you know your life continues down surreal (or perhaps pointless) lane when you fall asleep reading the IUI instructions included in the REI¹ welcome packet interspersed with reading the instructions to the one-step ovulation predictor kit, even though you’ve been using the clear blue easy fertility monitor for nearly a year now.

and it’s further evidence of insanity when you find yourself telling your husband that HE needs to figure out whether frozen or fresh sperm are preferable for IUI, given the results of his semen analysis.

TMI? probably. but i’ve just finished my cycle of clomid for the month and my hormones are raging and my moods are swinging and it’s getting to the point where i’m just gonna steal the first baby that comes to my door on halloween.

no, i’m kidding. i’ll take the second one. the first ones are always the greediest.
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¹ for those not in the know, REI in this context is not the recreation sports equipment store, but rather Reproductive Endocrinology and Infertility.

i’m about to start a digression here about whether or not having had 3 miscarriages qualifies as infertility, but that’s just going to be a long, drawn-out mess and i have things to do today. like sit by pool and talk about adoption with my aunt. so toodles!

for the last two years or so, i’ve been paying half-attention to the bicycle-vs-car debate that’s been going on in the DC area. with several friends who bike around the metro area, i would like it if cyclists didn’t have to take their life into their hands every time they got on their bikes. as a driver, i would like it if the cyclists out there obeyed the traffic laws when they’re on the streets.

today, i think they should all go to hell.

this morning, a little before nine, i was driving up arizona ave from canal road towards macarthur boulevard. for about a half-block, the road is one lane uphill, two lanes downhill. as the line of cars made its way uphill, an impatient cyclist split the lanes, trying to pass the cars on the right (no shoulder, mind you). stymied by the large SUV in front of me, he proceeded to yell at and pound on it, as though the driver of the SUV were at fault. then he swings out into the left turn lane that diverges, and pulls the same shit with the cars in that lane.

if that asshole ever gets hit by a car, i won’t be crying.

however. not a half-block later, as i’m driving across macarthur, i see the following: in the downhill lane, there’s a cyclist waiting for a break in the traffic to make a left turn. he’s got his arm out, signaling. he’s at a full stop, while cars move around him. then, an impatient driver who was behind him waiting to make the same left turn swings out around him, and makes the left turn inches from his front wheel.

if that asshole ever wraps his car around a tree, i’m going to be crying for the tree.

so. right now, i have no sympathy for anyone in the bicycles-vs-cars debate. we’re all assholes, and we all deserve what’s coming to us.

he’s at the specialist vet (they’re unfortunately the really expensive ones), laid up with fluid around his heart and lungs. no theories as to why, yet. we’re scared and worried for the little guy.

this spring, j gave me a bunch of vegetable seeds because he knows i like mucking about in the dirt. early this afternoon, g and i planted the first batch – 2 varieties of radish (cherry belle and easter egg blend) and an onion (italian red of florence). in a few weeks, we’ll put in the rest of the veggies – eggplant, cucumber, honeydew, cayenne and jalapeno peppers, orange bell peppers, and tomatillos.

this is the first attempt at a vegetable bed in this location. last year it was mostly overtaken by james’ hops, and the year before that it was a drought-resistant flowerbed (except that it rained a lot that year and killed everything). the year before that, it was home to several exuberant pumpkin vines, courtesy of an insufficiently hot composter. we’re attempting a modified square foot garden (with each grid closer to 2′ than 1′ square) – it will be interesting to see what transpires.

the beds on either side are strawberries (going gangbusters into year 3) and roses (surrounding fred).

so, the interesting thing about repeat miscarriages, it seems, is that there’s not a whole lot to be done if there isn’t some sort of chromosomal or clotting factor issue. when there is such an issue (about a third of the time) there are medical and surgical interventions that can happen. the other two thirds? the medical advice is to keep on truckin’.

or really, keep on fuckin’.

the RE visit today wasn’t too helpful; the resident (who had done a rotation on the psych ward when g was the attending – she recognized him and started to stammer a bit) was scattered and unnecessarily timid. i don’t think a case history should be taken with “um, so you don’t have a history of…?” questions, but maybe that’s just my survey instrument training talking. after 50 minutes of that (and a brief conversation with her attending), she sent us off to the lab, where they promptly relieved me of what felt like half my blood volume. going vasovagal was a distinct possibility. i’d post a photo of the needle site, but you’d just nod at the lovely bruise.

the upshot of all this is that if i don’t get pregnant this cycle, i get to do the clomid challenge next cycle (not as fun as it sounds, but it radically increases the chances of a multiple pregnancy) and have a hysterosalpingogram (i’ll spare the details, mostly because i don’t want to think about them right now – but it’s about as unpleasant as it sounds and will require the heavy painkiller artillery before and after).

w00t.

on tuesday, one of my docs asked me how bad this whole process would have to get before i gave up. i looked at him, and said “hunh? i’ve decided to get pregnant. until someone tells me i’m categorically unable to carry a pregnancy to term, i’m going to do whatever’s necessary. “hard” and “give up” do not compute.”

so, we begin again. with the knowledge now that i’ve a 50% chance of miscarrying – unless the tests tell us otherwise.

in other news, i’m sleeping in a lab tonight to see if the docs can determine a cause of my insomnia.

laloca: a one-woman effort to keep the DC-area medical establishment humming.

in the next few months, i am going to have a crash course in the work done by reproductive endocrinologists.

funny, i never thought that this would be my life. but miscarriage #3 seems to be concluded, so we’ll see what happens. i may or may not blog about this, or anything else much. the urge to stick my virtual head in the virtual sand is strong.

(and it just struck me that when i created the category “women’s reproductive health” i never thought i’d be talking about me…)

1535: henry viii declares himself head of the english church.
1780: continental congress establishes court of appeals.
1879: harper’s weekly runs first cartoon portraying donkey as the symbol of the democratic party.
1934: babe ruth signs contract for $35k.

and most important of all:

1944: my dad was born.

happy birthday, dad!

i need to eat dinner. and some dessert. and maybe then a bit more food. but before midnight – because tomorrow morning’s my surgery.

bah.

g accompanied me to the pre-op appointments on tuesday, wherein i had my vitals taken, my pregnancy status ascertained, the informed consent forms presented and signed (it’s surgery; it’s on an extremity; YOU COULD STILL DIE. yes, thank you.), the anaesthesia type determined (sedation with a block; general if that doesn’t take – i have a history of waking up during procedures), and the post-surgery boot and crutches acquired and fitted.

a few words on those last two. i get most of my health care at walter reed, so i’m used to seeing the casualties of the war on terror. amputees walking (or rolling) the halls, burned soldiers awaiting new skin grafts, and so on. but the rigid boot is provided by the prosthetics department, and the crutches by physical therapy. so at the end of my multitude of appointments yesterday, i felt like i was invading their territory: there i was, a (mostly) healthy woman, standing in a line of wheelchairs in prosthetics. then, a physical therapist ran me through the basics of walking with crutches, and getting myself up and down stairs. around me, soldiers were trying to learn how to walk again, or stretch, or just balance themselves.

i know i should have this surgery – with each passing day, my foot hurts more, the bones continue to erode. but it seems almost frivolous to have the procedure done when i’m surrounded by men and women with real injury.

i had signed up for NaBloPoMo with the best of intentions. a post a day for a month? i could handle that. even with some light holiday travel, i could post from my phone. i’m not working right now, so what better way to exercise my photography and writing muscles?

who was i kidding. this is 2009. if there’s been a consistent theme this year, it’s been this: make a plan, have it fucked with. it’s amazing we even got to mexico (the asshattery of acapulco notwithstanding), all things considered.

so what happened to my plans this month? well, i learned two new medical terms, of course. (i hate learning new medical terms. “fetal bradycardia” was the first one of the year, and it’s been a constant suck since then.) these are the new two:

giant cell tumor of the tendon sheath; and
pigmented villonodular synovitis

there’s a school of thought that they’re really the same thing, just in different sites. from a treatment point of view, it doesn’t matter which one it is. neither is malignant; they’re both benign aggressive soft tissue tumors.

and i have one or the other in my right foot. it’s about the size of a golf ball. it wasn’t always so big, and only recently has it begun to cause any pain. by now, though, it has enveloped the two peroneus tendons and eaten up part of the cuboid bone (the x-ray and MRI look amazingly like a mouse has been at it). because of this, it needs to be removed before it causes major permanent structural damage. it needs to be removed NOW, because i’m still trying to get knocked up, and i’m not about to undergo general anaesthesia while newly preggers – again (we saw how well that worked out back in april). or, for that matter, hugely preggers (i know i’m getting ahead of myself, but i’m still hopeful). and since it’s an aggressive tumor, if it’s not removed, it’s going to keep growing, getting more painful, and doing more damage to my dainty (okay, size 9 – but it’s long and elegant at the moment) foot. even with the tumor removed, there’s a 45% chance it will grow back. grmpf. the upshot is that the week after thanksgiving (and two days before my birthday, no less – those plans certainly got screwed too), i’m going back under the knife.

that’s right. i’m headed for four surgeries in oh-nine. one for each quarter. yay me.

so i’ve been too grumpy to blog daily, and for the last week i’ve been gimpy due to pain and swelling following an exuberant core biopsy that angrified the tumor and the foot, which cut in on photography, and my plans to start working out again, and my plans to look for a job.

and there you go. the universe is mocking me. doing a damn good job of it, too.

photos from the dawn monument stroll. fake polaroid dry transfer technique on scanned paper bag. mixed results. ww2 monument is my least-disliked one.