A Letter to the Dentist

Dear Dentist,

We do this silly dance every time I visit. Why do you think I never come to see you? Jesus, you're worse than my grandmother (God rest her soul) with the nagging and the questions. Like "How often do you floss?" Are we talking in the weeks immediately leading up to my appointment, or the rest of the time? Because the answer to that question varies depending on the scenario. The former is every day and twice on Sundays, the latter is whenever there's a piece of popcorn lodged between my teeth. And I don't eat popcorn very often.

Can we skip the lecture, please? I'm really not down with the notion of paying someone to give me grief, especially when you should so clearly see it coming.

Let's get real here... Anyone who tells you they floss every day, twice a day, without fail? Is lying to you. Now I know someone is going to comment that they do floss, every day, without fail, and have since they were a toddler. I'm not going to call them a liar outright, but I'm going to think it and view everything they say from now on with more than a soupcon of suspicion.

You know virtually nobody flosses as often as they're supposed to, and because I just shed a lot of blood at the hands of your hygienist, you know I'm one of the abstainers. The script never varies. You'll tell me I need to floss more often, and I'll lie as best I can through unflossed teeth and promise that I will. We both know nothing is going to change. But please, I'm begging, stifle the condescension in your tone. It was hard enough for me to come here on a beautiful day, let's not make it even more unpleasant. 

Sincerely,
Me,
a.k.a., The Girl With The Serious Case of Dentophobia Who Does Not Need Your Shit Today

All else failed

The last round of fertility treatments was unsuccessful. A failed round is easier to take than a successful one that ends in failure, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't disappointing. Successive rounds are more likely to work because with each failed cycle they learn something new. For example, we learned my body doesn't absorb the progesterone suppositories they prescribe in the second half of the cycle to counteract the follicle stimulating drugs they prescribe in the first half. At first I was happy with this news because the more they know, the more they can do to help. But then I realized if we had known this back in February, I might be 5 months pregnant right now. That is a really bitter pill to swallow.

Fixing this means more injections. Intramuscular injections of progesterone every morning, to be specific. For 3 to 6 months. Like most things in life, there are no guarantees that it will work. I went for a teaching session yesterday to learn how to prep the HUGE needles. I'll let you in on a little secret... I am tough as nails, but I am terrified of needles. I held it together until after we got The Parasite to bed, and then I had the mother of all meltdowns. The Husband bore the brunt of it. I have so much hurt and resentment and anger and I have nowhere else to put it.

It has been a year of testing and treatment, poking and prodding, disappointment and heartbreak. I have nothing to show for it but battle scars. Angry expressions of frustration and hurt have taken up residence where love and support should be. This process has put a hole in our little bubble of happiness. Our beautiful little girl deserves an intact family, even if it is a smaller one than we hoped for. If you think that means we're giving up on growing our family, you're absolutely right. It's not worth destroying our marriage and breaking up our daughter's home.

In the immortal words of Marcellus Wallace, I'm pretty fucking far from OK. The uncertainty is over and we can focus on healing our broken hearts and moving on. It's going to be a long, hard road to get to fine, but at least we're determined to get there together.

Dispatches from the clinic

When you spend enough time in a fertility clinic, you'll eventually grow to hate the place. In treatment cycles you start every day in the waiting room, after blood work but before ultrasound. Many of the faces are the same, day after day and month after month. We don't acknowledge this familiarity because it's a shitty club that nobody wants to be in, but we take comfort in other clinic veterans. Oh, you're still here too? Glad I'm not the only one.

The newbies are just adorable. They walk in, usually with their partner, beaming and full of hope. They're giddy until they nearly pass out from the bloodletting that accompanies the first visit. Woozy but still smiling they put on a brave face and take wobbly steps to a chair in the waiting room. They have no idea how many hours their ass is going to spend in one of those chairs in the coming weeks and months. We clinic veterans are too jaded to take them under our wing and let them know what lies ahead. They wouldn't believe us anyway.

I'll see you there tomorrow my friends, old and new. Don't be offended when I don't look up from my book. I'm not much for small talk in the morning anyway.

Begin to start

The fertility treatments are underway. As a woman in her late 30s who delayed marriage and children until my career was established and my party days were over, I am officially a cliche. Onward! I was out of town when I should have been learning how to inject my medication. This was a point of GREAT concern for the staff at the fertility clinic. Eventually I managed to convince them I'd be able to figure it out on my own from written instructions, but just to be on the safe side they directed me to YouTube. Well, I'll be damned! There ARE instructions for everything on YouTube! You can watch the video if you want to, but allow me to save you some time:

1. Put pointy thing on end of pen
2. Jab pointy thing into clean skin
3. Push button

They spend a whole lot of time instructing you to ensure the dose is correct. "Make sure you've got the correct dose. If you don't have the right dose, dial the needle until you do. If you have gone too far, go back! If you accidentally give yourself too much medication, you're kinda fucked but be sure to call your doctor anyway." I'm thinking if there are people seeking treatment who are too stupid to turn a dial on a pen to the correct spot that is quite clearly marked, perhaps we shouldn't be helping them reproduce...

I knew fertility drugs were expensive, but $486 for a FOUR DAY SUPPLY? Holy shit! Thankfully The Husband and I have company drug plans that cover it, but we're going to max out our lifetime limit of coverage pretty quickly at this rate. I'm sure Kid 2.0 will be worth the money and the effort, but I still think it's CRAZY. I'm supposed to believe the clinic doesn't mark up the drugs at all, but that's a little hard to take when I can Tweet from the waiting room using free WiFi.

From a friend with bad plumbing and good nails.

Knowing me like you do (which for most of you is not at all, but let's not sweat the small stuff...) you have to know I have found something funny about the morning ritual. For those new to infertility, if you don't laugh you'll cry so you might as well laugh. You're welcome! Every morning I have an ultrasound with what Naked Mommy has affectionately dubbed "The Dildo Cam." Every morning a strange woman, who usually doesn't introduce herself, orders me to undress and proceeds to poke and prod at my navel. From the inside. But that's not what I find funny about the whole ordeal. After she's done, there's usually a big production about leaving the room while I get dressed. You know, for privacy. I think we're a little past the point of modesty once you've fucked me with a lubeless wand before my morning coffee. But if it makes you feel better, by all means, feel free to leave the room while I retrieve my knickers.

The Course of Treatment

I had a post-surgical follow up with the baby doctor on Wednesday. All systems are go for the plumbing so we're ready to start treatment, which will be daily injections of Gonal-F for me and daily orgasms for The Husband. Hardly seems fair... I tried for something in pill format because I'm just not good with needles, but no dice. In treatment cycles I'll start every day with a wand in the hoohah, a donation to the blood clinic AND a needle in the the belly.

It was too late to start for this cycle (by two days!), the clinic is closed for a couple of weeks over the holidays and will re-open when it's too late for my next cycle, I'm away for a few days in January and then we have a family vacation in February. Both trips involve travel to the U.S. and I'm not keen on running needles past the ever so friendly TSA agents. Our prolonged game of hurry up and wait will continue for a few more months.

We only get three chances with this course of treatment, and The Husband and I have already decided we're not willing to get more expensive. Oops, I mean more aggressive. By The Parasite's birthday in April we'll be done with fertility treatments. We're giving it until the end of next year for something to happen - assisted or not - before we shutter the factory. If The Parasite ends up being an only child, I will be sad but will accept that it wasn't meant to be. That doesn't mean we won't spend the next 12 months giving it our very best shot.

The big day

Tomorrow is the day of my (not that) long-awaited surgery. I'm working from home in the morning before my date with The Vagina Artist in the afternoon. Bow-chicka-bowow! Oh, wait. The Husband is coming with me, so that's not nearly as sexy as it sounds. Even if the doctor is kind of hot. I mean, he'll be up to his elbows in my hoohah. There's just no bringing sexy back from there.

You'd think after a tumour removal during pregnancy and an C-section under a general I'd be kind of blase about a little polyp being taken out with a glorified vacuum and a really long straw. I'm not. I'm kind of dreading the whole thing. But what it boils down to is this: I want another baby. To have another baby, I need to undergo fertility treatments. They won't start the fertility treatments until I have the surgery. So off I go!

I'm dusting off some old faves from a now-defunct journal for your reading pleasure while I recover. Now I'm going to take an extra long time cuddling The Parasite at bedtime so I can remind myself why this is all worthwhile. G'night!

Life with a Parasite has been nominated as a contender for the Circle of Moms Top 25 Canadian Mom Blogs. Please vote for me. You can vote once a day until November 17th. Thank you in advance!

Would you like fries with that?

I think most sales tactics are pretty transparent when you know what to look for, and none is so crystal clear as is... the dreaded upsell. You're already here, why NOT supersize those fries? Or get the purse that matches the shoes? Or upgrade to the "Sport" package? FYI: There is nothing "Sporty" about the "Sport" package on a family hatchback.

I had a consult with the surgeon last week. I anticipated a little chat about what to expect before, during and after the procedure. Maybe a nice, hot cup of tea or cocoa or something. I was NOT, however, expecting another date with the ultrasound wand. Fantastic! Good thing I showered before the appointment. Anyway. I'm having the surgery done at a private clinic. I wondered what business model allowed a private clinic to be profitable in a country with public health care. Now I know, and I kinda wish I didn't. The doctor doing my surgery spends most of his days performing labiaplasty.

So there I was, with an unexpected wand in the hoohah, when the doctor who spends the majority of his days making other hoohahs look prettier noted everything "down there" looks perfectly normal. Ummmmm. Thank you? But did I *REALLY* need to know, as I'm there at half past the asscrack of dawn, with an unexpected wand in my hoohah, that you were also evaluating my upsell potential? GAH!

This one is gonna hurt like hell

Right. So. A couple of months ago, I decided I was going to make time for exercise. And then I kind of didn't, or at least not in a meaningful, consistent way. I bought a jogging stroller (used) so I could walk to pick up The Parasite at daycare a few times a week, and I do sometimes but I have been really busy at work and often don't manage to get home in time to do pick up on foot. I figured I was pretty much destined to a life of blubber.

What's that, you say? Cut back on the wine? Pffft, that's just crazy talk! Instead, after months of searching... OK and a single inbound email, I finally found an exercise class that starts after The Parasite goes to bed. See, she only gets me from 5:00 - 8:00 during the week, and I think she's entitled to every one of those hours unless it's completely unavoidable. I know taking care of myself is important, but she's only going to be really little for a very short time. There will be more me time when she's older and won't have a fucking thing to do with me.

Anyway, the class. It's a circuit training class, and a pretty strenuous one involving weights and pulleys and a truly astounding number of squats. I am sore now, and I'm going to be even sorer (evidently that IS a word) tomorrow. Just in time for me to spend the bulk of my morning talking to a stranger about my lady bits. Because I might as well add physical discomfort to a generally awkward situation.

A royal audience

I have been granted an audience with the Queen! Oh wait, sorry, that's a consult with the surgeon I've been waiting to hear back from for WEEKS. On the 20th I'll have the opportunity to talk way more about my girly bits than I'd like to, then we'll look at a calendar to determine the best timing for the procedure. I'll hold my breath in anticipation while his VERY EFFICIENT booking staff deigns to grant me an appointment for the surgery.

With any luck, I might have step one taken care of before the end of this calendar year! My feigned enthusiasm belies the frustration I feel with this whole process. I'd whine more, but I'm really quite tired. I can't imagine how annoying this would be if I wasn't paying to jump the queue at a private clinic. Forgive me, Tommy Douglas, for I have sinned.

The kid who was "fine" is doing her damndest to cough up a lung and she was kind enough to pass the virus on to me. I can now tell you from personal experience that poor little girl felt like death warmed over for a few days. But we're both on the mend and soon enough we'll resume our plans for world domination.

Thanks for stopping by. Please remember my Quest for 60! After all, self-serving goals are still goals!

HEY! That's my chain!

I have the distinct and unpleasant feeling of the yanking of my chain and this vexes me greatly. Like it's not stressful enough to look ahead to the prospect of surgery and decide if we're going to proceed with fertility treatments, I am already frustrated by the bureaucracy involved in being a part of The System.

The Insurance Company: I faxed my pre-approval form for the fertility drugs on August 18th. I was told the turnaround would be five business days. After not one, not two, but THREE follow up calls, I finally got a call back today (25 business days later, for those playing along at home) to inform me they had come to a decision. That they have sent to me by mail. How quaint!

The Surgeon: The presence of a polyp was confirmed on August 30th. The baby doctor submitted the referral paperwork to the surgeon the same day. The surgeon's office is to call back with the next available appointment time. I'm still waiting. How complicated is this? Look at your booking system. This procedure takes X time to perform. Put my name in the next available spot available for that time required. Call me back, tell me when that is and I'll be there. Even if it was six months away, I'd now be one down, five to go. Not awesome, but not as shitty as having no idea. But no, apparently it's more efficient to field several calls from the same person on the same subject. S-M-R-T!

God forbid they should be efficient in any patient dealings, the hoards might get uppity and expect to be treated like people or something! We can't start treatment after the surgery and the baby doctor can't plan the course of treatment until we know what drugs are covered. So I get to sit. And wait. I am not good at waiting. *grumble*

Running up that Hill

I had the follow up Echovist a couple of weeks ago. I have a uterine polyp that is totally benign but they won't start fertility treatments until it is removed because it could interfere with a normal pregnancy. We have to make sure the coast is clear before we take extraordinary measures to avoid having those efforts thwarted by a preventable miscarriage. I also have to fight with my insurance company to get an answer on whether or not they'll cover the "very expensive" drugs I'll need for the fertility treatments.

I can pay a fee to jump the queue and have the procedure done in a clinic rather than a hospital. Since I've already been waiting for weeks to hear back about an appointment date, I guess that's what I'll have to do. There's a rant somewhere in my loins about two-tiered health care in a provincially-run system, but I'll save that for later. You may or may not be surprised by my feelings on the matter and I don't want to detract from the point at hand, which is that I hate the idea of having another surgery.

During a routine ultrasound while I was pregnant, they found a benign growth that was growing faster than the baby. Soon they'd compete for the same space, and the odds of the baby winning were slim. So at 19 weeks I had surgery to remove it, with the understanding that we could lose the baby but prevent a hysterectomy so we could try again. We now know and love that baby as The Parasite, so everything turned out OK but it was the most terrifying experience I have faced to date.

A little later on in the same pregnancy, I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes. I managed it just fine without insulin and if I knew then what I know now I would have challenged the medical recommendations more. I didn't so I went along with the invasive, inconclusive monitoring and was induced at the recommended time for GD patients. And my labour story ended in more surgery.

The battle scars are faint, but they're still there. Now I face the prospect of another war wound for a baby that doesn't exist yet. We are good and loving parents who face an uphill battle every time we try to grow our family. Meanwhile right now, someone, somewhere is hovering over a toilet and peeing on a stick, muttering "Oh fuck, please don't let it be positive. He said he'd only put it in for a minute!" They're praying to a God they haven't spoken to in years to ensure the thing *I* want most doesn't happen to them. Time and again I learn the lesson that life just isn't fair.

A little bit broken

The results are in and they're... mediocre? Everything is working mostly as expected. I still have eggs, though fewer than a younger woman would. The Husband still has swimmers, though fewer healthy ones than a younger man would. We're just... old. Three years older than we were the last time around, which was already on the older side by childbearing standards. We've been advised to get more aggressive on the ART front because my lower egg reserves might not hold out for long.

There's also the possibility of a uterine polyp - totally benign - which wouldn't be the root of our problem but would still require minor surgery to remove. If I do get pregnant without removing it, it could cause complications. And another complicated pregnancy is pretty much the last thing I'll ever need. Remember the Echovist? The delightful waterboarding of the uterus that was SO MUCH FUN last time? I have to have another to confirm if there is a polyp. My doctor is going to do it himself and has sworn that it won't hurt a bit if *HE* does it. I might bet him $1,000,000 and see if he's still as confident.

If there's a polyp I'll have it removed (day surgery) and then the fertility treatment begins in earnest. We faxed off a list of fertility drugs to my insurance company to see what/if they'll cover because the drugs are VERY expensive. I'll be drugs for me (likely Clomid) and IUI using washed sperm to make sure it's only the finest swimmers being sent exactly the right place at exactly the right time. If there's no polyp we go straight to treatment phase right now.

Oh, and the intervention means a 25% chance of multiples if a pregnancy occurs. Yes that means a 75% of not multiples, but still! We need to decide if we're OK with the idea of having THREE kids when we were trying to have two. When it was theoretical i.e., *IF* I need fertility drugs the chance of twins increases, my feelings were much more clear. Now that it's closer to reality (1 in 4? Holy shit!) I'm a little less certain. The idea of three kids isn't the scary part - it's having two babies and a preschooler at the same time. Looks like we have some thinking to do.

Post Postponed

Oh hey! You might remember that I was to have the follow up appointment with the fertility specialist yesterday. Perhaps you're wondering what he had to say about our baby situation. ME TOO! They called me on Monday to reschedule my appointment until next week. Don't worry, it's not like I'M DYING TO KNOW or anything.

Apparently someone undergoing IVF takes precedence when their number comes up. Seems they've got a very limited window of opportunity, so while I'm a teeny bit sad that we have to wait a little longer, I wish whoever I got bumped for the very best of luck. Babies are awesome and they deserve their shot. Besides, we've been trying for 14 months. What's one more week?

Ask the Host Q3: When do you start to worry?

Hi! I've been reading about your trips to the fertility clinic and it got me thinking about when to start worrying. My partner and I aren't trying to have a baby now but when the time is right we would like it to happen pretty quickly. I have a child from a previous relationship. How did you know things weren't clicking? I thought once you have had a baby there would be nothing to worry about.

Yup. A lot of people, present company included, never thought getting pregnant the second time around would be a problem once a couple has successfully sprung their offspring on an unsuspecting world. Hahahaha, silly us. Turns out secondary infertility is quite common and often goes untreated because people don't think there could possibly be a problem and therefore don't seek help.

I am a dork and I tend to keep track of things obsessively thoroughly. I knew I was doing everything with timing. The Husband and I were getting freaky when we should have been every month. If you're over 35 "they" say you should start investigating if you have been trying for six months. I saw my doctor after nine months and then didn't get around to doing anything about the referral until it had been a year. I kind of hoped the problem would take care of itself, but no.

Every month that goes by when you're trying gets a little more frustrating. Watching for that little egg on your tracking calendar gets tired after a while. Remember the last time you had a horrible, awful day? Think about having a little smiley face on your monitor giving you a thumbs up when you'd rather have teeth pulled without anaesthetic. Am I painting you a pretty picture here?

You have no control over how long it will take once you decide it's go time. My advice to you would be to rule out problems before you get there. Are you using hormonal birth control? Stop at least three months before you're going to start trying. Hell, if it's on the horizon anyway, stop now. Get yourself familiar with a Basal Body Temperature thermometer and start tracking your cycles. You don't need to be as obsessive about it as I am, but it's good to be aware of situation normal. 

Above all else, try not to worry about it. Something like 80% of couples succeed in the first year of trying. That's some pretty good odds in your favour. Thinking about it too far out is likely to take all the fun out of it. Good luck!

This post is part of a weekly series, Ask the Host, that allows you to ask any question you want as long as you're prepared for completely honest answers. Got a question? Send me an email with "I have a question" in the subject line.

The Spa - Take TWO!

This was a long weekend. Usually that means at least one day of sleeping in and starting my morning with The Parasite in our bed for a cuddle before we all head downstairs for breakfast. But the fertility clinic is open every day for cycle monitoring and that means arriving at around 8:00 for blood work and an ultrasound. The internal kind. Best part? They don't want to do anything that could damage swimmers later in the day, so it's being screwed with no lube. Yeah, it's about as fun as it sounds.

When they find a tumour when you're pregnant, you have A LOT of ultrasounds. You learn more about their normal parameters than anybody should. I have had about 100 of them so when I share the following tidbit, you know it's from someone who has a good idea of how things should be: Saturday's sonographer was a sadist. There are points in an internal ultrasound that are... uncomfortable. This was not "discomfort", it was pain. When I told her she was hurting me she yelled at me and told me it was my fault because my bladder was full (it wasn't). This woman managed to be tortuous AND demeaning, and the experience left me driving home in tears feeling violated. Not cool.

I tried shaking it off. I told myself I should just forget about it because I might have to keep going to the clinic for months and who needs to make it any more unpleasant? For the next two days the sonographers were perfectly lovely. But that's just not right. What if it were an abuse survivor on the other end of that wand? I was upset, they would be completely traumatized. I have to file a formal complaint, there's just no way around it. But won't worry that today. I'll think about it tomorrow, because tomorrow is another day.

Suffice it to say Saturday's incident cast a shadow on my weekend. It has been more than a little stressful and I need to do something about the way I feel. The last time I took a day off for some time to myself things did not go as planned. After this diagnostic cycle is over some time this week, I have the joy of spending next weekend with my in-laws. They are lovely people but OMFG!, four days of anyone gets to be a bit much. Starting from a massively stressed point is not a good idea. I have booked an extra day off on Thursday so I can have a massage and work up to putting on a happy face. I can do it! I think...

That happened

I had the Echovist procedure on Friday. I... did not like that at all. The specialist was a liar when he said it was painless, it hurt like a bitch. The Husband compared the hand squeezing to when I was in labour. According to the doctor actually doing the procedure - who is not the one who told me I have dinosaur eggs - I have "beautiful, open tubes" so tubal occlusion is now ruled out the cause of our infertility. I guess that makes it worth it.

In addition to the Advil they ask you to take an hour before the procedure, there's a course of antibiotics for a few days before and after. Any time you're introducing a foreign object into a sterile area there's the chance of infection. They prescribed Vibramycin, also used to treat malaria so you know they're not fucking around with the germs. Such a strong antibiotic has been know to wreak havoc on the stomach so between the cramping from the procedure and side effects of the meds it has not been a fun weekend at Casa del Host.

To his credit, The Husband has been wonderful. He's been taking care of The Parasite and handling most of the stuff around here. As it turns out, asking "Have YOU have a catheter in your cervix lately?" is a good way to get what you want.

Waterboarding of the Uterus

Yesterday marked Day One, thus beginning my diagnostic cycle at the fertility clinic. First up, the Day 3 ultrasound to see how many eggs I have left in the hopper. As the Doctor was quick to point out, my eggs have been kicking around for 36 years so they're practically fossilized. It will also serve as part one of the Echovist procedure, what I affectionately refer to as waterboarding of the uterus. The link gives better details but basically they're going to flood my uterine cavity and fallopian tubes with sugar-water solution to see if there's any scar tissue blocking the tubes or preventing implantation.

The same doctor who told me I had dinosaur eggs also told me the waterboarding is "quick and painless." Naturally since he called me old I think he's an asshole and don't take his word for shit. Good thing too, because the instructions tell me to set aside "at least an hour" for the procedure, and take a couple of preemptive Advils and the rest of the day off work. That one is scheduled for Friday afternoon. I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to this "quick and painless" bit of joy.

I won't be in it alone, however. I'm an independent woman and all that but if I'm having my uterus turned into a fucking water balloon to bear another one of HIS children, the least The Husband can do is hold my hand and give me a ride home. I also think making me dinner is in order but I don't want to push my luck. If I ever do end up having this next kid, I don't even know how I'm going to make them repay me...

Playing tricks

It's funny how your mind can play tricks on you. When you're dealing with infertility, even once you've started the process of investigating what's wrong, you keep on trying. Everybody knows somebody who "gave up" and *POOF* the next month they were expecting. So you hold out that hope because you think maybe this time it'll be YOU that gets lucky in spite of the odds.

What was Einstein's definition of insanity? Oh, that's right: "Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." We have acknowledged there must be a problem and are in the process of figuring out what it may be, and yet still we try. And then the mind games begin: "I'm feeling a little queasy! I wonder if this is it?" "Is that the beginnings of breast tenderness?" "Wow am I tired. Pregnancy?" You wait the requisite 10 DPO (days past ovulation, for those who have not endured this particular joy) and pee on a stick and wait, impatiently, for five minutes to pass. It feels like an eternity. 

As though you're looking at tea leaves trying to divine some wisdom, you stare at that stick (covered in your own urine, but you try not to think of such things) and wonder "Is that a second line?" When the time is up and one measly, stinking line stares back the realization that yet again this is not your month washes over you. Hope springs eternal - you'll get 'em next month!

Bump Envy

We have settled into a nice routine on Saturday mornings. I get up before everybody else and have some coffee and quiet time to myself. When The Husband and The Parasite rouse their sleepy heads we have some breakfast before walking together to the Farmer's Market held every weekend at a neighbourhood park. We pick up meat and vegetables for dinner, fresh baguettes for lunch, a cup of coffee each and some ground coffee for the week from a local merchant who imports from his family's farm in Guatemala. Then we take our haul to the playground and let The Parasite blow off some toddler steam. It's a perfectly lovely way to kick off the weekend!

But...

This weekend? Seriously? Every freakin' woman in the playground was pregnant. Except me. It's hot as hell and the internal furnace that comes with pregnancy would be stupendously uncomfortable at this time of year, yet I still have me a serious case of bump envy. Maybe since we've started the fertility investigations I'm a little more aware of the state of the bellies of other women. Maybe a whole lot of people got busy on New Year's Eve so their bumps are more pronounced now than they were earlier in the spring. I don't know. What I *do* know is that making me feel totally sad and broken and I'm powerless to stop it. As someone who prides herself on rationality, this is not a feeling I enjoy. </whine>

Well that was dignified

One of the many, many tests that are part of diagnosing the cause of infertility is the DNA Fragmentation Test. It's a pretty simple (yet expensive and not covered by insurance) test done on a sperm sample that must be performed within two hours of collection. Patients can give the sample at the clinic, but The Husband drops The Parasite off at daycare and changes in her routine are not well tolerated. I work around the corner from the clinic so we decided it would be easiest on everybody if we collected the sample at home and I just dropped it off.

The mood at the clinic when you arrive is very light and friendly. There's a lot of people in this boat with you and if you lose your sense of humour this early in the game, you're totally screwed. I had a good giggle with the receptionist and another patient as we filled out the necessary paperwork. To keep the swimmers viable, the sample has to be kept as close to body temperature as possible. We joked about how we, the ladies dropping off the sperm, kept them toasty - but not too toasty. The other patient held it in her hand in the car, and then she asked what method I used. Now I ask you this:

Yes, I just posted a picture of my cleavage. My mother would be SO proud. Anyway, was it obvious to everybody I rode the subway with this morning that there was a sperm sample in there?