Mrs. Bluemont’s House of Things

It’s hard sometimes when you’re smack in the middle of the week. Our dear dear friend Christine (a phenomenal photographer for all you Pacific Northwesters) just put up pics of her trip here with her wife and our equally cherished Joy. Go look. It’ll make you want to live in Boise and go to the candy shop with me. Love Love Love my fucking perfect cats. Ah. Wish I could go back to that Saturday.

Do you ever have one of those mornings where you wake up thinking, This is the first day of the rest of my life. I went to bed sour, swollen, and exhausted and woke with relish. Before my 5:40 alarm.

I took a second job. Or should I say a forth job (the 9-5 regular, ttc, blogging, and now). I’m opening the coffee shop at the glbtiq community center. It’ll be about 10 hours each week. Free decaf whole milk lattes. Nice gay people. The place is painted bright pink, the shade 14 year old’s paint their toes in the summer. It’s bright and has the aroma of stuffed croissants and vanilla bean syrup. I know it’s a lot of work, but I’d rather do it now while I can, save a bit (heh), and work less later. Like when I have a curly haired newborn on my boob.

I’m working with a transgendered man that is simply delicious. His girlfriend does some grant writing for the community center and environmental non-profs in the city. We’re going to be great couple friends, I just know it. Within half an hour of getting to know each other, I spilled about out ttc plans. Criminy! Why do I have to bring it into every conversation?! Sometimes I feel like the woman Sabrina Matthews rants about in Outlaugh. You know, the femme that wants to get married and have a baby and spend the rest of her days as a sweet apron wearing lipstick lez, as opposed to the butch fantasy Shar Rednour, acrylics and boa in tow.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m just not that kind of femme. And I guess it’s not a problem because I didn’t marry a traditional butch. Oh how I love the ways we fuck with gender and the roles in which we express it. SHG, we need to get on that chat soon. Anyone else want to talk queerness? It just makes me giddy.

It’s day one of the clomid (see the nifty calendar at right) and it’s got nothing on the sunshine coming out my bare ass under the layers of ruffles, skirting my ovaries.

I went to the pharmacy today to pick up my Clomid and Prometrium only to also have a bottle of Estradiol added to the mix. I asked the pharmacist what it was for and why I would be on it and he started talking about menopause. Ahm. Do I look like I could be menopausal?! Yikes. I need to start wearing undereye concealer again. I explained that I’m trying to get pregnant and he said he had no idea why I was on it. My April 21st cd 3 blood work gave me an estradiol level of 34.4, well within the normal range (<80).

So I called Doc Baker’s office and spoke with his receptionist/nurse as the doc was in surgery. She said simply that this drug cocktail has worked well and that he thinks it will give me the best chance this cycle. Alrighty, but that doesn’t really explain anything to me.

I’m off to google it out, but I was hoping for some ivp experience with the stuff. The cocktail consists of:

cd 3-7 100 mg clomid daily

cd 9-17 6 mg estradiol daily

cd 17-30 600 mg prometrium daily

Plus my 6 prenatal pills, 1 flax seed, 1 fish oil, and 2 epo daily. Seems like a lot of swallowing to me.

I’ve been squashing the desire to act out this past week. The acceptance that there is no baby bud growing inside me, nor is there any chance lingering, seems to require a sort of expression of that release. I’m not tattooing. I’m not binge eating or drinking. I’m not glued between my sheets in flannel pajamas. (Who am I kidding? You know I don’t wear flannel.) I have this stirring to shake a fist or I don’t know, steal a baby. Not really, don’t worry.

So I had my hair done. I even had it dyed a darker honey brown. I used to be so worried about every bit of toxin in my system while ttc, but it seems that some of the rules can be bent during the definitely not pregnant wait. I have a venti half-caf star.bucks brew in front of me and am toying with the idea of just having left over Guinness cake for lunch. I told my mom that I’m on my period and whether or not she thought I was pregnant, she said sweet things to comfort me and scheduled a pedicure for my Saturday.

Last night we signed on our new place and will begin moving on the 24th. We’re going to start insems on the 22nd I think, so I get to play hooky with all the boxes and furniture. We offered Angi’s bulked-up brother a few hundred to get a friend and a truck to get us across town and he accepted. Now we just have to pack up everything, try to donate what we don’t need, and sell what we can. We didn’t go with the house I spoke of in an earlier post. It was just too small. For two young women, we have so much shit. Right now we are filling 1600 square feet and couldn’t possibly fit into half that space, no matter how much we’d part with. We viewed five places in the last two weeks and finally settled on a new townhouse. It’s three bedrooms, two full baths, two stories, flashy appliances, gas fireplace… you get the jist. It’s just one of many ticky-tacky little boxes. Reminds me of the Weeds theme. We’re turning into such squares. Breeding queer tattooed squares.

And yet all this change can’t fill up that dearth. Nothing is going to make up for not being pregnant except being pregnant. Let’s hope that comes soon. Poor Angi can’t keep up with my Virgo waves.

It’s really spring here. We’re going to reach 90 degrees this weekend and all the cherry blossoms are shaking pink and white buds like snow over the city. It’s not difficult to imagine this as the most fertile month of my year. May I feel every bloom slowly and ease this urge to plunge.

I should have paid more attention to Carrie’s warning regarding the period to come after progesterone. Plus the extra time my lining had to build up. Holy smokes!

Reminds me so much of this. Yes, you have time to watch it. Believe me, it will make your day.  

As for our name picks, we’re currently welcoming our children Beatrix, Isadora, Oleander, and (drumroll) … Bruno. I know, I know, you think it’s so ____, but isn’t it also so Bluemont? Hope someday I get to use all those names. Angi’s set on the number three. And hell, if they’re all this hard to conceive, we may just irk out two in the next decade.

For now, we’re focusing on sending lots of positivity to our number one blue. I hope the egg that will make that start is preparing to sprout. This blood wash is certainly doing it’s part to spring clean my ute. Two weeks of progesterone is like 50 weeks on Annuale. Kind of ;) But my mood continues to lighten and I’m trying to bask in the two pill free days I have left.

Anyone feel like marathoning through all the Se.x and the City seasons this month with me before the movie comes out!? It’ll turn me right back to 4 inch heels and cosmos. Better than the ridiculous sweater set and barrette combo I’m sporting.

Now I’m rambling. You have my names and tmi for the day. Share something with me and save me from any possible productivity for the afternoon.  

Mutherfuckingfinally. Strange thing is, I have no heavy cramping and my boobs aren’t the slightest bit sensitive. Usually the few days leading up to cd1 and the first few days of my cycle are heat pack and whiskey inducing. Ok, maybe not whiskey. These days a glass of wine makes my neck blotchy and my eyes glazed.

We had such a wonderful weekend together. Last night we talked about what we want to do with this cycle. It’s imperative that these decisions are made by the both of us. We both have our opinions and compromising mediums. As much as we loathe Doc Baker right now, we can’t fire him until after the cycle. We’ve got to keep trying with what we have right now. I’m keeping my appointment with the OB/GYN, but by then we’ll already be one week into the tww. I’m really thrilled that we’re starting again and not wallowing in the slow death that was this past week. So bring on the cl*mid Wednesday! Schedule the u/s for the 23rd! Call Jesus!

I’ve purchased new, smaller syringes for this try, along with Instead cups. We’re going to aim for four insems with half the inject way and half the scoop to cervix way. Also, we got our donor those cute little single pack pre-seed lubes instead of the huge bulbs they usually come in. I’m going to up my epo these next two weeks and see if I can’t skip the lube all together.

The obligatory optimistic omen for this cycle is that our due date would be our two year wedding anniversary. Well nearly. FF forecasts Monday, February 16, 2009. Our anniversary is the 17th. Close enough. I really loved getting married in February and have such sticky heart strings tied to that month, unlike icky January and the blues that usually plague that month. Plus we have another solid boy name, but I won’t tell because you’ll laugh and point at me.

Life without progesterone is so much sunnier. I finally feel like myself again. I’m less irritable and able to self regulate as I was completely unable to do for the last two weeks of vaginal pill popping. My overlay chart is wackier than ever and I still have no blood and a stack of negatives, but quite frankly my dears, I don’t give an ounce of fuck. I like that. Ounce of fuck. Wish I could go to the deli of Lucas Silveira and order an ounce of fuck. Just a little, not enough to make my heart burst or let me leave my wife. Not that I would. But if I could have one cheat-free celebrity lay, I’d take just an ounce of Mr. Silveira.

But I regress. We’re enjoying this gorgeous Saturday and I’m lingering in each delicious moment of pro.metrium goo and period free panty wearing. Angi painted the most incredible landscape to give my mum tomorrow and we went to pick out frames for it and a TillyBloom print I’m crazy for. We went to the Farmer’s Market with my bf’s and oodled over the dogs and babies. I’ve put some pics up and because I know many of you patron similar local markets, I’m asking for you to take your camera along next time and show me yours.

Nigella Law.son is also adding to my sunny disposition and she’s helped me make a delightful menu for tomorrow’s celebrations. For my family, I’m making lamb (well raised I promise, bought directly from the herder today) kabobs, snap pea salad, a garlic herb loaf, and strawberry rhubarb crisp with custard.  Later we’re off to visit Angi’s side and I’ll take along a Guinness chocolate cake with cream cheese frosting. The holiday is a bit bittersweet all considered, but I’m not going to let myself wallow for a minute. This is the last year that it will be all about our mothers. Next year they’ll have to share the day with us!

Hope your day is smashing too.  

I’m now something like 84 dpo. I feel as though I’ve been through something I was dreading and scared witless about, but I’m on the other side of the brunt and surprisingly whole.

One of the difficulties of tcc and the heartache it causes, is the physical sameness of ourselves. I had a bad bout with depression a few years ago and I remember wishing I had some disease that was visually absessed over my body. I couldn’t stand losing myself, nearly dying, and just looking alright to everyone on the outside. I couldn’t look in the mirror and see my old self when the current one was about as bonkers as Jenna Bush. But for today, I’m relieved to see myself in the mirror as the person I know. The person that’s made it through a lot more than I thought my melodramtic fragility could handle.

My body isn’t entirely usual. I’m swollen and bloated and puffed up and gorged after 14 days and 8,400 mg of progesterone and no period to drain it all out of me. My wedding ring doesn’t fit half of the day. I’m wearing my fat pants. Remember in Grey’s Ana.tomy, second season I think, when Meredith is reeling after finding out about Addison? She’s walking into Seattle Grace and Derek is trying to talk to her. He’s pleading about opening his soul to her the night before and thought that should be enough for them to move on. Meredith says, I’m a sink with an open drain. Anything you say runs straight out.

I feel whole and empty. Ready to move on but completely drained. I did the obligatory cry in the dark for an hour last evening until Angi came home. She listened to my horrendous day, then scooped me up, gave me the Oleander stick, put a black corset tank on me and took me for tacos. I even had a Landshark lager. We turned it into a proper date night and went to see Caramel, which by the way, you must see. For the record, I don’t watch Grey’s anymore. It went to shit after the second season. Now I’m crazy over female made films about love and friendship and sex and sugar. I like leaving the theater feeling as though I was taken somewhere else. Lifted out of my own loathing for a few hours, given a chocolate cookie, and allowed to be whole and absent from my life. Caramel was just the ticket. I went to Beirut and lapped up the sweetness of broken hearts healed and camaraderie triumphant.

This morning brought another high temp and another negative test. I’m not going to induce my period, but just let the progesterone taper off and let my body react when she’s ready. We’re going to fire Doc Baker. Last night at the Mexican restaurant, Angi went into the speech about how it’s really difficult for me to be aggressive and fight for answers when I’m in that position at the RE. She can’t stand to see me treated like that, like I’m just another cookie ready to be cut out according to textbook. No explanation, no recollection of previous discussions, no tailored treatment. He seems to only go with meds, an ultrasound where he’s completely elusive about my follicles, more meds, and then more meds. No self monitoring and no questioning of his authority. I agree that it’s been a terrible fit for us. My open enrollment for insurance begins Monday and I’m switching to a traditional plan so that I can go see the one and only female RE in Boise at the big, fancy fertility center I haven’t been allowed into with my network-only plan. But I can’t go until July. In the meantime, I’ll take Doc Baker’s clo.mid and switch to an OB/GYN I’ve had an appointment with since February. No kidding, she’s impossible to get in to. I hope she will get me through the next two cycles and give me a different experience going this medical route.

At least it’s Friday. I’m up early and ready to just get to the evening. Every morning I wake up, I’m so grateful to be next to Angi, to have this life with her. Even in the drag of the weekday, I just pass the minutes thinking of when I can get back to her. She is the one that seals my drain back up, sticks up for me when I feel beaten, and sees the sadness, even when I look fine on the outside. It was a hell of a cycle, still is, but we’re getting through it together, and really, that’s all I can ask for. 

This sums it up.

Ok, so I do have words. There are questions. I have answers.

1. No blood.

2. I called the doc as this was the day he told me to test and it’s my last day of the progesterone. He didn’t show any kind of sympathy and just asked if I wanted to wait for my body to bleed or if I wanted to come in for a shot to make me bleed. I said that I wanted to wait and let my body do it’s thing. He said that he’ll let it go 2 more days, but if there isn’t blood by then, he’s going to induce it. No blood test offered.

3. My thyroid has been checked and I was sure it was low, but nope. It’s just fine.

4. This was try number 4.

5. All day long, I had to sit next to a woman that went into her so called “proud mama mode” and showed two different people at two different times a slide show of her 1 year old son. Then she proclaimed to our discussion group, “I’m having number two in September. Makes me tired, but it’s soo worth it.” I had to bite my lip as my eyes stung. And she was skinny damn it.

6. I’ll hold off on another tattoo. Maybe I’ll ask Angi for jewelery. A bfn deserves some consolation prize.

7. Thanks for the sweet words. I love you.