Infertility and narcotics
27 days. Like clockwork. Another month of patient waiting, down the drain.

I never imagined that I would have problems conceiving. I've always been that person you see in the midst of a crowd, trying to mould the chaos into organization. Nicely. Enthusiastically. Always smiling. And it usually worked. I just always figured it would be the same way with getting preggers. That's why I'm having one hell of a time dealing with the fact that my body (or The Boy's) is giving me the biological finger and refusing to cooperate.

It's been 11 days since the lab took possession of TB's little swimmers, and I have been sitting on my hands ever since, the better to keep myself from dialing my doctor's office. (I did call yesterday and left a message for my doc's nurse, just in case she forgot about us. Not bloody likely, but there you go, I wouldn't want my impending insanity to come down to a simple case of miscommunication.) There's been no response, and I don't know whether to take that as a good thing or not: I just know that the not knowing is making me crazy. I've been frequenting IVF sites and have been astounded at the costs involved with getting a little reproductive assistance. The only way OHIP would foot the bill would be if it turned out that I have totally blocked fallopian tubes, TB has low motility and we've been trying without success for more than 12 months. Yay.

All of this has been overshadowing the extreme relief I felt when I came home from work and saw the lab order was gone from the top of his dresser. At least we were moving forward, we would soon have a road to move down. Even if I didn't know where we would be heading, at least it would be better than the shenanigans I've been carrying out each month, only to get that old familiar feeling on the exact day the calendar said I would. I was psyched to get moving.

I've also gotten up quite a head of steam by keeping my feelings and fears to myself. I've been hesitant to write about it for a few reasons, but the worst was the fact that putting it all down in this journal would have been tantamount to an admission of failure. And that's exactly what it is. The good news is, now that I've opened up a bit, the venting is letting off a little of that steam. I'm not so anxious. I'm spending more time constructively researching our options and trying to see them relative to The Big Picture.

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I fear I'm becoming addicted to Buffy. More precisely, to Willow.

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Further to the anxiety thing from above, last weekend I awoke Saturday morning at 5:08 with a migraine. I sighed, stumbled out to my bag to retrieve a Tylenol 3, took it and stumbled back to bed. It didn't take. That was the beginning of the Weekend from Hell, where I was lucky enough to wangle an 'outside of office hours' appointment with my Shiatsu/Acupuncture doc. After an hour of poking and prodding, current and some bloodletting, my stoicism rewarded me with four hours of relief. Then it was right back to the pain (I had to pull out the big guns: my Demerol) until Sunday afternoon at 3:00 when I awoke from a nap with the strange sensation of a bruised head but no throbbing, no nausea, no dizziness. Man, it was heaven. I still feel robbed of my weekend, though; it's just one more example of how my body rebels against me.

Posted at 12:43 p.m.