The Next Stage

I was supposed to be taking Clomid this cycle. I was supposed to get a trigger shot from my husband, which absolutely terrifies me. This was supposed to be our first month to actually have a decent chance. Instead, I have a cyst. Apparently I didn’t ovulate until 5 days before my period and so I have a nice cyst left over from that. So it’s on to the next cycle.

My mom tried to tell me that maybe I needed to wait. Maybe things needed to calm down a bit before all of this started. I mostly kept my cool, but did inform her that waiting isn’t an option. I’ve been waiting for four years. I’m tired of waiting.

I had an interview for a job I really wanted a couple of weeks ago. I did not get the job, and it kind of devastated me. I rocked the job interview, but apparently someone else was better suited for the position. I am, quite frankly, over-qualified, but I stressed during the interview how much I wanted this particular position. It was part time. I would have a very very short commute and a very low amount of responsibility. It was perfect for someone who has to drive 45 minutes to the doctor 2-3 times a month. Oh well.

The temp agency keeps calling me, but I’m not willing to commute an hour to work so that’s kind of been a bust. Last time I talked to them, I told them that I had too much going on right now and I would call them when things settled down. I need to figure some things out.

Also, we’re moving next week. Our landlord decided he wanted to sell our house, plus we’ve discovered how expensive living here actually is thanks to $400 electricity bills. I’m excited about our new house. It’s going to be about 500 square feet smaller, but I won’t have to worry about dirty carpet, ant infestations, or paying to cool it in the 105° weather. This will be my sixth move since January of 2010. I hope it’s my last for awhile.


The Boring Life

I haven’t written because I have nothing to say. I feel like my life is probably pretty boring to everyone but me.

We’re moving, so that’s something. After receiving a $400 electricity bill, we’re opting to move into military housing next month. We’re going to lose roughly 500 square feet, a bedroom, and a bathroom. It’s worth it, though, to not pay out the ass for utilities.

I had a hysterosonogram on Monday and everything came back fine, as far as I know. The doctor who did it wasn’t my normal doctor, but he seemed impressed with my uterus/tubes/ovaries. My husband has his semen analysis on Monday, so after that we’ll know if there’s hope for us to conceive naturally.

Oh, I also had an interview at a temp agency last week. It went well, but I’m still really unsure of this whole job thing. I’ve enjoyed being at home, but it gets boring. I think I need a new hobby. Or some friends.

Mother’s Day

There is literally no worse day to be an infertile than on Mother’s Day.

Worse, yet, is being an infertile and seeing a pregnant (former?) infertile rejoicing about Mother’s Day and completely forgetting where she came from. This particular person lamented the time it took her to get pregnant and stood up as a face of infertility. She should be a sympathizer. And now, it’s like she wants to forget everything she went through.

I’ve been working on a baby blanket for this couple for a few weeks now and I just cannot get motivated. I’ve contemplated just not making them one, but I’ve known this couple for most of my life and it seems awfully petty to not make them one. Yet, every time I see a “we’re taking bets on the birthday and gender!” post, I want to scream.

I spent my day looking at model homes and planning for the (hopefully) near future when we can be homeowners again.

Also, my fur babies let me sleep until 11 this morning. So take that, moms.



Fair warning, this contains some info that is considered TMI to most. Unfortunately, the infertile don’t have the luxury of not knowing about things such as cervical mucus.

I don’t know when having a baby became important to me. I can’t remember anything that triggered my biological clock; I just know that for the past four years there have been very few things that have held my attention like my futile attempts to become pregnant. It started in 2010 when, upon the realization that my husband was going to miss six months of the following year, we decided I would go off my birth control pills and attempt to have a baby. I laugh now at how naive I was. After three months, I still hadn’t had  period. My doctor refused to see me until it had been six months. After six months, he proclaimed that it was a combined result of being on birth control for 9 years and my weight. He advised me to lose weight and come back when it had been a year. After a year, he finally did blood work and diagnosed me with hypothyroidism. It took six months to get my levels within normal range. Six months later, I still hadn’t had a period. My doctor insisted I just needed to lose weight. After two years without  a period, I switched doctors.

My new doctor ran multiple blood tests after my first appointment. She was concerned with my hormone levels and sent me to an endocrinologist for follow up testing. He diagnosed me with polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS) within fifteen minutes of talking to me. I’ve now been on Metformin for over a year, along with a much higher dosage of Synthroid for my hypothyroidism. My wish to have a baby has now become a temp-taking, sex-timing, medicated nightmare which inevitably ends with me crying every month when I discover blood in my cervical mucus.

That’s where I am today. Nine days past ovulation, heartbroken over blood-streaked cervical mucus, and far too cynical to let myself think it might be implantation bleeding.