Much too loud.

I’m feeling really negative today, for some reason. I’ve been coasting along the past few weeks without thinking all that much about my upcoming IVF cycle, or my infertility, for that matter - believe it or not.

Today, my little inner voice is screaming loud and clear.

”You’re never going to have a baby!”

“This next IVF cycle won’t work either!”

“It’s just not going to happen for you!”

Man, that fucker can really yell.

I’ve been thinking more and more about childfree living. Our plan B had always been embryo adoption, but it may not be an option for us for both financial and physical reasons. We’re not considering traditional adoption at this point, for financial and emotional reasons. No, it’s not that I think I couldn’t love a child that’s not ours genetically - that’s not it at all, as evidenced by our desire to pursue donor embryo. It’s that we’ve already been through so much, too much. I can’t see us getting through a home study (we’ve got a few ghosts between the two of us that, while not insurmountable, would definitely complicate the process), and the idea of competing with other infertile couples for a birth mother is really unappealing to me.

I guess that’s just where my line is drawn. Subject to change, of course.

I’m so tired today. B. wants to go see one of his fave bands that’s playing in town tonight, and I really, really don’t want to. Grandma here hates live music, frankly, and it’s not like it’s a classical quartet we’d be seeing, it’s old school punk rock. Too loud and too late for me. How do I get out of this without hurting his feelings?

The distance between point A and B.

I made it through the weekend reunion with B. with flying colors. We encountered only one rough patch - Saturday morning he got his feelings hurt because I was, frankly, a bitch about wanting to sleep in. He had to be at school and I had tossed and turned the better part of the night, so come Saturday morning I just wanted to be left alone to sleep. It’s not the first time that Mr. Morning Man met Mrs. Leave Me the Fuck Alone.

By the end of the weekend I did feel a bit more connected to him, which, as Martha Stewart would say, is a very good thing. There’s been so much physical, mental, and emotional distance between us that I was beginning to question the very foundation of our relationship. When he had to leave to fly back to San Antonio on Sunday night I was actually really sad he had to go, even though he’s basically flying back just to pick up the car to drive home again. I am nothing if not inconsistent.

In non-infertility related news, I’ve figured out what car I want to buy, now that The Little Car That Couldn’t is gone, gone gone. (And hallelujah for that!) Ideally I’d like an early 2000’s model Volkswagen Jetta Wagon. Sounds simple enough, right? Not when you factor in my list of requirements: the engine has got to be either the six cylinder or, preferably, the 1.8T - not the mousy 2.0; it’s gotta be a manual transmission (VW is one of the few marques that still makes all their line available in a stick, gawd love ‘em); it must have less than 60,000 miles or so, and it needs to cost less than $13,000. If you know of anyone that’s got exactly that vehicle hanging around that they’d like to get rid of, send ‘em my way.

I am excited about getting a new (to me) car, even though the timing is horrible. We need another car payment like I need more endometriosis. I am just enough of a gearhead that I can overlook that fact completely and focus on the excitement surrounding a vehicle purchase. It’s like adding a new family member for me. Yes, I am a dork.

It’s good to look forward to something, though.

One albatross: gone.

Woke up early to go to the airport to pick up B. I almost didn’t make it - the little car that’s been in and out of the shop decided to act up, big time. It was bad enough that we ended up renting B. a car for the weekend, since I was unsure I’d be able to get him to his grad school classes and he was already very late.

Since the last time that car was in the shop it refused to act up for them, I saw this morning as a golden opportunity to show them, in person, what the car was doing. I drove (or rather, stuttered, coughed, and hiccuped my way) straight to the mechanic’s from the airport. I went on a test ride with the mechanic that had been working on the car previously, and hey, guess what? It didn’t act up at all, not once.

What the hell is up with that? It was driving so poorly on the way to the airport that I was dangerously losing speed on the highways and would periodically have to switch on my hazards.

The mechanic ended up driving me all the way home, where I promptly sold him the car for $500 cash. It was freaky that he had that much money on him, but I took it as a sign it was meant to be. Now I no longer have a vehicle that I can drive in the rain, or one I can take the dogs in (until B. drives home back from San Antonio next week, that is), but at least I’m done with that fucking temperamental little car I’ve hated for ten years.

Due to the car drama, my reunion with B. was less than stellar. He wanted to follow me to the house to make sure I got home okay, but was already so late to school that I didn’t want to hold him up. Besides, I’ve handled every fucking other negative detail of my life alone for a long time; why start rescuing me now?

Adding to my angst about having him home is that he’s just over the top excited that we can finally have sex. I wish I felt the same way. I’m almost dreading it. I just don’t feel connected to him that way right now. I know that having sex could quite possibly help me feel connected to him, but still, there’s so much pressure on me about it that I have very, very little interest. Even the Brazilian bikini wax isn’t much help.

Man, I’m fucked up.

Ouch, part two.

You know how I’m angry at my body, right? Well, I thought I’d punish her and decided to get a Brazilian bikini wax today. Since B. will be home this weekend I thought it would be a nice, shall we say, revitalizer for our sex life. Not that B. is having any issues about wanting sex; oh no, to the contrary it’s almost all he can talk about, but only in squeaky-clean, this-is-my-government-phone conversation, of course.

“What are you doing Friday night?” Code for: don’t make plans, ‘cause we’ll be having wild monkey sex all night long.

“Have you been working out?” Code for: hope your stamina is up to par, ‘cause I’m not letting you outta the bedroom for hours.

“Have you been stretching?” Code for: I’m going to be bending you six ways to Sunday, so limber up!

You get the drift.

Anyway, I digress. Since I’ve been through a gazillion unpleasant medical procedures, have endured the pain of an undiagnosed ectopic pregnancy, have no problem giving myself intramuscular shots, and am way too used to showing Lolly to strangers, I thought a Brazilian would be a proverbial walk in the park. I’m tough, right?

Well, it was fast. That’s about the best thing I can say for it. The pain was second only to the time I got my hair braided, but that lasted ten hours and I suspect my stylist might not have liked white people very much. (That’s another story...)

As usual, I'm the complete opposite of everything I read about what to expect from a procedure. I thought the part on my pubic bone, up front, was hands down the most painful, by far, and it’s supposed to be less sensitive. The skin between my thighs, said to be much more painful? Not so bad. Just like how I sailed through two HSGs with nary a cramp, but found the supposedly much easier saline sonogram horribly painful.

I came home and put on a skirt (sans undergarments, of course), and I'm contemplating sitting on an ice pack. I like how it looks, big time, but sure hope the skin gets less irritated soon.

The person doing the waxing was a hot gay guy. I thought I had already spread ‘em for just about every demographic, but I was wrong. He was super professional, though, and it wasn’t any more awkward than, say, the hot male x-ray tech at my first HSG.

Man, the things we do to ourselves. If I was looking for a way to punish my body, well, I found it.

Oh, the pain.

Today is day eleven of my cycle. I ovulated last night. It hurt, so much so that I tossed and turned and slept really poorly. Seems kind of early to be ovulating, doesn’t it? I guess a short cycle means I’ll be moving on to the next IVF cycle that much faster.

I have always had ovulation pain, but not like it’s been the last few times I’ve ovulated on my own. We’re talking sharp, stabbing pain for several hours. I’m not sure what this could mean. Maybe my ovaries are so pruned up that pushing out an egg is a real exertion. Maybe the eggs are somehow toxic - just picture my ovary vomiting out a rotten egg. Nice, yes?

The Magic Checkbook* was brought out today to pay $744 for two different panels that SIRM suggested I have before the next cycle. The thrombophilia panel, the expensive one, consisted of me swabbing the inside of my cheek with four different cotton swabs. Seems kind of chintzy for the $600 the test costs - I would expect more of a tissue sample or something for that amount. Nope, just four dinky cotton swabs.

A tally in Quicken of our year-to-date medical expenditures reveals that we have parted with just over $23,000 so far. Now, $14,000 of that is from the Magic Checkbook, so it’s not exactly out of our pockets, so to speak, but still...very impressive, in a not-so-good way. With the travel, acupuncture, anesthesia, and potential other medical expenses related to my next cycle still to come, we’re going to be adding a couple thousand dollars more to that sum, at least.

Sweet jeebus, no wonder I have a hard time getting the bills paid and we’re in massive debt.

*Our home equity line of credit, which is quickly eating up any equity we’ve accumulated in our house. Infertility is fun and expensive too!

My ugly butt.

I haven’t had a progesterone-in-oil shot in, oh, thirteen days, but I still have lumps and bruises on both hips. What the hell? When, exactly, are those going to go away? One of the lumps is still the size of a ping-pong ball, no joke. Too bad swimsuit season is over for me. I’d really have enjoyed waddling around the pool with my surgery scarred belly and lumpy bruised butt exposed for all to see.

One of the shots must have hit a nerve ‘cause I also occasionally have an unpleasant tingling sensation in my right buttock. Fun!

Ouch.

While I was upstairs getting dressed this morning I got a phone call from the nurse at my local RE’s office. SIRM Los Angeles had sent me a list of six different blood tests they wanted me to have done, and the nurse was having difficulty finding the proper codes to order them.

Needing to take notes, I grabbed a folded receipt out of the pile of miscellaneous stuff on B.’s dresser top and jotted down the details. After emailing my notes to the SIRM nurse I opened the receipt to see if it was something I could throw away.

It was a receipt from Publix, dated 12.21.2004, the very day I found out I was pregnant. B. had stopped at the store on his way home from work and bought me flowers, chocolates, ice cream, pickles, and two cans of dog food so the pups could celebrate too.

The receipt is on my desk now, and I can’t bear to pick it up, much less throw it away. Thinking of that day just hurts, bad. I remember my absolute and total shock at the second line on the home pregnancy test. B. was so happy, so pleased.

Little did we know how short lived that joy would be. I would start spotting three days later, and lose my right fallopian tube to emergency surgery four weeks later because the pregnancy was ectopic and misdiagnosed.

How did I manage to grab that receipt, of all things, out of the stack of junk? What kind of cosmic butt-kick is that? How did that receipt even get saved? I don’t remember saving it, and B. never saves receipts. Very, very odd.

I’m trying hard to not give in to this magical thinking crap, but I can't help but wonder if there’s any significance there...

Moving forward rather quickly.

I had a phone consultation today with my doctor from SIRM. The two likely culprits for the failure of my cycle are poor egg quality and/or endometriosis. The doctor suggested a few more blood tests to check for some anti-thyroid and thrombophilia issues, but otherwise, no more diagnostics at this stage. The only change to my protocol next cycle will be to up the Follistim. ‘Cause you know, I wasn’t on high enough doses, ha, ha, ha.

They don’t cycle in December, so it’s November for us. That means that the next period I get I’ll be starting birth control pills. It seems so soon, but I’m okay with it. The sooner I cycle again, the sooner this can all be over.

One downer from the phone call...I asked if my endometriosis is preventing implantation would my chances improve with donor embryo. Unfortunately the answer is no. We probably won’t be able to pinpoint for certain that it’s my endo causing the problem, but it does cast a shadow on what we thought our next step would be. At this stage I’m not sure I can muster up the strength (and money, don’t forget the money) to do a donor embryo cycle knowing that my chances of success are lower than they should be. The doctor suggested another laparoscopy before trying donor embryo. Yeah, that sounds like fun, my third lap in as many years.

The first thing the doctor asked was how was I doing emotionally with the news of my negative. I appreciate that. Nice that a medical professional thinks to ask about my mental state.

I am holding my own, hanging in there. I get overwhelmingly emotional at the drop of a hat, but otherwise am feeling pretty normal. Of course “normal” for me means depressed, angry, bitchy, tired, and hopeless.

Told B. that I was dreading him coming home, in not so many words. I said things like, “I’ve gotten really used to being alone,” and “I’m not looking forward to having to tiptoe around my own house while you study,” and “it’s really hard for me to interact with other people right now.” I don’t think he really grasped what I was saying. He said things about rescuing me, and pulling me out of my shell...and all the sex we were going to have.

Ummm, yeah. I feel about 0% sexy right now. It’s like alcohol and caffeine: I can’t enjoy them ‘cause I shouldn’t be able to have them in the first place. Not to mention that I really hate my body right now. I’m sick of its betrayal, over and over. There’s no pleasure to be had that involves my body, none.

Get this...

My little car that’s been in the shop? The one that had almost stranded me several times before I left for Los Angeles? The shop can’t find anything wrong with it. The Check Engine light is off and it’s running fine. They’ve sent it home with a mechanic the past several nights to put some miles on it, hoping that whatever was wrong would reoccur, but no such luck.

I should be glad that there’s nothing seriously wrong, but I’m thinking it’s more likely another sign of my Everything I Touch Turns to Shit problem. Now that I’ve brought it home from the garage I predict the car will begin acting up in oh, say, a day or two.

I feel like an idjit ‘cause I had the car towed into the garage ($65) since I believed it was completely undriveable. I rented a car for a week ($140) since it and the Bronco were supposedly out of commission. So $205 later, I’m feeling pretty stupid.

Well, you know we’ve got all this extra money just laying around, so it’s no big deal, really!

Sunday.

5:30 p.m. EST and I haven’t heard from B. once today. Yesterday he called twice; the first call, a forty-five second long conversation with no inquiries as to how I was doing, the second a longer phone call, but he still didn’t ask how I was doing. He asked how the dogs were, though, at which point I said, “you need to be asking how I’m doing before you ask how the dogs are doing.”

You would think that would be enough of a nudge for him to get, “hey, I need you now,” but I guess I’m wrong. True, he is fishing this weekend, which usually causes him to lose all sense of time, proportion, and responsibility, but still...

The good news for the day (and yes, there is some) is that the Bronco is now driveable. My very mechanically inclined buddy figured out that it was just a six dollar part that went amiss with the brakes. It’s been replaced, and I have a vehicle that works. Now just keep your fingers crossed that my other car that’s currently in the shop is also an easy fix.

My buddy suggested that I go for a motorcycle ride to brighten my spirits, but given the luck I’ve had lately I didn’t think it was a good idea. Not that a nice, long hospital stay doesn’t sound peachy, but who would take care of the dogs while I was incapacitated?

I saw pregnant women everywhere today. What is it about Target that attracts them? I didn’t even go in the store, merely walked by on my way to Petco, but there were two unmistakably swollen bellies out front.

I know it as I know anything, that will never be me. Maybe I’ll get to eat my words someday, but I doubt it. It’s just not going to happen for me.

Just in case I needed further confirmation of what a complete failure this cycle was...

Got my period today. It’s much heavier and clottier than normal, almost as if my embryos had made some progress in implanting and growing before finally dying off. My blood makes me sad, and I’m being a freak about it. Normally I’m a tampon kind of girl, but this period, this one I want to see, so it’s maxi pads only for me. And no pain medication for the cramping, I want to feel it too.

So sad that all that beautiful lining is just ending up on a pad thrown away in a trashcan in my bathroom. How much more useful it would be nourishing an embryo.

I’m back to my recurrent depression theme: I’ve Got Nothing To Look Forward To.

Literally.

B. will be home at the end of the month, but will have just started his next semester. So in addition to his sixty-hour-a-week day job with its own set of stressors and irritants, he’ll be spending every spare moment doing his school work. Me? I’ll be back to tip-toeing around my own house as he works and listening to him curse and stress and generally be miserable as he does so. This goes on for another year and a half, with a short break every few months.

Since we paid for two IVF cycles upfront I’ve got another cycle to look forward to, right? Yes, except this last one went so well and still didn’t work that it doesn’t really matter how the next one goes, I’m going to have about zero hope of a different outcome...yet I’ll still have to slog through the nuts and bolts of the cycle.

The debt we’ve incurred dealing with infertility, B.’s grad school and other financial missteps virtually guarantees that there will be no vacations, no furniture, no extra expenditures of any sort for the foreseeable future.

I would say that we’ll be stuck watching everyone around us have children, but that’s already happened. They’re all done procreating. Now we get to watch their children grow up. Or, not really, since I’ve cut most of my friends down to email/phone contact only, so we’re isolated enough to not have to witness firsthand what we’re missing out on. Not that the isolation is any kind of barrier - the world revolves around children, like it or not, and you can’t turn the channel or open a magazine without being reminded, again, of that not-so-exclusive club you’ve been denied entry to.

It seems so fucking bleak. I can’t catch a break to save my life. I have many blessings, but being aware of them isn’t elevating me any right now.

If it wasn’t for the dogs, I’d be completely lost, versus the 98% lost I am now.

Bitterness.

Went back for my second (useless, waste of time) beta this morning. My regular nurse was out of the office, so at checkout they tried to charge me a $75 stat fee. Never mind that the past three times I’ve had stat bloodwork done they’ve only charged me a $15 courier fee, including my first beta two days ago. They were absolutely inflexible on this, and refused to budge, so I said, “fine, don’t stat it then,” and walked out.

I refuse to pay $75 for something that only cost $15 two days ago. Especially when it’s a waste of time to begin with.

I’m sure The Nurse That Does Not Call Back will be displeased that I will not have my second beta results today. She can go stuff it.

You may detect a note of bitterness in my tone. You’d be right.

In all my experience with infertility and the medical staff associated with it, I have gone out of my way to always be pleasant, to be an easy patient, to not make anyone’s job harder than it needs to be. I have been going to the same two RE’s office for two years now, and it’s not a big office. They know me there, they’ve seen me try and fail to get pregnant, have an ectopic pregnancy & subsequent miscarriage, and move on to IVF. You’d think they might cut me a little fucking slack today over a stat charge.

I am aware that I’m raging over a small thing. It’s just one more infertility-related piece o’shit.

In other news, my mother suggested that she’d like to come visit before B. gets home from school. This went over like a lead balloon with me, and I feel like a real shitheel for it. I know she’s just wanting to be supportive, but I am not up to company, and frankly, I have some residual issues with my mother that I am not equipped to deal with right now. Avoiding her just seems the easiest, best thing to do.

Bitterness aside, I think I’m handling my failed cycle pretty well. I am upset, but it comes and goes. I wish I could just know when the embryos died. Was it right away? Did they last a few days then just conk out? I’m not sure why this matters, but it does.

The dogs are my salvation. I gave them each an uncooked beef marrow bone yesterday afternoon and sat on the front porch and watched them enjoy themselves. Seeing their uncomplicated joy in their treat lifted the shadows off me, if just for a bit.

Defeated.

I dreamt of babies last night. This is unusual for me, I don’t usually dream of children, believe it or not. I had one dream where I was playing with the most beautiful little baby girl. She wore a little blue dress with a small flower print, and asked me to find her “Moosie.” I searched high and low for the stuffed animal she wanted but couldn’t find it. I’m not even going to try to interpret that...

I am so angry at my body. And a little less than happy with one of the nurses at SIRM too. When I called her to give her the results of my beta yesterday, she said she’d review the results that had been faxed over and then call me back to discuss the next step. She never called back - a recurrent event with this particular nurse. At 7:30 EST I called her back to ask how to taper off the dexamethasone - good thing I’m a savvy medical patient and just happen to know that you can’t abruptly stop taking steroids. After telling me that even though my beta was less than 2 I’d need a repeat beta this Friday (‘cause you know, it might double and all), she told me I’d need to continue the progesterone in oil shots until Friday’s results came in. Yeah, right. I shot that down real quick.

Me: “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Okay, so I’ve got a little attitude. Excuse me, I just got my negative beta results a few hours ago.

The Nurse That Does Not Call Back: “Well, it’s important that you make every effort to ensure that if there was a pregnancy that it could be viable, and until we get that second beta, we don’t really know.”

Me: “In all your years of working at SIRM, have you ever seen a beta of less than 2 go on to become a viable pregnancy?”

The Nurse That Does Not Call Back: “Well, no, but...”

Me: “Case closed. I’m not doing another PIO shot.” I’m thinking “I’m in Atlanta, you’re in Los Angeles, go ahead and try to make me, beeyatch.”

Hell, I don’t even want to go in and get a second beta, but I will, but only because I’ve got to do another cycle with this clinic, and this nurse. They’re cracked though, if they think someone with a beta of less than 2 should be continuing the PIO shots. Kind of a fucked up recommendation, in my eyes.

I had a couple of glasses of wine last night, and coffee this morning. I should be taking some pleasure from the consumption of previously verboten things, but instead, it’s all just bitter; I’d much rather not be able to drink wine or coffee.

I’m fighting the impulse to go get the picture of my three beautiful little embryos tattooed on my belly. I’m so sad they’re gone, I wish I could just keep them with me forever.

As I suspected...

The beta results are in, and it’s negative. I’m not pregnant. Can’t say that I’m shocked.

What sucks most about this is that everything looked so good - beautiful embryos, a nice thick lining, etc. If everything was so perfect and it still didn't work, I'm gonna have about zero hope that the next (and our last) cycle will work, irregardless of how it goes. And the thought of doing another cycle just flat-out exhausts me.

I’m sad, but at least I had time to prepare myself. Mostly I’m angry at my body. I would like to punch myself, hard, in the belly. Repeatedly. I won’t, of course, but the impulse is there.

I’m also oddly irritated at B. We spoke briefly after I emailed him the news, and I couldn’t get off the phone fast enough. He asked if there was anything he could do, and I said, “yeah, be here,” even though I know that’s impossible. Funny thing is, when I think about it, I don’t really want him here. I just want to be alone.

I’m sad all those beautiful little embryos died. My body really, really sucks.

It's not looking good.

FRED is not my friend. Negative again today. It’s really sinking in that I’m not likely to be pregnant. My first beta is tomorrow, but I’m about 95% certain I know the results already - if I’m not getting a positive HPT at 10dp3dt, let’s be realistic. I am surprised by how upsetting this is for me. It’s probably just the progesterone talking, but I’m just sad, sad, sad.

I’ve had such a mixed bag of emotions throughout this IVF cycle. A large part of me has been nervous about possibly getting pregnant. Crazy, right? I fight so hard for something I’m scared of. That’s why I’m somewhat shocked at my reaction to my impending negative beta. I was almost expecting it to be a relief, but now that it’s upon me, I realize that’s not the case. I do want to be pregnant, very much so.

Said goodbye to B. this morning, and left rather early for the airport. Saying goodbye was hard, even knowing that I’ll see him again in three weeks. We got along well, but I’m not going to say that any big repair effort was undertaken, relationship-wise. There’s a lot lurking underneath the surface with us, but we chose to just enjoy each other’s company this trip rather than deal with it all.

It was wonderful to reunite with the dogs, just wonderful. Otherwise, most everything else sucks. I have so much to get caught up with - the house is filthy, there’s a stack of mail a mile high, work is backed up and needs immediate attention, etc., etc., etc.

I know it’s not over until I get the actual beta results, but just know, know as I know myself, that I’m not pregnant, it was all for naught, and I’m going to have to do another cycle. I’m exhausted at the thought.

Waiting...

No FRED today. I realized I could test tomorrow morning before B. and I say goodbye, so in the face of yesterday’s negative test, I thought I’d just hold off one more day - as if that could somehow miraculously make a second line appear.

I think I’ve discovered a new form of body modification. It’s called progesterone-in-oil shots. My hips look as if I’ve had several balls of varying sizes implanted underneath my skin. There is a nice assortment of bruises too, and what looks to be broken blood vessels. It looks bad, no joke. I had been using a heated pad after each injection but it blew up in the microwave and I haven’t replaced it. I wasn’t sure it was making any difference anyway. I’ve already got my silver lining all picked out for my upcoming BFN: the cessation of the PIO shots. That and several bottles of wine...

Negative day.

Had a chat with FRED this morning. He was negative, no good news from him. No big surprise there, it’s still early, I guess. That’s not to say it’s impossible to get a positive HPT at this stage in the game. A women posted on the ivfconnections SIRM LA board that she got a positive HPT at 9dp3dt. Today is 8dp3dt for me...don’t know if I’ll try again tomorrow or not. It’ll be the last day here in San Antonio with B. and the last time we could test together.

I probably should not be reading the ivfconnections SIRM LA board. Seems that the August cycle is tanking so far, many more negatives than positives, unlike the July cycle when they had a whopping 80% positive beta rate. It does me no good to read that stuff, but I can’t seem to avert my eyes.

Very blue today. In the course of reporting just another of the many rescue stories from Katrina, Fox News told of one family that was picked up by the Coast Guard and just locked their three dogs in their house. I burst into tears hearing that. I know that scenario is being repeated hundreds, if not thousands of times over but I just can’t bear the thought of those poor animals locked up with no hope of survival. It will haunt me for a long time coming.

Doing without.

It’s beyond petty, especially given the circumstances of so many people affected by Katrina, but I’m spending a fair amount of time mourning all the things I can’t do right now. Mostly because if I’m not pregnant (and come on, that’s likely the reality) all this restraint, all this good behavior, it’ll be for naught.

I would have liked to had a bit of coffee this morning. When B. ate oysters at dinner the other night, I would have enjoyed oh, eight or ten of them myself. A glass of wine would just be delightful with dinner tonight - I am on vacation, after all.

Tomorrow we may head to the beach. I’d like to go swimming, but I’m not supposed to. (Don’t tell, but this stipulation may be ignored. I mean, come on, a quick dip in the water? I’m not in the habit of sucking up water in my coochie, so what could be the harm?)

And sex? Yes, it would be oh-so-nice if B. and I could reconnect on a physical level. We’ve had a rough year, damage has been done to our relationship, and some good old-fashioned lovin’ might go a long way towards healing the rift. But it’s not an option.

If I am indeed pregnant it will all be worth it, of course. But if I’m not...well, the memory of my good behavior (just in case!) will sting like a slap. My hope will seem pitiful and I’ll feel stupid for believing it was even possible. Adding insult to injury, I feel like a real shitbag for even complaining about this stuff right now. My problems are pretty small, really. Wish they felt that way.

Blah.

Progesterone gives me mood swings. Katrina, sweet jeebus, what a mess. I feel awful for all those people, and in my usual priorities-out-of-order way, worse for all the animals affected by the hurricane.

My heating pad blew up in the microwave. Funny, considering that’s how you’re supposed to heat it, the microwave here is a super low wattage one, and it was in there under two minutes, shorter than the recommended heating time. It completely coated the inside of the microwave with stinky goo-like clay. I made B. clean it up, thinking it wasn’t good for Larry, Moe & Curly.

Not much else to report. It’s likely that I’ll be offline for a good part of the weekend. B. and I plan on checking out Austin and the surrounding area.

I’m not sure when I’ll do my first HPT. I’m going to try to hold off as long as I can, I guess. Mostly I’m trying not to think about it.

Yeah, right.