My Closest Ally

I'm not the type that constantly posts sappy statuses on Facebook about my husband. Or if I do, I tack on some crude or sarcastic humor for good measure. ;) But I feel the need to give him some serious props for going through this latest journey with me.

When he found out I would have fertility issues (before getting married), he didn't panic or run the other way. He calmly told me that being with me was the most important thing. Anything else was just icing.

When the treatments put me in the hospital, he didn't panic. He took days off of work, never leaving my side. Unquestionably taking better care of me than a single nurse there. Remaining unfazed by my ballooning stature, the IVs in my arms, or the fluid leaking from my abdomen.

When we found out I was pregnant with not one, but two, he didn't panic. He did joke, "As long as it's not three." No question though, I started to panic at this point, and he kept me sane with his stillness.

When some blood work came back, showing that I was at a higher risk for one or both babies having a chromosomal disorder, he didn't panic. He just kept asking me how I was, what I wanted to do, and promising to be there with me no matter what happened. (I decided to not do any invasive testing, since my odds were still fairly low, and it didn't feel worth the risk of miscarrying both.)

And now, as the reality of the situation is slowly sinking in, he's not panicking. When I freak out thinking about how we're going to afford two of everything, from diapers to cribs, or how we'll manage our time with two little ones (which, you know, with a pregnant woman.. usually involves a serious crying session), he remains steadfast and reassuring. Always quick to say that he's willing to do whatever it takes to take care of his family.

So, to my husband, I am so lucky and grateful to have you by my side during this huge life shift. Every single day, I see women either trying to do it by themselves, or with much 'lesser' and unsupportive men. But you constantly surprise me -- always going above and beyond what I expect from you; without complaint. And every step, set-back or progress, we go through, I find myself falling even more in love with you.. somehow surprised that the amazing man I married is in fact more amazing than I ever anticipated. Your love for me, and now your future children, is inspiring. You have been my closest ally, and I can't wait to see you as a father. <3

Follistim, OHSS, and a Long Hospital Stay (Part Three)

So I ended Part Two with me telling the nurse I was ready for the drain. And by ready, I mean, felt like I was about to have a heart attack/stroke/etc. Within an hour's time, I was having difficulty breathing and my blood pressure was through the roof. I was legitimately scared -- though equally terrified of the drain being put in.

The nurse said she'd get in touch with my doctor. Problem was, it was 7pm-ish. This might take awhile.

After about a half hour (which felt like forever), she came back to my room. She stated that the person that usually does that has left for the night and they want to know, "Could you possible wait until morning?"

The look of disgust on my face as I looked up at her probably answered the question, but I still stated a very firm "No." She then disappeared into the hall again.

Another half hour passed, and she returned. "Okay. They called in the team to do it. They'll come get you shortly."

The team? How many people does it require to get fluid out of my abdomen? If I wasn't still struggling to breathe, I would have panicked more about this.

Finally.. at about 8:30pm, they arrived with a wheelchair to take me down to radiology. The guy pushing me was trying to make small talk the whole way.. which I was in no condition to do. Meanwhile, it feels like you're in a sick parade when you're being rolled around -- no make-up or even hair brushed -- as you're going by nurses' stations and guests walking the halls. And there I was, without candy to dispense.

He wheels me into radiology and there is a doctor and another female in there. They tell me to "get up on the table." Always my favorite phrase from any physician.

The doctor does some casual chit chat as he's preparing the equipment, explaining they'll start with an ultrasound in order to find a big pocket of fluid to drain. He then informs me that, although it's not protocol, they're going to leave the drain in my side so that nurses can drain fluid whenever I need it. In other words, I'm going to have a plug and little baggie hanging from my side for the duration of my hospital stay. Ehhhhhhh.

They start the ultrasound, and as they sweep across my belly button, the doctor notes, "Well, her ovaries are all the way up here." o.O Um. What now? "Your ovaries are about the size of grapefruits right now. They're taking up your entire lower abdomen."

He then had me roll onto my left side. They gave me a small (aka useless) numbing injection. Then he said, you're going to feel a poke, and then it's going to hurt as I push this in. I opted to NOT look at the needle and tube he was referring to as "this." And holy begeebus, he wasn't kidding. But really the worst part was what happened next.

"Okay, you're going to feel a 'pop' and then some suction sensation." :O

And... POP! Within seconds, fluid was gushing through this tube and into a HUGE, clear biohazard canister. It looked exactly like the canisters you see when you see liposuction on tv. I watched as the canister filled up with a pinkish-clear fluid. I think I would have puked if I hadn't been in total shock, and reeling from the completely bizarre sensation of suction around my internal organs.

They drained 2 liters that night, attached the bag (yuck), and sent me on my way.

Immediately, the bag became a hassle. If I got it caught or it hung loose, it tugged on the incision and HURT. So I had to roll up the bag, wrap it in a washcloth, and store it in my underwear next to my hip. Which meant every potty break involved holding it while I sat down, then trying to balance it on my leg so that it didn't tug/pull out of my stomach. Made for lots of fun, let me tell you.

On the plus side, it was instant relief. By the time I got back to my room, I was breathing easy and I wanted food. Lots of food. There was finally room in my stomach. Luckily, this was roughly the same time that Brad located a nearby pizza place that had vegan garlic bread and pasta. After nothing but broth, pickles, and salads for 5 days.. it was A-M-A-Z-I-N-G.

But then something happened that nobody warned me about. I was about halfway done eating and I got a sharp pain in my abdomen, near where my right ovary should be. And I mean SHARP pain -- as if someone just stabbed me with a knife and started twisting it. I had read how OHSS patients could have an ovary twist and die off, so I was freaking. I was writhing in pain on my bed and crying (and I don't cry unless it's reallllly bad). The nurse then asks, "Do you want a Tylenol?"

Um. Go F yourself lady. You really think I've gone through all this without a complaint and then a Tylenol is strong enough for something that's making me cry; barely able to talk? And Brad, knowing that I'm not one to cry from pain, was legitimately scared. I could see it on his face as he stood by my bedside, helpless. The nurse left to call my specialist.

As the minutes went by, the pain was getting worse and worse. Brad kept asking me where the pain was and how it felt. I kept thinking, "Does he think I'm about to pass out and he's going to have to the tell the nurses what happened?"

The nurse returned after 10-15 minutes (yes, I wanted to kill her for taking so long), and said my doc doesn't think anything happened with my ovary, but that since the fluid is gone, they're basically bouncing against other organs and pulling on ligaments. He apparently had approved me to get some morphine and oxycodone. The idea of accepting it made me uneasy (I'd never been on anything stronger than hydrocodone, and that made me feel awful), but the pain was horrendous, so I told her to go ahead.

UGH! Worst and weirdest feeling ever. It felt like someone hit me in the back of the head; I was instantly 'fuzzy' .. but I also felt like I was going to vomit. Like being drunk and hungover at the same time. I never want that shit again -- even though it did successfully stop the pain. And luckily, it never returned. So whether it was my ovary pulling/hitting something, or perhaps a cyst bursting (what I now suspect), I'll never know.

That night, I slept amazingly well. Since my stats had returned to normal, they left me alone most of the night, so I could actually sleep several hours in a row. But by mid-morning.. the swelling had returned. In fact, my legs were more swollen than ever before. One of the nurses looked alarmed. "I can't even feel where your kneecaps are." o.O

I decided to take another shower anyway. And I didn't realize how bad it was until I was naked in front of the bathroom mirror. I kid you not, my first thought was, "Oh my god! I look like Peter Griffin." And my friends, that was no exaggeration. I turned to my husband, my face filled with shock and dismay.. wondering if he'd ever be able to burn this image from his brain. I muttered, "Can you believe THIS?!" He kind of chuckled, "No. I honestly didn't think you could hold any more fluid, but now you look like Kim Kardashian."

Bless him. He was referring only to my now huge butt. Problem was, I looked like Kim Kardashian if she was 12 months pregnant. I really couldn't believe my eyes. I stood there with in my Peter Griffin glory, a hole in my side with a baggie hanging down. I was amazed that Brad didn't bolt out at that point. But he didn't. He helped me shower, acting as if nothing was different or off about me.

It's hard to explain, but this whole experience has made me feel more loved by him, and more grateful to have him in my life, than anything else we've been through.

At any rate, I clearly was blimping back up. And in fairness, the doc had warned me that the relief and decrease in swelling would be short lived. "Oh, the fluid will come back. That's why we have them leave the drain in. So when you can't take it, we'll take a little off the top."

Within a couple hours, I asked for more to be drained. So, they drained another liter. This time, right at my bedside. Just when I thought things couldn't get freakier, try having a nurse open up the plug in your side, drape it over the side of your bed, and drain your internal fluids into a bucket. Bleh.

Luckily, the next day (Saturday), the fluid did not return. I had officially "turned the corner." Between the IV and drained fluids, the water was finally staying mostly in my bloodstream. Being discharged from the hospital finally felt like it was within reach...

That's probably enough for one installment. I always think these posts are going to be short until I start reliving what actually happened. So the next part will include the drain removal, my discharge, and recovery at home :) Stay tuned.

We're Back... (And My HSG)

After a long, and much needed, break.. we're back at it.

Since the standard pills (Clomid and Femara) didn't do anything for us, injections (Follistim) are next.

Before my doc would start injections though, he required that I do an HSG (Hysterosalpingogram). If you're not familiar with this procedure, be grateful. They basically inject some dye, through your cervix, into your uterus and fallopian tubes. They then take an x-ray, looking to see if there are any blockages or deformed areas.

Let me describe how it went.

My hubby was kind enough to take the day off of work, so he could drive me the hour to the doc's office.

We go in and register. It only took about 5 minutes before a technician called my name. She walked me back to this tiny dressing room. On the bench inside was a box of generic pantyliners, and some hospital socks. She handed me two gowns; one to put on normally (open in the back), and the other to put on as a robe. She said, "You can leave your shirt on, but nothing below the waist. And when you're done, just come out here." She pointed to her right, to a small corner in the hallway, that was surrounded by a curtain.

Um. Okay.

I proceeded to strip down and put on my sexy booties. As I headed out to the hall, to see what was behind the curtain, I found 2 other women in the same get-up.

Awkward....

It's not very often you can sit in a waiting room, and know with absolute certainty that none of the women are wearing panties.
For our privacy, I assume, they secluded all of us non-ovulators into this tiny corner and hid us away from the world.

They also kindly provided us with a little information sheet about how the procedure is done. It went great lengths (and ALL CAPS) to explain that many women feel lightheaded afterwards, and that if you do, there's a chain to pull in the dressing room if you need help.

Hmm. Interesting.

So, the technician comes in and tells us the order in which we'll be called. I'm last.

The first woman goes in. I hear them call for her husband to join her. Ironically, he's also named Brad. I chuckled to myself at the idea of her calling "Bradley!," and my husband coming back to see a different woman spread out on the table.

A few moments later, I hear the patient let out a few grunts. Within minutes, the technician runs out to a pantry in the hall, grabbing cans of juice. She quickly murmurs to us, "She just passed out. This might take a little while."

We then hear her talking to the doctor. "Yeah. She passed out. Right on the table. Nope. She didn't even get up first."

Uhhhhhh.

Eventually, the first woman walks back to her dressing room, with her husband supporting her on one side. He then has to go in to help her get dressed.

Next!

The second woman goes back. Her spouse/partner was apparently not present, or opted to not come back. As a bonus for being last, they let hubby come back to my little seclusion corner and sit with me.

So, I'm sitting there, telling my husband how the first lady actually passed out, when we hear screaming. Not just one scream. Not a grunt. But full on, "Someone shot me in the leg!" kind of screaming.

The second patient was clearly having a rough go of it. "It HURTS! It huuuuurts! Stop! Can you stop? Get it OUT!"

THAT is when I got a little shit-my-pants terrified anxious.

I turn to my husband. "SEE what I have to do?!"

I then joke, "Well, she'll be an epidural candidate."

It was my way of reminding myself that if I really wanted to go through labor, this can't scare me by comparison.

Patient #2 emerges, gives me a quick smile with a concerned look on her face, as if apologizing; knowing that her screams of terror have likely given me even more fear.

My turn! No doubt, my stomach was churning and I was tensing up. Bad news bears.

I go into the room, which is very dark, and VERY cold. Granted, they made me remove the 'robe' gown.. so my ass was out for everyone. I knew that between the blue hospital gown and brown hospital booties, my husband was beyond excited. But he'd have to wait. Doctor is going in first.

So, I lay down on this metal table. The technician instructs me, "Just relax. Here are some handles to squeeze when it gets painful. Oh, and it's best if you let your legs just drop to the side... kind of go "froggy."

Sure lady. I'll relax while gripping something in pain. Seems legit.

Doc comes in. Puts on all his protective garb (I get none).

Well, hello cold speculum. It's been awhile.

I can feel everything, but I can't see anything. I just have to stare at the ceiling, hoping this goes quickly.

Unfortunately, the doc is giving me a play-by-play. "Okay, now you're going to feel a pinching... Now, some pressure. Okay, in about 5 seconds, it's going to hurt."

Why tell me that? As soon as you say that, every sphincter in my body tightens up more than a nun at an orgy.

And there it was. The worst internal pain I'd ever had. But I'm a silent sufferer and always have been. No grunt, no yell, no cry. Just breathe.

And just as you're about to breathe through it, the technician yells, "Hold your breath!"

I can't say it was horrific, or that I even wanted to scream. It felt like someone poured some acid into my uterus, and the "pain" really comes from not being able to move or do anything to make it stop. You just have to lay there and take it.

The good news is that it only lasts 15-20 seconds before it dulls down into some cramping.

The doctor leans over, rubbing my arm. "You did great. And Carol, you have a PERFECTLY shaped uterus."

Thank goodness. My husband can now brag to all his buddies about his wife's perfect uterus.

Additionally, my tubes are clear and ready for egg and sperm travel. So, game on. Next month, we'll be starting injections. We'll definitely keep you posted.

Meant To Be?

So, this is sort of a follow-up post to yesterday.

As is usually the case, whenever I post about bad news.. or 'unsuccessful' news, people are pretty supportive and encouraging.

But, I had a lot on my mind as I was posting yesterday's blog.. and even moreso, after reading the responses on my Facebook page. So, this may all seem a bit jumbled, but I'll do my best :)

First, I know anyone that has been down this road can relate to the sheer annoyance when someone tells you to, "Just relax, and it'll happen." or "I bet if you stopped trying, you'd get pregnant."

Usually, you smile and nod.. because debating the true logistics of things, just isn't worth it. Still, it's annoying, at the very least.. when someone speaks about perhaps the most trying thing in your life, as if you just told them that the grocery store was out of bread.

"Just be patient. It'll happen."

What these well-intentioned people don't realize, is that you already had a couple years of 'not trying' or 'not stressing.' Guess what? It didn't happen. Or that your body literally won't ovulate without medical intervention. So, 'waiting it out' will do nothing.. but waste time.

Then, of course, there's this assumption that you're not getting pregnant, because you're stressing about it. Alas, I'm really not. I'm pretty calm about the whole thing. I have bad days.. but that's it. Just a day or two, and I move on. In fact, it's sometimes so far in the back of my mind, I nearly forget to take the medicines. Clearly, a far cry from 'over-whelming' my daily life.

Which leads me to another set of comments that also gets thrown around a lot. "If it's meant to be, it'll be." or "It'll happen when it's supposed to happen." or "Things always find a way to work out."

These are perhaps the statements that get under my skin the most.

First, I don't believe in destiny or a divine plan. I think life happens, and it's up to us how we respond to it. We create the perspective; or the framework.. if you will. It's not that things 'always work out for the better.' It's that we choose not to dwell on the negative, and instead, focus on the positives. Why? Cause it makes life bearable.

Things just don't always "work out." As much as we like to tell ourselves that.. to make us feel all warm and cozy. It's simply not true.

It's called life.

Those of us lucky enough to not currently be starving, or watching our loved ones die in bloody conflicts or terrorist bombings on a daily basis, get to wax philosophical about how if you wait long enough, everything gets better. But the reality is, it doesn't.

The truth is, for us, if something doesn't work out, we have the luxury of moving on, trying something else, and forgetting about the failure. In other words, things don't get just 'get better.' Our reflection on them gets better. Our perspective improves. Our coping mechanisms adapt.

Also, these "meant to be" statements, backhandedly are saying.. "If you don't have a kid, it's because it's not meant to be." That's a real nice and uplifting sentiment, right? I suppose the drug addicts that I see on a regular basis, are "meant to" have a dozen kids.. because they do.

Again, I know these remarks are meant to be inspiring. But honestly, they're belittling.

Because the bitter truth is that it's a very real possibility that we won't have children. We may not be able to afford the treatments. My body may never respond like it needs to. If I get pregnant, I may have a miscarriage. And so on, and so on.

But IF we DO have a child, it's not cause it's meant to be. It's because science worked. The medicine made my hormones rise and fall at exactly the right time. My husband's genes mixed with my genes.. without critical flaw. Cells multiplied. And there it was.

Not a miracle. Not a divine right, or gift from above. Just... science playing the odds.

So, I'll say it again and again. Call me a pessimist (I prefer realist). I was never "meant to be" a mother.. any more than I was "meant to be" a singer or a coal-miner. The difference is, I think I'd be a good mother.. and I'd like to see if I'm right.

Third Time's A..

So, I just got home from my ovarian ultrasound.. This was my third round on Femara/Letrozole. As you might recall, it worked the first cycle (I got a mature follicle), but didn't work the second time.

Given the 50/50 outcome, I wasn't sure what to expect on the third try.

So I took my meds, did my yoga.. everything the same as both times before.

On Tuesday afternoon, I got a call from the doc's office, saying that no ultrasound tech was going to be in Lafayette on Friday, so I'd have to come to Indianapolis at 8am to get it done.

Freaking fantastic.

I was immediately annoyed. Now I had to drive an hour out of my way, in rush hour traffic, to probably get news of absolutely nothing.

Luckily, my wonderful husband decided he'd go into work late, so that he could drive me.

So we got up at the crack of dawn to head towards Indy.. to an office in which I'd never been.

Upon our arrival, we made our way to the second floor of the medical building. Looking for the correct suite number.

Found it.

Paused.

This was a tiiiiiiiiny waiting room, filled with anxious women.

Literally, there were only 6 chairs, and the room was half the size of our bedroom. I immediately chuckled to myself as I thought, "This is going to be fun to write about later."

I walked into this tiny space, lit only by two very dim table lamps. There was a clipboard sitting next to a clock... just outside the receptionist's window. Nobody said hello. In fact, nobody said one word the entire time I was in there.

So, I signed in on the clipboard. Moments later, a mysterious hand reaches out from behind the sliding plastic window, pulls my name from the top, sets the clipboard back down.. then slides the window shut again.

No hello. No smile. The receptionist literally made no eye contact with anyone in that room.

This was the most bizarre waiting room I'd ever been in.

All the women huddled in the darkness, away from the silent/avoiding receptionist. The awkwardness was palpable.

No radio. No television.

Each woman pretending not to know why everyone else was there. Some nervously typing, with an annoying clicking, on their blackberry phones. Others, browsing Us Weekly. None of us making any eye contact with each other.

I sat there, wondering what phase these women were in. Which medications? How much had they spent?

And do I want to keep doing this?

This life of waiting rooms, debt, tension, sadness.. It never looked appealing. But this made it look dreadful.

I know some women will literally do "whatever it takes." I don't think I'm one of those women. I've never felt like I "needed" to be a mother. I just felt like I'd be a good one.

Just not sure how much I'm willing to spend.. in physical, emotional, and financial costs.. in order to prove myself right.

Finally, they called my name from behind the door. That's right, they didn't even walk out into the waiting room to greet you.

Two seconds later, I'm in an even smaller room, with the all-familiar stirrups. And the room was almost completely pitch black. Just the glow of one dim lamp reflecting off the assortment of medical instruments.

"Just get undressed from the waist down, and I'll be right back." said the big black woman who walked me here. Apparently, she was the ultrasound tech.

This routine, I knew well. Let the scanning begin!

Left ovary. Lots of follicles.. none large enough.

Right ovary. Lots of follicles.. none large enough.

Well, that was a waste of a trip.. and $200.

So, she instructs me to return to the waiting room, because I'll be meeting with a nurse.

Ah, maybe to discuss meds? Talk about costs of more intensive options? Who knows. So I wait.

"Carol." I hear from behind the door again. I open it to walk down the hall, and there's a nurse.. shoving an invoice in my face.

"Well, everything looks okay. Just hand this to Miss So-and-so and she'll get you taken care of."

Ugh. What?

Miss So-and-so was standing all of 6 inches from us.. so I turned and handed it to her. She stated the total, took and swiped my credit card. I guess that's all Miss So-and-so needed from me.. that the nurse couldn't directly hand to her. :/

And here's the WORST part.

As I'm paying my $220 ultrasound bill, the overly highlighted nurse says, "So, everything looks good here. So, go ahead and take your injection tonight."

I look at her probably with a mix of 'puzzled' and 'disgusted' across my face.

She looks confused, "You're on the booster shot, right?"

I sternly reply, "I didn't think any of the follicles were big enough... so..."

She looks down at the chart, scanning it up and down.. like a pre-schooler pretending to read. "Ummmm. Yeah. You're.. uh.. right. Sorry." Followed by silence as I'm signing my receipt.

Finally, as I go to grab my copy of the receipt and walk out, the half-comatose nurse murmurs to me, "Yeah, so.. we'll call you. We'll have to ask him about that."

Sure thing lady.

The whole experience at this office was so weird. From unprofessional, to strange, and right back to unprofessional. Luckily, I wasn't really on edge or emotional, or I probably would have burst into tears when I corrected the idiot nurse who's telling me to go ahead with the injections because everything looks "okay."

So, then the long drive home.

I wasn't really sad.. just left feeling like.. now what? Do we try the next step (injectables), or do we just admit that this isn't working, and accept a life without children?

It's hard enough answering that question for myself.. Let alone agreeing on a plan of action with another person who is equally involved in the matter... My husband.

About halfway home, I turned the radio off and asked, "So, what's next?"

He didn't know any more than I did.

We talked about the costs. Injectables cost $3000-5000 every cycle. A far cry from the $300-400 we're spending now.

But, they're much more likely to work.

So, we had to discuss regrets. Would we regret when we're 50, that we didn't spend $9000 to try to have kids? Was it worth risking?

Is it even feasible? We're doing 'okay' right now.. but I have some dental work coming up. Can we afford that much debt? Is it worth getting a second job?

The only things we could agree on were these:

1) If we spent $9000, and I got pregnant, we wouldn't regret spending the money.
2) If we spend the $9000, and I didn't get pregnant, we weren't sure if we'd regret trying or not.. but probably not. Because then we'd at least be able to say we gave it the good college try.
3) It's hard to rationalize spending $15000 on a one-day wedding, but not $9000 on a possible child.
4) We could cut straight to adoption, IF we decide that's an option for us, but you're still looking at $15000-20000 in costs there anyway.

Conclusion:

For now, we're going to wait a few months. First, I want to be sure it's worth the risk (financially and physically). Then, I feel like we should be squared away with a house before risking large sums of money on fertility. And I don't want to take out a loan for treatments, that could impact our ability to even get a mortgage.

But on a truly honest level, the more I'm going through this.. the less it feels like a "need." I think after you get married, it seems like it's the normal next step. And while the possibility of that not happening is a difficult thing to face; sometimes torturous when you imagine yourself at 60 with no children or grandchildren.. it's something I'm coming to grips with.

And the only reason I know that I'm coming to (or returning to) a place of being okay without children.. is that half the time, I'm thinking about all the money we would save, the extra free time, the places we could go, and things we could do.. without children in tow.

I think of all the ways I could use my maternal instincts; animal sanctuaries, adopting more dogs, etc.

But there's still that other 'half of the time' .. when I imagine what our child would be like. Brad's eyes, my nose, and hopefully my math and science nerdiness.. And I REALLY want to meet that person.

One Year

First, I want to thank every person who reached out to me after the last post. So many of you messaged me, texted me, emailed me, etc. Some of you could relate to my story. Some of you had been through it and succeeded. Some of you were still trying. And some of you took completely different paths. I appreciate all of you that took the time to share your stories with me. Thank you.

Which brings me to my current post:

In about a week, I will have been married for exactly one year. Which means, we've actually been trying to get pregnant for about one year... and not preventing for even longer. So, this is officially when the doctors will say you're "reproductively challenged." Nice term, huh? Like my ovaries are riding short bus to school.

In the next two weeks, I have two fertility appointments. One with my original doctor, to ask her to explain why she gave up so fast; after only two cycles on the lowest doseage of Clomid. Typically, they try for at least 6 months on increasing doseages before moving on to more intensive options. Then, the 'consultation' with the specialist to whom she referred me.

I'm looking forward to moving onto the next step, but I'm not really eager to go. These kinds of appointments are always kind of depressing. Why? Because you go in hoping they'll have figured it out. Cracked the code to your specific problem or imbalance. But, they never do. You just follow the regimented steps they learned from their med school textbooks. For example, my diagnosis was made from about 3 symptoms grouped together. There's been no real medical test to confirm or diagnose the extent of the problem. Nobody has even brought it up. I find it peculiar.. In that sense, it probably is better that I'm meeting with a specialist that does nothing but fertility.

It's also depressing when you get a new doctor, for the same old problem. You have to repeat everything, explain all your symptoms, go through your history of heartbreaks and depression. It makes you re-live all those times that you don't even want to think about. What's worse, is that 9 times out of 10, I'll be going alone... which sort of backhandedly reminds me that this is MY problem, not OUR problem.

What's even more depressing, due to timing at the moment, is that this appointment is actually going to kind of muck up our holidays and anniversary. After figuring out our bills, doing our holiday and birthday shopping, and then adding on the doctor's fees... we actually don't have enough left over to go back to the cabin like we intended. I even thought of us just staying in the hotel in West Lafayette that we stayed at the night of our wedding; just to get away and relax for a couple days.. but I'm not even sure we can afford that now.

But not to be too much of a downer.. On the bright side, I only have to work for maybe 4 days out of the next two weeks and half weeks. Had some vacation to take before the end of the year.

And the even better news is, even if I'm upset that we can't celebrate our anniversary the way that I would like... I do get to celebrate an anniversary. Sad as it is, plenty of couples don't even make it to one year. I'm thankful that we've made it work, and actually grown closer when things have gotten hard.

So, to my loving husband... I still choose you. Every second of every day.
I am so thankful to have you by my side through this journey.