So this last weekend I engaged in what I now call Tribal Activities. This particular Tribal Activity involved dressing up a bit like Lucille Ball and listening & dancing to tons of 50’s rockabilly, western swing, and rock and roll, surrounded by about 10,000 other people doing the exact same thing. It was awesome. I bopped, jived and strolled until I was reminded how great my life is and how much I have going for me, and how many good times I have ahead with or without a baby. It was just what I needed at the right moment. Oh, and I also saw several men who looked just like Joe Strummer which reminded me there just might be a man out there for me, somewhere, some day. And I hope when I do meet him he looks like Joe Strummer.
Crashed a bit when I got home to my empty house. Dog was still at the kennel and it’s always a little lonely without her. I noticed when I went into the bathroom to unpack just the smell of the room freaked me out me a little (it has a sweet, flowery smell of a candle I have in there) – it reminded me of all the failed pregnancy tests. So I guess I am a bit traumatized by all that still, which I suppose is normal. I also hadn’t emptied my garbage in a couple of weeks, and thought what a sad, gross little story my bathroom garbage would tell the homeless guy who sifts through my trash cans looking for recyclables – a couple of positive OPKs followed by two negative pregnancy tests followed by used tampons. Guess what happened to this lady this month?
In other news, I was in town on Day 3 of my cycle so decided to take a chance and run my Day 3 labs up at Kaiser. I figured if the numbers came out all wacky at least I wouldn’t waste another IUI and I could either a) get more aggressive now, or b) stop entirely. It seemed stupid not to just go for it, so I presented my arm for yet another bloodletting and tried to go about my day, but as the evening progressed I got increasingly anxious. The same way many people know when something is “off” in their bodies, I have the opposite feeling – that nothing is “off”. But I also know my instincts on this front are often wrong, so I didn’t know what to expect. Thank the Lord the results were just great – totally normal, and pretty darned good for my age I might say. They are, for those of you who know what this means:
FSH – 6.7
Est – 50.8
FSH (Follicle Stimulating Hormone) is the biggie, because a high number means the hormone is working extra hard to release those eggs, which means the egg number/quality are on the decline. Statistics vary slightly from RE to RE, but most info I could find on line says that anything under 10 is good; under 7 is excellent. And Estriadol under 75 is also very good. So my eggs are good and not on a serious decline! Whoopee!
Some of you may be thinking right now, “but I thought you said you were quitting…?” Let me clarify – I have myself PERMISSION to quit if I need to, which may still end up happening. Just doing this was enormously freeing, because it took the pressure off and reminded me that I’m currently my #1 priority; I get to do what I want, and if I want all of this to just stop, that’s ok. But it’s certainly very premature to assume this isn’t going to work. I’m actually currently quite confident it will work; since I have those numbers behind me now, I know it’s not a biological problem but merely a numbers game at this point. When, and how, to catch that egg. It could still be months and a lot of $$ to make it happen, and I’ll admit I am not looking forward to the emotional torment this process will still be. But I’m not quitting. Not yet. At least if I do quit I can know I tried, and hopefully now I won’t forget that my life is already good and worthwhile sans baby (something I admit I lost sight of for a little bit).
Last night I was reminded of a poem that haunted me when I was a kid. I did always wonder if this poem would be me some day. I dug out the old battered “Treasury of American Poetry” and read this and a lot of other poems I had completely forgotten had a huge impact on me as a young girl, so I may start including them in my posts from now on. Here is the one that I think so completely sums up the TTC journey:
Waiting, by Jane Cooper
My body knows it will never bear children.
What can I say to my body now,
this used violin?
Every night it cries out so desolately
from its secret cave.
Old body, old friend,
why are you so unforgiving?
Why are you so stiff and resistant
clenched around empty space?
An instrument is not a box.
But suppose you are an empty box?
Suppose you are like that famous wooden music hall in Troy,
New York,
waiting to be torn down
where the orchestras love to play?
Let compassion breathe in and out of you
filling you with poems.
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