As I trip-tropped down the hill to the waiting couch on wheels, I hit a patch of ice, causing me to slide down the hill and under Cristin's parked car.  Only my head and shoulders remained peeking out from the underneath the front fender.  Of course, hilarity ensued.  Mindy may have lost bladder control.  I believe that Molly jumped out from the front seat to pull me out from under the Buick. 

This has been something that has been recalled fondly by us over the years.  If we ever need a good laugh, you only really need to say, "Remember that time...?" and we will dissolve into fits of laughter. 

So, fast-forward to the present day.  I'm now gainfully employed, and I continue to wear equally inappropriate shoes.  The parking garage attached to my building is comprised of five and a half levels, however the elevator only goes up to the fourth floor of the garage.  This parking ramp is constantly under construction.  Bits of concrete routinely flake off and I firmly believe that, one day, we will get a call telling us that the entire structure has fallen down and has taken all of our cars with it.  Of course, however, the ingenious ramp designers have decided that, to get the most "bang for their buck" they'll also try and cram as many cars as possible into the ramp, so the spots are incredibly narrow. 

In any case, if you're not parked at the ramp before 8:00 a.m., you're forced to park on one of the top levels.  I arrived at work yesterday around 10:00 a.m., as I had an appearance in Bloomington.  Therefore, I was resigned to the fact that I would have to park on the top level of the ramp.  What's particularly difficult about this fact is that I own a briefcase on wheels, like most attorneys do, and it's always jam-packed and really heavy.  Since the elevator only goes up to the fourth floor, you're left with the choice of either carrying your fifty pound bag down a set of concrete (and often slippery) stairs, or rolling it down the ramp to the fourth floor to catch the elevator, consequently dodging oncoming traffic as they make their way to the upper floors of the ramp.  I've always chosen the latter option. 

From late October through April, there is not a spot in Minnesota that isn't icy.  Yesterday, this ramp was no exception.  Yesterday, my "load" was particularly cumbersome.  I had my purse, my briefcase on wheels, two bags of caramel corn that I had brought in to share with the office, and a cup of scalding hot coffee.  I managed to balance and carry this, and I'm trip-tropping down the ramp when a car turns the corner.  So, I move out of it's way, only to hit a patch of ice.  I went ass-over-teakettle, and slid directly under the yielding car.  The caramel corn goes flying, as does my purse, and my cup of Jamaican-Me-Crazy coffee spills down the front of me, onto my cranberry colored, silk skirt.  I lay, dazed, under this car for a minute, doing a mental check that all my faculties are still present and nothing is broken.  By this time, the woman of the car I'm lying under has jumped out, and is screaming at me, wondering if I'm okay.  Since I decide that I am, for the time being, I attempt to slide myself out from under the car, only to discover that I can't grasp onto anything, as everything around me is covered in a thick coating of ice.  She attempts to pull me out, and subsequently falls down with me.  After a few moments of attempting to scramble and scoot out from under the car, we realize that we're stuck.  Fortunately, a man working on the parking ramp comes over and hands us the end of his broom, which we use to pull ourselves out from under the car.  

I make a motion to go and retrieve my belongings from the various points where they've landed and I lose my purchase again, and subsequently fall down.  This time, however, I can stand up and realize I must look like a fawn who just learned how to walk.  He comes over (with his rubber-soled shoes on) and picks me up and carries me to safety.

As I make my way into the office, I note that the Glad Resealable Bags used to contain the caramel corn have done their purpose, and the bottom of the bags suffered the most damage.  My purse is unscathed (God bless Louis Vuitton), and my coffee is still half-full.  Granted, I smell like it, but at least its still drinkable.  I, unfortunately, am the worst off.  My elbow has begun growing to disproportionate degrees, is changing colors, and my right leg loos like I tried to slide into second base.  

Point being, some things never change.     

Baby Steps

This week has been full of very high "highs" and very low "lows" so to speak. On Monday, I don't know how much lower I could scrape before I hit bottom. I was upset with myself, upset with my doctor, and generally angry at just about everyone. I took a swipe at my friends, and really should have just hung a sign over my head which told people to come back another day.

Unfortunately, Tuesday was no better. I went to the deli in my building to order a sandwich and there was a woman in front of me with an ass so big, it should have had it's own zip code. I'm not even exaggerating that. I almost pulled out my phone to take a picture of it so I could submit it to Ripley's Believe it or Not.

In addition to the incredible amount of space this entity occupied, it's owner could not concentrate on the task before her. She could not order a sandwich if her life depended on it. It was the most obvious case of ADHD I have ever personally witnessed. I stayed behind her in line for about five minutes, listening to her start her order, "I'll have a turke......." and then my email ping sounded and she had to figure out what the noise was. Then, "I'll have a chick...." Only to hear someone laugh behind her and she had to check that out as well. She also had to turn around numerous times, mouth agape, to stare at all the people in line behind her. To me, it was as if she was actually enjoying holding up everyone's lunch break. The deli employee assisting her was being extraordinarily patient.

Finally, another clerk came up to the second cash register and asked if he could help me. The ass obstacle was in my way, so I attempted to sidle around it, only to have it check me in the gut. She didn't apologize. I attempted again to skirt around Butt Mountain. This time, I got nailed in the hip. At this point, I politely begged the pardon of the ass (and it's owner) and motioned to the second employee, standing there, and indicated I would like to get up to the lunch counter. Apparently, she had been saving all her focus for the death stare she shot at me, telling me, quite snidely, that it was her turn and I should learn to be patient.

Now, I was pretty hefty at one point in my life. Granted, I didn't feel as though I needed to register my ass as its own township, but I remain sensitive to the weight struggles of many Americans. But, at this point, I'm hungry, hormonal, and more than a little fed up with the ass entitlement antics on display from this individual.

I'm also pretty sure this woman has never had anyone stand up to her in her life based upon the way she ordered me around, but I was not going to go down without a fight. I asked her if she enjoyed monopolizing the counter space at the deli and then I stood behind the Ass Wall and shouted my order to the waiting employee. I ended up yelling almost directly in her ear. Granted, the ass did also double as a sound barrier so I don't think she was too gravely harmed. Yes, I was immature, but I didn't care. As I ordered, this woman's mouth fell down around her equally ample bosom, and she stood, staring at me while I completed my order and moved down the line to fill my soda. The other people behind me followed suit. I still don't think she had finished ordering after I picked up my sandwich and left.

I'll just say this: It was delicious.

The Clomid Connection

It's been sixteen weeks since my miscarriage. I guess there's a part of me that hoped I'd be pregnant by now. And, Lord knows we've been putting forth maximal effort in that endeavor. I've been doing everything under the sun to try and help. I take my temperature every morning. I've become a pro at using ovulation kits. I drink teas, I attend fertility yoga (yes, there is such a thing), and I take my vitamins. In fact, I do everything short of standing on my head...oh wait, I've actually done that as well.

Because we haven't gotten pregnant yet, I made an appointment to see my friendly neighborhood fertility specialist, Dr. Rhodes. I think he looks like Colonel Sanders. I debated whether I should even attend the appointment, thinking I was behaving irrationally or that my decision to discuss fertility options was premature.

I'm so glad I went.

He took one look at my temperature chart and told me that he saw no signs of ovulation. I've been stuck in the "twilight" of my monthly cycle, meaning that I haven't ovulated since my miscarriage. So, the next step is ovulation therapy.

I really have mixed emotions about everything. In some respects, I know that it was a wise decision for me to try and conceive naturally. My friend, Krissy, says that it's always better to try and do things naturally before taking the next step. I know this is true. Another part of me is really angry with myself. Dr. Rhodes wanted to put me on Clomid after my surgery in June. I keep thinking that, if I had listened to him back then, I would be well into my pregnancy already. Another part of me worries that I'm putting all my "eggs" in one basket, so to speak and I'm gearing myself up for an even bigger let down if the Clomid doesn't work.

Everyone keeps telling me to be patient - that God's plan for me isn't written in correspondence form. I've heard countless stories of people who've tried to conceive and the one month they weren't trying, it happened. This is not helpful. And maybe part of it has to do with the fact that I'm not a patient person. But I think it goes deeper than that. I've wanted a family for as long as I can remember. And for some reason, I can't make it happen. And I don't know if "patience" has anything to do with it. It's not easy - hell, I'd even say it's impossible - to be "patient' when your life literally revolves around getting pregnant. I can't be "patient" when I wake up every morning, take my temperature, pee on my ovulation stick, and take my vitamins. It's not easy to relax when you make a conscious effort to avoid caffeine, sushi, alcohol, and Brie, all in the off chance that this might be "the" month. That serves as a constant reminder of the fact that I'm not pregnant and constantly reminds me that I was at one point.

I need a plan. I have a goal, and I need to work towards achieving that goal. It's how I was wired and I'll never change. Now, I have to change my game plan. Clomid is the new name of the game.