This is a 10 day sample of what it’s like to live in my head.

   If my brain were a TV channel, it would be BTV: All Babies, All The Time.  Between episodes of Deliver Me, A Baby Story, and Jon and Kate, we have infomercials for kitchen products and money-making schemes.  We also occasionally have an episode of Glenn Beck or Anderson Cooper, just to keep in touch with the “real” world.  We have commercials for Pampers, Baby Einstein, and Fisher-Price, as well as those drugs that are supposed to help dampen chemo symptoms.  Those “The More You Know” commercials feature advice such as “raise your hips after sex” and “dollar store HPTs are often more sensitive than digital.”  We show the same after-school movie every day, and it’s always “15 and Pregnant.”  If you’re up peeing on a stick at 4 in the morning just to capture that precious FMU, you might be lucky enough to catch an airing of “Juno” or “Knocked Up.”  There are Weight Watchers commercials and episodes of Lost and Family Guy and Six Feet Under (usually the one where the baby dies of SIDS).  And around dinner time every day there are episodes of America’s Test Kitchen and Good Eats, followed by that mystery diagnosis show, that crazy Duggar family, and Nanny 911.  It’s a nice channel to watch.  There are a lot of laughs, some good food, and a reason to cry at least once a day.

Today is my grandmother’s first chemo appointment.  She’s hopelessly scared.  She had a double-port put in last Thursday, and will be getting two different drugs today.  Hair loss is inevitable, and mouth sores and extreme nausea/vomiting are most likely.  At this point her only thought is to be well enough on Friday to go to my brother’s tech school graduation, but I’m really not sure that will be possible because it requires a 3 hour car ride each way.  But we’ll wait and see, all with our fingers crossed.

I lost my shit last night.  The panic attacks are becoming more frequent.  I snapped at Paul, he snapped back, and we each retreated into our corners to work it out by ourselves.  He slammed around the kitchen and yelled at the cats for being under foot, and I locked myself in the bathroom and sobbed until I was hyperventilating.  After about 10 minutes, I was feeling a little better, so I washed my face with cold water, came out of the bathroom, and we both acted like nothing happened.  I have to say, if Paul’s learned anything, it’s not to ask me what’s wrong when I’m that fragile.  It will only make me blubber on his shoulder for hours and ultimately feel worse.  On the other hand, a hug would have been nice.

   For 10 months now I’ve been taking my temperature every morning upon waking.  It doesn’t get old.  In fact, it helps me wake up in the morning.  In talking to a coworker about it earlier today, she told me that when she was TTC, she only got through about a month and a half before giving up out of annoyance and boredom.  I can’t help but wonder if that’s what contributed to it taking her 3+ years to conceive despite everything being in seemingly perfect health.

   I keep my thermometer in a mug on my nightstand.  Also in this mug is loose change, nail clippers, a few gum wrappers, and some earplugs.  My alarm goes off and instead of reaching for the snooze button I reach for the thermometer.  I never have a problem remembering it so I can later (once at work) enter it into the myriad of different programs and websites I use to keep track of all things cycle-related.

   I’m currently on cycle day 31, and a full 22 days past what looks like ovulation.  However, despite whatever “symptoms” I might be having, every single stick I pee on is negative.  All seven of them, of differing varieties.  I guess my current plan is to wait a few more days, and if there’s still nothing in the way of a positive test or a period or even a temp-drop, I’ll call my doctor and ask for a blood test.

   I’m having a difficult time even believing that my body has done something “normal.”  But it definitely looks like a clear thermal shift, and I have to hope my doctor (ob/gyn or RE, either one) would see the same thing.

   You know, I could keep taking my temp every day for the rest of my life and not be too bothered by it.  It’s the waiting between each temp-taking that’s annoying.  I obsess and over-analyze every little thing, then do myself no favors by looking stuff up online to fit my circumstances for exactly what I want to see.  Paul sees the tests piling up in the garbage and just says “nothing yet?” and gives me a hug.  He ignores my hours online pouring over pregnancy test photos and temp charts, and the stack of books on my side of the bed (“Taking Charge of Your Fertility,” “What to Expect When You’re Expecting,” among others).  And although he’s a little worried he might get laid off, and the economy sucks, and it will be at least another year before we can buy a house, he hasn’t even started to say that maybe we should hold off trying right now.  And god do I love him for that.

   I’m starting to get antsy for results.  If it turns out that I haven’t actually ovulated, I want another provera prescription so I can start again.  And I’m thinking about making an appointment with my RE, not for PCOS maintenance like I’ve been going to her for, but for actual fertility treatment, if she’ll have me.  I’m worried that she’ll not want to treat me yet because we’ve technically only been trying for a couple months.  However, how can we even “try” when I’m not ovulating?  Part of me wants to march in there and demand Clomid or Femara so we can actually start trying.

   I need to lose weight.  I know that.  I know that it will help with so many things, not the least of which is my cycles.  But I just can’t seem to get off my ass and do it.  If there were any motivator that would actually work, I always thought this would be it.  Part of me has always thought that one of the reasons I hold on to my weight is because it protects me.  Maybe I’m holding on to my weight now because I’m scared to be a mother, and subconsciously not ready.  But that’s just crazy, because I know beyond a doubt that I’m ready.  So why won’t I put down the effing ice cream and get my ass off the couch?

   As I step a little more every day into this land of infertility, I come to realize that, as fearful as I am that I will never have a (biologically-related) child of my own, I am almost equally as fearful that I will.

   Baby fever struck me early, about the time I hit puberty.  It was like: get a training bra, start my period, start looking for a husband so I can have a baby.  In truth, there was never a time when I didn’t want children in my life.  My Barbies always had babies.  When we played house I was always the mom.  When we played school, I was the dowdy teacher with 4 kids of her own at home.  When we played royalty, I was always the queen, never the princess; the queen had more power and got to have babies!  It has always been a part of me and how I shape my life.  And considering I’ve felt this way most (all?) of my life, I think I’ve been pretty patient to have waited this long (not that I necessarily had a choice, I now realize).

   In college as I delved in to women’s studies courses, I started to feel guilty about my desire to be a mother.  After all, why would I want to be in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant, when I could be out writing novels and traveling the world and falling in love with hundreds of beautiful foreign intelligent men (and women)?  But then it struck me, an epiphany like no other: the whole point of women’s studies was equality, and women (and men) being able to do whatever the hell they want, regardless.  It means having the freedom and opportunity to be a rodeo clown or the president or even (gasp!) a parent.  So now, I embrace the idea of being in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant.  There is nothing else in the world I want more.  It is a strong, noble, brave, and honest life ambition.

   But (BUT!) the closer I get to being pregnant (ha!), the more my fear creeps up, a little about whether I’ll be a good mom, a little about how we’ll afford it (never mind the lay-off talks going on at my husband’s place of employment), but mostly but actually being pregnant.  The odds of me being a gigantic, miserably uncomfortable, unable-to-fit-in-my-car, gestationally diabetic, yet still unnervingly happy pregnant woman from, oh, about day 3, are pretty good.  The thought of my ligaments loosening and stretching in ungodly ways make me queasy, and I can’t even begin to fathom just how big my boobs will actually get.  Is there some website out there specializing in plus-size porn stars expecting babies?  Maybe that’s where I’ll be able to find a bra that will fit me.

   At the end, however, there’s always that sweet whisper of a real, live, take-home baby.  A whisper that I’m convinced is a promise and I will be let down if it never happens.  Bone-crushingly disappointed (and that’s an understatement).  But that whisper is enough to make all of it worthwhile, something I’m fortunate enough to know at least a little now, although from what I’ve been told, I’ll realize only later just how worth it everything will be.

   Grammy’s surgery went well.  No surprises, and they got most or all of the brain tumor out.  We’ll know more after this afternoon’s MRI.  Fears of extreme weakness and slight temporary paralysis on her left side were shattered when she applied her own chapstick and drank hot tea just minutes after waking up, all with her left hand.  She might even be able to go home today.  It’s just crazy to me that they can saw your skull open, remove a chunk of “very damaged” brain matter, put you back together, and you’re instantly better than you were a couple hours before.  Crazy, I say.

UPDATE:  The MRI was scheduled for 4, and then she was going home.

   I guess I haven’t written lately.  I think I just needed time to process everything.  I kept thinking about writing, but could never muster up a coherent post while on a computer (which is to say, about 13 hours a day).

   The appointment with my RE went well, I think.  She upped my dosage of metformin to 2000mg a day, so I’m crossing my fingers that does something.  She also gave me provera (after I asked) to induce a period, which started yesterday.  I’m not sure why I miss them so much when I don’t have them; they suck.  And if we weren’t trying to get me pregnant, I’d be happy with, oh, about 2 a year, just for safety’s sake.  Also, she told me that I can move to the next step (Clomid) whenever I want, but would like me to give the upped dosage at least 3-6 months to see how it works, if at all.  At this point I’m planning to wait about 3 months, until the first of the year.

   My grandmother’s appointment with the team of doctors went okay, all things considering.  She’s been officially diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer that’s metastasized to the mediastic lymph nodes and brain.  It’s incurable, and they said that she’s got 9-12 months to live, maybe up to 24 months with treatment.  Treatment includes surgery to remove the brain tumor (where all of her symptoms are coming from), radiation to the brain, and chemo/radiation combo for the lung and lymph nodes.  The brain surgery is today.  In fact, I’m thinking they’re probably cutting into her skull right about now.  It gives me the heebie-jeebies and makes me nauseous to think about it.

   Work’s been okay.  I alternate between being super-productive, or a big lump of worthlessness.  It all depends on my mood.

   My Mom’s birthday is Sunday, and Paul and I are hosting lunch Sunday for my parents, my grandparents, and maybe my brother.  I’m greatly looking forward to having everyone over.  My grandparents haven’t seen our new apartment, and now that we have a dining room, it should be much better than Mom’s birthday last year, when we were all (9 of us) crammed in our small living room eating tacos off our laps.  This year we’re making lemon roast chicken and gravy, browned butter mashed potatoes, green bean casserole (from scratch!), and corn (for Dad).  I’m also making my “famous” Loaded Carrot Cake with cream cheese icing (also from scratch), and some sort of chcocolatey thing (maybe pots de chocolate?) for Dad and Paul, who don’t like carrot cake.  I was also thinking I would make a couple raspberry pies, one for Paul and me (it’s my favorite) and one to send home with Grammy (her favorite, too).  Hey, maybe I’ll post my recipes!

   I’ve been on a soup-making bend lately.  Vats of home-made chicken stock.  Chicken noodle made from leftovers.  Creamy tomato soup from scratch.  Pantry Mexican soup.  Next is chili.  They all get packaged into individual servings and stuck in the freezer for lunches.  Maybe I’ll post those recipes too.  Can you tell I tend to cook when stressed?

   There’s a certain art form in the all you can eat buffet.  Whether it’s Chinese or all-American, the objective is the same: load as much as you can on one plate the first trip through; pot stickers on top of rice on top of General Tso’s, next to teriyaki chicken and chicken fingers and spicy broccoli.  Forget the fact that you can go back up as many times as you want; that first plate is the most important, a source of pride.

   I’m used to carrying around a relatively small plate.  Chicken fingers and pot stickers, max.  However, recently I’ve been expected to also pile some fried rice on to that plate.  Luckily, rice is small and can filter down into all the nooks and crannies between the chicken.  But when I was asked to include some sushi, it went rolling all over and on to the floor, a huge mess.  Luckily someone also then handed me a bigger plate.  This one’s the size of a turkey platter and it can hold a lot, but it gets awful heavy.  And I know that someday, it will be too full and someone will break out the pizza pan-sized plate and expect me to be able to handle it.  I just have to hope that someone else will be there to help me carry it.

   Okay, so I’ve probably taken that metaphor as far as it will go.  My point is this: I have a lot on my mental/emotional plate right now.  The everyday, not-so-stressful stresses like marriage, family, and work have been expanded upon.  Marriage now includes not just trying to get pregnant, but infertility.  Family includes a grandmother with advanced metastatic cancer.  And work includes a handful of people who think I don’t know how to do my job.  Luckily I have a husband who is supportive and willing to do what he can to help carry the load.  Sometimes I just wish he (or anyone!) would carry all of it, which I realize is completely unfair, because he has is own load to carry.

   Tomorrow I have an appointment with my RE, a follow-up to see how I’m responding to the Metformin.  I have a list of questions as long as my arm about what the next steps will be, and I’m actually pretty anxious about the whole thing.  It doesn’t seem that I’m ovulating on Met, and I’m afraid she’ll want to wait another 3 months or so before taking the next step (Clomid).  I’m hoping she’ll at least give me some Provera so I can start a fresh cycle, as I’m currently on day 49.

   Tomorrow is also my grandmother’s appointment with her team of doctors.  The oncologists and brain surgeons will tell her exactly what she has and give her treatment options, if there are any.  I’d say 80% of my current stress is about that.  I just don’t know what we’ll do if there are no treatment options.

   So today when my coworker decided to have an attitude with me, I lost my shit.  Now we’re both just plugging away, trying to avoid confrontation as much as possible.  Sometimes you just need to have some time to yourself (even if it’s only so you don’t kill someone).

   I started smoking when I was about 14.  The cool girls* at school** smoked, and I wanted to hang out with them.  I knew I would look stupid if I first tried it in front of them, so I stole a pack of my grandmother’s Virginia Slims Menthol 100s when she was visiting, hunkered down in a corner of the back yard with a box of matches while my 6 year old brother watched Power Rangers, and became a smoker.  I loved it instantly.  Sure, I coughed and hacked my way through the first couple, but I was committed, and I loved the taste and the way it felt almost right away.

   I never got in with those girls, but I continued to smoke on occasion, and by the time I got to high school, I was ready to hit the big time.  My crowd turned out to be a bunch of losers who cut class to smoke in the desert (I lived in AZ at the time).  They had purple mohawks and turned me on to Nine Inch Nails and Marilyn Manson, which my mother forbid, and Frank Zappa which she allowed.  I wore lots of black cloths and heavy black eyeliner that I had to apply on the bus.  Mom wouldn’t let me dye my hair an “unnatural” color, so I tried Kool-Aid instead for a subtle pink hue.

   I continued to smoke, various amounts, all through high school.  My preferred brand was Marlboro Reds, and I remember how excited I was on my 18^th birthday when I could finally buy my own.  I smoked all through college, and savored every one, knowing I would have to quit eventually.  I was moving back home and there was no way I could continue to keep my pack-a-day habit a secret.  Obviously, I also knew how bad it was for me, and I didn’t want to be a lifelong smoker; I never had.  So I took the opportunity of a change of location and lifestyle and quit when college was over.  It sucked.  A lot.  But I got through it cold turkey, and haven’t looked back.  It’s now been 5 years since I’ve had a cigarette, and usually when I see people smoking I think about how gross it is.  But every once in a while, I smell it and I want one.  Oh, how I loved to smoke.

   But I’ve never been so glad I quit as I am this week.  My maternal grandmother, the one I stole cigarettes from all those years ago, the one who watched her husband, also a smoker, die from stomach cancer 25 years ago, has lung cancer.  They are still doing tests and don’t have a full diagnosis/prognosis yet, but it’s in one lung and has already spread to her lymph nodes and she has a tumor in her brain the size of a naval orange.  I’m grasping at every little bit of news and doing research on possible diagnoses and treatment plans, to get myself prepared.  One word of advice, though: don’t Google “lung brain lymph cancer survival rate.”  I’m just saying.

   I’m off now to the hospital again, to hang out with my Grammy for a couple hours.  God, do I love that woman.  And I miss her already.

* I should point out that these weren’t the popular girls, but the ones I thought were cool; blue hair, Nirvana t-shirts, and wallet chains.  

** Eight grade.  Yeah, I know.

   Sometimes I have no patience.  Other times, what appears to be patience is actually indifference.  I’ve spent years of my life pining away for a child.  When I was 11, I started making lists of baby names that I liked.  When I was 17 and my period was late, I took not one, but 3 pregnancy tests, and when my period came (only) 4 days late, I was a little sad.  What I now know to be PCOS has caused my period to be late or non-existent many, many times over.  I couldn’t tell you how many sticks I’ve peed on over the years, anxious and unsure whether I wanted it to be positive or negative.

   However, now that we’re actually trying and I’m on day 36 of my cycle, I haven’t so much as glanced at the drawer full of tests.  I’m thinking maybe I’ll take one tomorrow, but I highly doubt it will be positive and don’t really want to waste a test or my energy hoping.  I’m still not even sure I ovulated, either 18 days ago like originally thought, or any time after that.  I feel the changes in my body from the metformin, but I’m not sure if it’s enough.  I’m thinking I might need to add some therapies, such as cinnamon or Vitex.  My next appointment with my RE is the 1^st of October, so I’m hoping either my body does something by then, or she’ll up my dose of the Met to 2000mg.  And maybe give me some Clomid.

   About the clomid, actually.  I’m so hesitant on it.  My mom tried it for awhile when I was a kid, and apparently it turned her into a complete nutcase, so she quit trying.  I’m also pretty afraid of multiples.  Not that I don’t secretly want twins, I think a lot of women do.  But we could not afford to have twins (or more!) right now, among other reasons.  On the other hand, I want to be pregnant, like, months ago.  At this point I’m willing to do (almost) anything to get pregnant.  So I just don’t know!

   Also, I’m worried that she won’t give me anything extra until I get my weight down some more.  I just can’t do it!  It’s like, impossible for me to lose weight.

   Oh, and another fear!  What if it doesn’t work?  What if she ups my metformin, and gives me clomid, and I lose weight, and I still can’t get pregnant (or even ovulate!)?  I’m so afraid of moving on to that next level of infertility, and I just don’t want to do it.  I’ve seen people go through it, and it’s not pretty.  Never mind the emotional effects; we couldn’t afford to move on to other options.  Our healthcare doesn’t cover anything (not even fertility testing!), and our savings are meager.  We would be stuck in this void of not really trying, but not-not trying, working overtime and second jobs to scrimp pennies so that some day, when we’re, like, 40, we could afford a one-shot go at either IVF or adoption.

   I now find myself a bit ambivalent about the whole thing.  I haven’t been great about temping lately, or checking my crotch every time I pee.  I guess I know that I can’t get myself worked up about it too much, for fear that I will only be let down.  I guess I’ve been NOT trying for so long, it seems really bizarre to me to actually be trying.  I feel like I’m in an alternate universe.

   And yet, I have little thoughts out of nowhere sometimes.  Like this morning, I was letting my coworker know that I’d be taking a day in November off for my little brother’s college graduation, and in the back of my head I thought, I could be pregnant by then.  Then I was like, what the hell was that?  Why does my brain play tricks on me like that?