my vow

Dear Reilly (or Aiden, or Bailey or Finn or...),

If you come, I promise I will not be this kind of mother to you. Even if and when you decide to be horribly rotten and I'd rather rip my own brain out of my skull than endure your rottenness for a minute longer. This is my solemn vow to you.

Love,

your mother to be

The Break Up

Attn: Hades Clinic (a.k.a. "Pacific NW Fertility Clinic" because the time for coy flirtation is long over),

This has been perhaps the toughest and most frustrating relationship I have ever endured. The last 18 months of my life that I have spent courting you for the bride price of a baby have been fraught with bone-numbing amounts of stress due to your completely inflexible schedules, your blase attitudes at being at minimum thirty minutes late to any and all appointments without so much as a "Bummer dude, I had to sleep off that hangover", and the consistently INCONSISTENT advice (begrudgingly provided only if requested for on hands and knees, and after kowtowing exactly 35 times) given by all of your many minions, ALL of whom I have had the surprising opportunity to meet in person since you have all herded, poked or spread me at one point or another over the past 2 years. I RARELY get the luxury of seeing the same person twice. I am merely an SSN # and a file; and even then, sometimes proven to be unread by your grossly uninformed opinions of my bits and pieces. For instance, was it really necessary to grill me yesterday about my polyp for yet another 10 minutes of my life that I will never get back, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that you hadn't actually read my file which states in no uncertain terms that my magical disappearing and reappearing polyp has been tested and probed out a thousand times over and is a closed case? Or perhaps my favorite episode was when you, Jane, carelessly suggested that my polyp was the reason for my miscarriage when my file clearly stated that it was an anembryonic pregnancy which has ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to do with implantation WHAT SO EVER! Oh - Dr. Evil (a.k.a. Jane P. ARNP) that was perhaps my most fond moment of you through all of this. Thank you thank you THANK you for that consoling sentiment. XOXOXO. Oh - and what is that magical thing that you all do when "washing" my ICI sperm that reduces it to a mere 5 million per vial versus the 17+ million I would get when the cryobank would wash the sperm themselves? Because paying an extra $280for your wonderful "prep" work really warms my heart. You should consider putting out a tip jar so we can reward your efforts for going that extra mile.

Pacific Northwest Fertility Clinic, you are a disappointment! And that is an understatement. There have been only two people who have provided me with pleasant experiences, Dr. Wild Bill (Dr. Hickok) and his medical assistant, Renee. They have both been a drink of fresh water in a pool of rancid bitterness. As for the rest of you, perhaps I might recommend some extra credit classes in bedside manner, or in How to Insert a Speculum Without Causing a Blood Bath 101? Or if graduate level courses seem too much to ask, how about focusing on some remedial courses like smiling, wishing a patient good luck, or knowing how many times your patient has stared pleadingly and desperately at your sterile white ceilings while you shine a very bright light between their legs? Those skills may sound unimportant, but they mean the world to someone who is tired of going through this, scared senseless that nothing may ever come of all of their efforts, and exhausted from the energy and emotions spent, well... hoping.

Anyway... I have given you my last attempt. My last cramped, frozen awkward pose in the lovely Raggedy Anne hair clad stirrups; my last painful and bloody $400 catheter insertion, and my last insincere smile, gritted teeth or attempt at politeness. And if I have to listen to another fucking Barry Manilow song playing on your 3rd class speakers while I wait hours upon hours in the lobby for your service, I may just never recover from it. Taking a look at the ledger that chronicles our relationship, you have on your plus side: the 15 pounds of stress induced fat that I have given you, six unreturned phone calls regarding our account (but only when we had a credit due to unexpected insurance payments, when we owed you money, you were Johnny on the spot), a fragmented mind, and a tired... so VERY tired and bitter angry and heartbroken soul. On my plus side, I have merely lessons learned in humanity; or a lack thereof.

If I chose to carry on with this insanity at all, I shall take my business elsewhere. Please take my $15,000.00+ in monetary compensation and spend it wisely. Thanks for nothing. Nothing at all.

pissy

It’s been quite a day already and it’s just getting started. I went into the Hades Clinic for an O’Dark-Thirty ultrasound appointment and spent 30 minutes gritting my teeth and trying to be polite while the Ultrasound Tech talked my bloody ear off as if we were long lost friends. She’s from the East Coast. New Jersey to be exact. She comes from a large family. They shout a lot at the dinner table. Thanks Giving is her favorite holiday. Does anybody give a flying shit about this? Good... beacuse I didn't either! She also believes that relaying her entire life story while yielding a wand up my twat is an appropriate thing to do at 7’oclock in the morning. And it's relevant to note that in an effort to make my womb more fertile and pleasant, I gave up coffee long ago at the request of my acupuncturist and I’m still very bitter about this. Especially with glaring reminders such as these. Anyway… I’ve got a mature follicle. And guess what? I forgot my damn shot at home. Grrr... I told her that if I could get out of there soon enough, I could race home and get the shot and be back there with a minute or two to spare to make it to work at a reasonable hour without arising suspicion. I then waited an additional 30 minutes for “Dr. Crothety Old Ass Face” (she’s not new but I rarely have to see her, THANK GOD) to come in and tell me what I already knew. “Hi. Your follicle is mature. You forgot your shot. What are you going to do about it?” I was asking her for advice on the timing of things. Does it usually take 24 hours? 36 hours? What's my window here? She offered me nothing other than she was going to consult Dr. Evil and call me back later. I informed her that Dr. Evil was no longer my person; that I had switched to Dr. Wild Bill (because just the mere thought of Dr. Evil made me break out in a rash, but I didn’t share this because I had already spent an hour trying to be sweet and polite so why stop now?) and maybe she should consult him. “Okay – so as soon as I can reach Dr. Evil, I’ll give you a call” was her response. Whatever. I wanted to bite her ass-face right off. Idiot. So in between the many hours waiting for her to call me back, I am trying to come up with a number of alternatives. I have a good friend who happens to be a nurse who I happen to be seeing tonight at my Sizzlin' Chicken's Book Club meeting. Her name is "She Who Walks on Freakishly Small Feet - R.N.". I talked to her this morning and she was willing to do it but didn't neccessarily have all the tools needed and I still needed to get information like how much of the shot to stab into my butt, etc. Then there was a still a timing issue so I ultimately decided not to go that route even though I know how disappointed "She Who Walks on Freakishly Small Feet - R.N." must be to miss out on an opportunity to get a viewing of my butt.
So I ended up racing back to downtown Seattle this morning to get the shot. I will inseminate at 3pm tomorrow assuming that the Hades Clinic does not spontaenously catch fire and burn to the ground between now and then in a freak accident that can't be explained by even the keenest of investigators. and so it goes. I remain in a very rotten mood. If I don't get knocked up this time, heads are gonna roll!

my new routine

PREFACE: In Junior High, we were required to run a mile during P.E. ("physical education" for those who don't know because I heard somewhere that P.E. was called something other than P.E. in certain parts of the country and I can't remember what it was called but it was just WEIRD, anyway...). Running the mile was usually the first thing we did during the first 10+ minutes of P.E. class and after that we got to do other normal and fun physical education type activities like jumping jacks or ultimate fighting and such. If I could count - at all - I would devote some time to counting up all of those 10 minute "running the mile" P.E. sessions in the 7th and 8th grade, add them all together and then file a law suit against John F. Kennedy Jr. High, Cupertino, California, U.S.A. for damages over those minutes and hours of my life that I will never get back. My bff, Camper Caro, and I would occassionally hide along the baseball backstop and skip 1 of the 2 laps around the field and those were the only times I cleared that stupid mile run in less than 9 minutes. What can I say? I'm not a runner. I was a tennis player; short, fast, quick and jerky movements were my forte. And a damn good water polo player which is a completely different venue. Anyway... this is all a very dramatic way of saying... I F**CKING HATE RUNNING! Jogging, Running, Walk-Jogging, etc. Always have, always will. I think.

So, the other night I was reading my Wired Magazine when I stumbled upon an ad for the best tennis shoes (not for the purpose of playing "tennis", mind you) of 2007/2008 according to the High Tech Industry. Anyway... there was a pair that was green. BRIGHT BRIGHT florescent green and there was some ad copy that said some crap about being great for narrow feet and all terrain trail running and ubber grip and light weight turbo power and well... I just HAD to have them! It seemed only logical. So I ripped out the page, grabbed the phone and a credit card, handed it all over to Drake in one neat little package, complemented with a shit-eating GRIN and said "yo - take care of it, will ya? I'll just DIE if I don't have these shoes!" and she gave me a look like I had just dropped my brain on the floor, rolled her eyes up into her head like a medium in the throes of a bodily invasion and said "fine". Because the truth of the matter is - I don't ask for much; by way of material possessions at least. So when I really have to have something and it's a life or death situation like this one, I usually get my way. A week later my florescent green magically powered high tech shoes arrived. In a cardboard box. On my doorstep. It was like x-mas morning. I was so happy I nearly wept. It was then that I decided that I would become a career jogger. I'm always busy and interrupted after work during the week, so I made a plan that I would wake up 1 hour earlier and go jogging every morning for the rest of my life, no exceptions permitted; period. So my plan started last Sunday night. It's been going quite swimmingly so far because I haven't had to suffer through actually doing it yet. Monday morning I was awoken by my alarm and decided that the 1rst days are always the hardest so I should just skip it and go back to bed. The next day my alarm woke me up and I promptly yanked out the cord and threw it across the room whilst shouting some sleepy profanities about the utter absurdity of JOGGING as a form of exercise. Wednesday morning I was dertermined. I woke up with the alarm, pitter pattered my way to the bathroom to relieve myself and then decided that my pee wasn't the right color and surely that could only be explained by a lack of ample sleep and that maybe an hour more of sleep or so would improve my urine quality as well as my overall health. and so I went back to bed. The rest of the week went pretty much the same. I plan to continue this new workout routine every morning because my shoes really are just too beautiful to let sit in a shoe rack, un-admired by all. I'll keep you posted on my progress.

Thanks in advance for your support.

crazy just for the sake of crazy

Tonight I realized that you don't have to be pregnant to crave weird wacky and downright strange foods. It all started with my lying (no - let's be honest, SPRAWLED) on the couch in my usual luxurious and oh-so-sexy way, boxer short pajama underwear shining like a beacon in a bat cave and deeply engaged in the ever so important conversation with my wife on the subject of what on earth were we going to eat for dinner tonight. it was the usual routine.

the verbal conversational exchange that lead to my brilliant culinary invention follows:

e-rae: "it's too hot to cook. i just want a hot dog. i shall grill it."

interruptive note*** we hardly ever eat hot dogs. we buy them for the stray and feral children that turn up on our backyard porch from time to time, ravenous for hot dogs and begging to dance with me to the groovy tunes usually playing on my iPod outside on hot summer days. we're just humanitarian like that.

d-dog: "a hot dog? you can eat a hot dog. i'll go to the store and get a sammich."

e-rae: "fine. i'm not as fond of sammiches as you are. they are just so... so... peasant-like. i have standards."

d-dog: "um... hot dog?"

e-rae: "hot dogs are yummy, you sammich eating PEASANT."

d-dog: whatever, you hot dog eating, CHILD."

e-rae: "well, now i kinda want a kay-sar-dill-ya."

d-dog: "i thought you didn't want to cook?"

e-rae: "it's not cooking. it's merely melting and frying something to perfection. but... hmm.... hot dogs... ummmmm..."

d-dog: "whatever. i'm going to the store. you want anything?"

*** and here it comes. the momment of brilliance.

e-rae: "i WONDER what a kay-sar-dill-ya stuffed with hot dogs would taste like? hmm?"

d-dog: "i'd stick around for that. that actually sounds pretty good!"

e-rae: "seriously?"

d-dog: "why not? hot dogs = good. quesadilla = good. why not a hot dog quesadilla?"

*** and thus a miraculous culinary masterpeice was born!!!
next time i'm going to try different versions like kicked-up hot dog quesadillas with maybe ketchup or spicy mustard or baked beans or something. that shit is good. and i'm not even Pregnant OR Drunk!

RECIPE:

two flour tortillas
cheddar cheese (shredded)
hot dogs (1.5 per quesadilla)

Step 1: cut up hot dogs into really small pieces and fry them up so that they are just browned and crispy on both sides and smelling like burnt bologna. :) oh yah! set aside in a separate bowl. a purple bowl, if you can find one.

Step 2: assemble cheese uniformly on top of 1 tortilla.

Step 3: spread hot dogs (EVENLY PEOPLE) on top of cheese.

Step 4: more cheese. duh!

Step 5: place 2nd tortilla on top of cheese/hot dog mixture.

Step 6: fry in hot dog grease left over from the frying pan.

Step 7: flip and fry some more until cheese is melted and lovely little brown patches appear on each side of the tortilla (now officially a quesadilla).

Step 8: enjoy! because who doesn't love a HOT DOG QUESADILLA???

Lovingly Signed,

The Infertile Gourmet

no

well... another failed cycle to add to my long and growing list of infertility trials. this is just becoming ridiculously stupid. and if there ever was a moment in the past 1.5 years that i wasn't before - now i'm officially really pissed off.