Julia

Bor-heme

My name is Lucia but they call me Mimi.

I had assumed that if I was still hale and hearty after seven days of toxic Patrick koala-ing to my chest and sticking his germy fingers in my mouth I would not be succumbing to this virus. I assumed wrong.

I actually don't feel too bad, I am just hacking up a lung. Or two.

Patrick returned to preschool on Monday, having been fever-free all weekend and after assuring me he felt fine. This did not prevent him from immediately announcing to the entire room "I AM SICK! I AM STILL VERY SICK!"

"Ha ha," I said. "You're fine. You were sick but now... HE'S ALL BETTER! NOT SICK ANYMORE!NOTHING TO SEE HERE!"

I thought it was a good save but another mother still questioned me closely at pick-up re. Patrick's illness, treatment and recovery time. So help me if her child gets sick, I'm sure she will haul me up for reckless endangerment. Not that I blame her. There is nothing more annoying than someone sneaking Typhoid Tyler into the playroom but Patrick really IS all better. Granted I now sound like I should be flipping through sanatorium brochures but I am sure it is a coincidence.

Speaking of Patrick, he is obsessed with me. After years, YEARS, of finding me to be a vaguely acceptable substitute provided it could be confirmed that Steve really (really and truly) was not around, I am suddenly Woman of the Year. It's like I am the winsome barrista whose sunny smile brightens every day and Patrick is the taciturn loaner who comes in each morning for a latte he never drinks but simply holds while he stares from a corner. Steve tried to let me sleep past 7:30 this morning but Patrick's cries of outrage and bereavement made it hard to enjoy the moment of solitude.

Steve and Patrick used to have a morning routine and an after dinner routine, neither of which involved me, but for the past several months Patrick has been insisting that I make him breakfast, I play with him after dinner, I give him his bath, and I put him to bed. Is this a stage? It's killing me. I love him more than the four mighty moons of Jupiter squished together but sweet sarah goodwife let there be spaces in our togetherness!

It doesn't help that Steve was gone last weekend and he will be gone again next weekend. Oh. I didn't tell you. On Friday he is going to meet his birth brothers for the first time.

(Sensation!)

After Steve found his birthmother she gave him the information he needed to contact his birthfather, which he did about five years ago. There were a couple of emails exchanged but it eventually became obvious that the guy is not interested in pursuing any sort of relationship. So Steve let it go for a while. Then (suddenly to me but I guess he must have been thinking about it for a long time) while I was in DC with my mom he tracked down one of his birthfather's two sons and called him. After the initial shock (my Dad did which? with whom? and you are... what now?) they apparently had a terrific conversation and Steve is flying to meet up with the one and surprise (as in: "surprise! I am your previously never heard of before ever until this very second half-brother!") the other.

If you want MY opinion (although around here it is very clear nobody does) I think springing yourself like this on somebody is kinda risky. Steve, however, is positively giddy about the whole thing. I have rarely seen him so excited (Steve being the strong silent type) and it is very nice to see him all twitterpated.

Why are these biological ties so important to Steve that he is almost forty years old and still pursuing them? I truly do not know. But they are. And I respect this fact. I, for example, am fascinated by genealogy while my born into the same house raised by the same parents brother can think of few things more tedious and pointless than studying one's ancestry. He cannot even keep track of which states our great-grandparents came from or whether the family fought for the north or the south in that war of Northern Aggression.

Or, for another example, my brother likes bananas and I do not.

Apparently (and here is my pithy summation so you might want to grab a pen)... apparently people are just differently wired. So that while you might have no desire to seek your birthparents and cannot understand those who do, Steve is marginally obsessed by it*.

One can see how this complicates our reproductive decisions, yes?

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand I am going for an hsg/mock embryo transfer tomorrow as we have decided to try yet another IVF/PGD cycle. Locally this time. In April. What the hell, eh? Remind me to tell you what the decision making factors were on this one. It involved a dart board and a handful of fortune cookies.

*Steve would probably object to the word "obsessed". If I asked him. But I think it fits. So I won't.

Nemesis

In that last post I originally noted that Patrick was not ill in any way, he had just braised himself under the blankets while hiding from the dying sun. Then I went on to smugly congratulate myself on the fact that here it is, January, and Patrick has not been sick since school started.

What was I thinking?

Within seconds of typing it I came to my senses and quickly hit delete while spitting, crossing myself, tossing salt over my shoulder and hanging wind chimes made of garlic outside every door and window but it was too late. Like the Black Riders wheeling and shrieking every time pale twitchy Frodo put the damned ring on, Fate had already heard of my hubris and acted swiftly.

Less than twenty-four hours later Patrick's pediatrician diagnosed his rapid on-set high fever, sore thoat, headache, sore neck, cough and stomachache as the influenza. I feel like Niobe, all tears. No sleep. Lots of whimpering. Only marginal improvements so far.

Poor kid.

When he is awake he curls up on my lap and watches some of the shows you suggested. Steve was a little taken aback when he came downstairs to relieve me yesterday and Patrick informed him that the myth of beating the breathalyzer had been busted ("they had thirteen drinks, Daddy, and mints don't help") and curious as to why I was white as a sheet and trembling. Was I coming down with the flu now as well? Why no. Patrick had just forced me to watch an hour long program on snakes. SNAKES. Big squirmy vile dangerous jungle snakes. I HATE snakes. HATE them, even photographs of them. They terrify me. But since it is my fault he is sick, what with my terrible pride, I figured it was the least I could do.

Shudder.

I hope you are better than we are. Now go wash your hands and dip your computer in carbolic.    

Beguine

Patrick likes to start the day off by climbing onto my side of the bed, taking over my pillow, telling me what time it is and then what he dreamed the night before. I lie there like a flounder and hope that maybe, just once, Patrick will talk himself to sleep again. It never happens and eventually he needles me into getting up, ruthlessly overriding my feeble "But I'm still tired"s with his legitimate desire for breakfast.

Yesterday morning I noticed something odd about Patrick when he shoved me over and got under the covers. He was approximately 1000 degrees and soaking wet. It was like cuddling a recently steamed dumpling. His face was bright red.

"Do you feel ok?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Why are you sweating?"

"Because the big orange sun that is 13 million six hundred thousand Kelvins was trying to get into my room and I was hiding under the blankets."

I rolled over and poked Steve. Hard.

"Hey Science Channel Isn't Too Old For Him! Go get your child some juice. And an icepack."

Steve is convinced that Patrick needs to broaden his interests, so while I was gone they started watching TV. I am not sure how this happened because ever since Patrick got creeped out by Elmo (when was that? a year ago? two?) he hasn't wanted anything to do with the uncertainty of network broadcasts (preferring his mindless entertainment in DVD form) but there it is. Patrick is now a hardcore Science Channel devotee.

On the one hand it is sort of cute to hear his excited lectures about how the Milkyway and Andromeda galaxies will one day smoosh together (like this, with hand smooshing) and fascinating to watch the young geek emerging from chrysalis. On the other.... avoiding a supernova by hiding under his alphabet quilt and almost asphyxiating himself in the process? Doesn't seem healthy. Do they have science programs for children? They must. Something that can fulfill Patrick's thirst for black holes without leaving him convinced that he is about to be sucked into one would be ideal. Lemme know if you think of something.            

My embarrassment over trying to sneak an IUI in immediately following the failed frozen transfer has turned into annoyance, largely because my local RE is acting like a jackhole.

Follow me here:

Negative beta followed by a disappointed sigh followed by a new period ten days later.

So I think, well, that didn't work, this is a new cycle, no reason not to try an IUI.

Go in for baseline bloodwork, discover that my estradiol is still extremely high, mention that I had done a FET at my old clinic, get put on birth control pills by the local RE.

Return for second baseline after taking the pill for ten days (this was on Friday). Estradiol lower but still quite elevated. The nurse calls with a two-pronged message from the doctor:

1. finish the pill pack and call us when you get your period

but more importantly

2. the RE did not actually review my initial baseline so this is the first she has heard of any of this. she has just seen the second baseline and is confused (read from tone in which this is said: pissed) as to why I am seeking treatment elsewhere without her knowledge. she will need to get my FET records before she is willing to proceed with me.

Huh.

Also, huh?

Who put me on the pill, then? The pill that incidentally is estrogen based so I am wondering if that is the reason why my estradiol is still over 100. And was it really a big deal? Sure I should have mentioned the FET, I guess, but I honestly did not think it mattered since the embryo did not take and I started a period on time. And... was that a THREAT? It sort of sounded like a threat. Not a "she would love to see those records", but a "if she does not see those records you will never cycle in this town again" threat.

I don't know. It feels unsettling. I hate being in trouble.   

Oh and we joined the Y and I took my first pilates class (Steve and I did it together. Steve was great- limber as a otter. I sucked- quite literally as I could never remember whether I was supposed to be breathing in or out and wound up doing neither until I had to gasp for air) and I seem to have pulled every muscle in my body, core or otherwise. Is yoga easier? I need something easier.

Edited to acknowledge: Oh well yes when you put it like that... ok. I suppose I can see why a medical provider might be interested in knowing, say, what drugs I have been taking and when and how much before giving me more drugs. "Jackhole" assessment retracted. Whether or not she is out to get me: pending further review.

Sandwich

Thursday morning at 8 my mother called in tears- a medical emergency, mostly unexpected.

Friday morning at 6 I flew to Washington with an open-ended return.

The mornings since then have been a bit of a blur. Nights too, actually. Right now my mother is, well, blind and in pain and I am taking care of her while Steve takes care of Patrick. After we got our respective charges to sleep last night Steve and I watched the Seahawks game together over the phone. Since my mom has cable and we have mere satellite in Minnesota I had a five second advantage over Steve as we watched. "Fumble?" he asked. "Bad snap? Who? What? How do you fumble a field.... ohhhhhhhhhhh!"

It all feels surreal.

Not sure when I am home again. Soon I hope. Good wishes appreciated. I send you mine, as always.

Could Be Worse

The beta was <2.

Wait. Is that less than? I always get those symbols mixed up. Less than two, though. The beta was, I mean. Which means negative. Not pregnant. F for Failed.

Being my usual sunny self I feel pretty good about the fact that, in the absence of happyhappyjoyjoy good news, at least it wasn't ectopic or one of those lingering things that never go anywhere but involve multiple blood draws or, much worse, another post-PGD pregnancy that is actually genetically abnormal.

So yay me, I guess.

When I got those faint positives over Christmas I was hopeful that maybe we would be lucky this time. As the days passed and the positives stayed faint I realized that no, nope, uh-uh, no luck, and it was disappointing. I had a good wet disgusting sob after my family had gone to bed one night while Steve hovered on the perimeter waiting to lunge in and hug me (I loathe being hugged. hugging and squishing might be different in intent but they always seem identical to me in practice). After the cry, and in spite of the hug, I felt better and I have continued to feel better ever since.

What are you going to do, eh? We tried. It didn't work. At least it was fairly quick and relatively painless. Oh well.

I just sat here for five minutes trying to decide if I know what we will do next. Next reproductively that is. The very next thing I am going to do is make dinner (ham! sweet potatoes! peas! bread*!) but beyond that... I don't know.

We have talked about

1. another superovulatory IUI (attempted: 1; pregnancies achieved: 1; pregnancies achieved that were genetically abnormal: 1) or

2. another IVF/PGD cycle (attempted: 2; pregnancies achieved: 2; pregnancies achieved that were genetically abnormal: 2) or

3. another try on our own (attempted: ~43; pregnancies achieved: 9; pregnancies achieved that were genetically abnormal: 8)

4. giving up    

Frankly, I think all of our options totally suck so I am going to leave them alone for awhile and see if any improve with age.

*I am not a very good baker but I have been trying lately. The loaves always look lovely and smell great so it is a pity when they have to be used as doorstops.

PS A propos of nothing: During the Christmas visit Steve and I were able to confirm via holmesian deduction that yes, my mother actually goes through our house flipping the toilet paper rolls around so that they pull from the bottom. Every time I think about this I laugh.