i’m still standing

third scheduled induction date has been rescheduled.

why? well, I’m not 42w yet; sprog looked fine, and while I seem to still have the recalcitrant cervix from hell, there does seem to be a bit of forward momentum. still closed, but 50% effaced. so that’s good. I could have gone with cytotec & a foley catheter to try to open things up, but I don’t think it’s necessary yet.

tuesday morning will be 42 weeks on the nose, and I’ve decided that’s the point where my desire for this to happen totally naturally will fall to my concerns about the rising risk of stillbirth. so if she doesn’t get moving by Monday night, we know what we’re doing the next morning.

I’ve made a small bracelet with her name in letter beads. G asked, “you’ve resorted to bribery?”

oh, you know it. at least I haven’t resorted to drinking hot sauce or castor oil.

holy shit what have i done?

if all goes well, this will be our last night in this house without a child for a very long time. holy shit. have i ruined our lives? were we crazy to embark on this sprogging thing, so late?

i won’t even get into how the thought of inducing is scaring the living shit out of me, because it is what it is, and there you go. childbirth. yikes. what the everloving fuck.

so, yeah. that’s what i’m up to right now. one last night of really bad sleep at home, one night of medicated sleep expected in the hospital tomorrow night… and then go time.

no turning back now, i guess.

in which i write a rambling post about a bunch of things

so, it’s mid-september. no, late september. nearly october, really. of 2011. blogging has taken a back seat to facebooking, but i’m thinking that’s going to change.

goings-on around here have been sedate, mostly knitting and canning and home improvementing (if you’ve ever wondered how many coats of primer it takes to cover dark blue glossy paint, the answer is 5) and ridding the house of the detritus of years of housemates, punctuated with the occasional visit to a new REI doc.

sometimes i wonder why i’m still trying to get pregnant. i’m nearly forty. we’ve been at this for three years. miscarriages are no fun. self-administered hormone shots are no fun. and as i learned yesterday, hysteroscopies are REALLY no fun.

this doc, at least, seems more thorough than the square peg approach over at WRAMC. he strongly advocated a reduced-carb diet (which i adhere to probably five days a week, and after the first miserable week really wasn’t that bad), put me on cabergoline, and is likely to start me on DHEA after my labs get back). he’s more expensive than WRAMC. hell, i get nauseous just thinking about how much this is costing us. but more thorough. although it is strange having invasive procedures performed in what is essentially a repurposed office.

which brings me to another point i’ve been thinking about for awhile. virginia just passed some of the most restrictive abortion clinic laws in the nation, all in the name (yeah, right) of protecting women’s health. you would think that the same regulations would apply to any clinic that performed gynecological procedures (you know, like fertility clinics). there is no difference between my REI doc performing a d&c in his office to rid my uterine lining of unwanted polyps (not that he’s had to do that, but he could) and another doc performing a d&c in his or her office to rid someone’s uterine lining of other unwanted attachments.

but no, that would never happen. can you imagine if fertility clinics had to abide by the same rules as abortion clinics? and they should, because there is no functional difference in the procedures they perform.

to be honest, after yesterday’s hysteroscopy, i’m a bit skeeved out by the less-than-hospital-like conditions in my doc’s office. tissue samples from previous patients were still out on the counter. there was no big biohazard trash can in the room. the pads on the leg rests weren’t covered with clean paper, and IMO had been there awhile. definitely a lower standard of precautions than i’m used to. which, in addition to skeeving me out, just highlights the hypocrisy of virginia.

bah.

in other news, G and i went to grapes with apes last night, and as my friend beau observed, “wow that was a douchegasm.” still recovering from the forcible dilation of my cervix that morning, i mostly sat on one of the benches and people watched. being mid/late september and all, clothing ran the gamut from shorts and tees and sandals to boots and jeans and jackets, with a good dash of typically ugly DC office attire thrown in. i’m sorry to say that ugly boots seem to be in this season, and most women sporting them didn’t seem to have the first clue about what works and does not work.

anyway. i don’t particularly want to turn into a catty bitch, so i’ll wrap this post up without further snarking about DC’s fashion blindness. if i get around to it, i’ll post some decently-lit shots of the canning i’ve been doing (three types of peach butter, strawberry preserves, tomato sauce, corn relish, pickles, and so on) – perhaps i’ll build a light box for that. and a quick shot or two of the new pot rack/light fixture that G installed over the kitchen sink, so that we can eventually move the metro shelving out of the dining room and reclaim it as, well, a dining room.

oh! and before i forget. the steer went to the slaughterhouse on the fifteenth, and the hog will go on october 11th, and this winter the new chest freezer in the basement will be filled with meaty goodness. i’ve even bought two charcuterie cookbooks in anticipation. i’m thinking of making a proscuitto – i just need to get a small fridge and rig it with some hanging hooks on the inside.

what else. don’t waste your money on Drive. go see 50/50 when it comes out. Super 8 remains the most sweetly earnest movie i’ve seen in a long time. True Blood is done for the season, so i’m going to have to get my alexander skarsgard fix from Straw Dogs, but only after re-watching the original. and when life hands you lemons, let them get squishy and moldy before throwing them at things that piss you off.

laloca out.

so there was that

38 self-administered subcutaneous hormone injections.
5 mature eggs to fertilize.
1 embryo created and transferred.
12 intramuscular progesterone injections.
0 pregnancy.

and a really awful experience with the fertility clinic at WRAMC overall. so we’re going private sector. i shudder to think of the cash outlay. life would certainly have been simpler if we’d never decided we wanted children.

totally lacking in motivation

so, i’m sitting here, attempting to ignore the ache in my midsection (superficial ache: likely due to the 40 shots i’ve jabbed in the band two inches below my belly button over the last nine days; deeper ache: despite my skepticism, likely due to the apparently – 6 – small number of large follicles produced as a result of said shots), watching movies in the background as i play zuma.

first there was dreams with sharp teeth, a documentary about harlan ellison. then, tales from the script, a documentary about screenwriting. currently, there’s too fat for forty, kevin smith’s spoken word thing.

and none of it motivates me. i opened photoshop and browsed through my photos of the last six months. nothing. i stared at zuma. did i really want to spend another two hours zapping 3 or more balls of the same color? not really. i clicked over to facebook, found out that amy winehouse was dead (big surprise there); checked google reader in the hopes that something interesting would magically appear there. bupkis.

grr.

i would go to the gym – no, really i would, i did regularly until the shots started last week – except that the doctors say i shouldn’t exercise. there’s a three or five day window (if any of the astonishingly small number of follicles produce eggs that are fertilized, and if any of those fertilized eggs develop into blastocysts that can be transferred back) where i suppose i could. and then after that, i’m not supposed to lift anything heavier than 10 lbs. pff.

sitting hurts. lying down is even more uncomfortable. standing up is okay, but then my low blood pressure kicks in and i get lightheaded and have to sit or lie down.

it’s okay. i can catalogue these things. i’m looking down a short barrel at 40.

and besides. i’m totally lacking in motivation to do anything else.