moosh in indy.

hi hi hi!

I MAAADE IT!

my ugerus was in saaaad sorry shape but is almost all bethter now. neeesdels to say the goood drugcs have not left my ssystem and with binking being exhausign and lifing my head to find backspace nect to impossible typing is kind of abug fat joke.

But i had to say THAANNNK YOUUU to everyone for makeing me giggle and weke[[p dammit weep wih all of your supprot on teh twiters.

i hurt pretty bad. no sense in lying aboruht that. my anetsheisioloigrst was Hot. i wauss supposed to have some spry redhead lady with freckles and instelad i got dashingdocntor mcdashypants. he had sto see me pee in bag while i was all out and stuff. also szince i was om ny period someone else had to take off may grannie pannies. THE Y DIDN’t GIVE hEM ABACK! have yet to see if they arean on ebayy today. BIIDD HGIGH PEPOLE!

BEST NEWSAS EVER!>>??? i got to skop the lasf few days of my period with my cleanout!! OH WOWHICUPS HUUURT!

moosh 2.o is sitill like half a year awya. apparenlty there’s jthings jacked up in there thaft surgfury couldn’t fix.(EDNO MEtreIOSIS LIKE x 10.000! BOO!!)  more on that when i don’t feel like a swallowed a mylar balooomn.

xoxoxo

pazz the drugs pl.sz!

So I feel I’ve already leapt the most awkward hurdle of the next 24 hours.

I’ll just let you know that administering two pills per my ONE VAGINA involved some advanced yoga moves Wii Fit doesn’t even know about and a MacGyver rigged tampon.

*ahem*

My belly is marked, the winning submission was “Please leave cleaner than you found it.” followed quite closely by “I won’t hate you if you take out 10 lbs.”

(spelling on your belly is hard, yo.)

On a more serious note (meaning one that doesn’t involve my vagina or drugs in any direct way) back in February during the Coyote Ugly Bar Dancing Extravaganza Blissdom ‘09 I met a little lady with a Suhthin’ drawl named Rachel. Cute as a button I declared that we would be friends immediately. And so we were.

On the closing night of Blissdom, Rachel and I were at a GNO shindig where they gave out some lovely door prizes. When they announced that one of the giveaways was a lavender pearl set from Peachbutt Design Studio I believe my exact words were “SHUT UP.”

Rachel and I bonded over our mutual love of pearls and how fancy they make us feel.

Rachel’s name was picked first for the giveaway.

I watched her walk over and pick out the lovely pearl set.

“Good! I thought. They’re going to a PROPER pearl lover. The only place pearls truly belong.”

Then I watched as she walked towards me and shoved them into my hands.

(Totally awesome picture of both of us by mom-e-centric. But don’t look at us, look at the sentiment! OOH! SENTIMENT!)

The day after I arrived home from Blissdom I had my first official “infertility appointment” with my new doctor.

I wore my new pearls.

I have since worn them to every fertility related appointment since. I rolled them in my fingers during my ultrasound. I held tight do them during my hysterosalpingogram. Today will be no exception. Well, except that I can’t wear jewelry during surgery so my darling Ami will be wearing them for me in the waiting room. Also? I can’t wear makeup. Not even a dusting of powder or a smear of mascara. Boo.

I figure if the pearls started out their life already being payed forward twice after being handmade? There’s got to be something to that.

And you’d better believe I’ll be wearing them the day moosh 2.0 comes spewing forth from my loins.

Thank you for all your virtual hand holding. Britt had a request to see #caseysuterus as a trending topic on twitter today. If that really could happen? It would probably be the most awesome thing ever. (You know, next to shiny clean ovaries and what not.)

xoxo my lovelies.

(Oh, and P.S. to my little kid. Thanks for letting me take your Pooh Bear with me today. And no, they won’t actually tear my tummy open and yes I’ll ask for Hello Kitty band-aids and no, anesthesia is not the same as medistasia (medicine + Cinderella’s wicked stepsister.))

****

Oh! And while I’m off zzzzing why don’t you enter to win a bedtime kit worth over $250!

bai!

My uterine factory reset is fast approaching on Tuesday.

Today I went in for my pre-op appointment with Dr. SallyForth.

The good news? I don’t have to do a bowel cleanse the day before.

The bad news? Everything else besides not having to do a bowel cleanse.

I learned today that my uterus has a sick and twisted sense of humor. You see, my period was supposed to start on Monday (it’s Friday today.) I peed on some sticks throughout the week, nothing much, pretty much the norm around casa de moosh. I didn’t do one this morning because in my head I figured that I’d take one at the doctor’s office it would be positive and we’d all laugh at the irony of the situation.

Well it wasn’t positive.

And my period started (literally) the minute I left Dr. SallyForth’s office.

If only it knew what was going to happen to it on Tuesday.

Touché you filthy little trick playing wench of a uterus. I’ll show you.

I never really googled what was going to be happening to me. Since I’ve never had anything done that comes with a possible side effect of death I figured not googling worst case scenarios was better for everyone involved. However today Dr. SallyForth went over the details of what’s going to happen.

First is the Hysteroscopy. They’re going in the only direct way to my uterus. The same way babies come out. While they’re up in my business they’ll be doing a D&C.

“The dilation and curettage procedure is called a D&C. The D stands for dilation, which means enlarging. Curettage (the C) means scraping. Together, this procedure involves expanding or enlarging the entrance of a woman’s uterus so that a thin, sharp instrument can scrape or suction away the lining of the uterus and take tissue samples.“

NO PART OF THAT SOUNDS AWESOME. Especially since the aforementioned quote is followed by the phrase “D&C is usually a diagnostic procedure and seldom is therapeutic.” When would any part of that be considered THERAPEUTIC?

I’m considering having a zipper installed after the past five years of all this crap.

When they’re all done spelunking in my tenders that’s when they’ll gas up my belly like the Hindenburg and look around on the inside during a laparoscopy. Apparently I’ll get pictures as a souvenir. Silver lining I guess.

Now I put a vote out to you Internets. I need something to write on my belly in Sharpie the day of my procedure. You know, how when you have knee surgery on your left knee they have you write “YES THIS ONE” on your left knee and “NO NOT THIS ONE” on your right knee?

Only mine is way more awesome.

Hi Internet.

How are you?

Me? I’m still kind of having a rough time. Cody has started studying hardcore for the bar, it should be against the law to study 12 hours a day for two months straight for ONE TEST.

But that’s just my opinion.

I have my house, but after having the utilities turned on to have it inspected, a pipe blew up somewhere in the ceiling and rendered a light fixture and bathroom fan makeshift water fountains. HURRAH FOR HOME OWNERSHIP!

(As an aside, the bathroom fan, when there is no shower to void humidity, what purpose does the fan truly serve? Is it to cover up noises? Or suck smelly air out? Because personally I think they suck at the latter. I could give examples but I just ate.)

Here’s the other thing. I have to have real surgery. Like I’m going to be konked out and have to sign release waivers and have things cut into me. My belly specifically. The next step to project moosh 2.0 is to factory reset my uterus with a good deep cleaning via  a laparoscopy (lappa-ross-kuppy).

I’m kinda scared.

They call it a “microinvasive” surgery. Regardless, it has the word INVASIVE in it and invasions are never good, unless it’s the invasion of lots of money into my bank account, or cheeseburgers into my mouth.

I’ve only been knocked out once for my wisdom teeth and I remember McSalad Shakers being the last thing I heard as I drifted under.

But this? I’m going to wake up after having stuff shoved in my belly. Sharp stuff. My uterus will have been roto rooted. That can’t feel good right? I had one friend who had a laparoscopic procedure done and their exact words?

“Oh, just feels like I’ve been STABBED IN THE STOMACH FIVE TIMES.”

eep!

And then there’s all these rumors of gas escaping out of your shoulders.

hold me!

Plus I watched Dateline years ago where they covered the whole topic of anesthesia working on your body but not on your mind. (Called anesthesia awareness, there’s an entire campaign. So don’t tell me it’s made up, if there’s a campaign? I have reason to be nervous.)

So basically you’re frozen stiff and everyone thinks you’re asleep but in reality you’re awake and can FEEL AND HEAR EVERYTHING.

I’m not allowed to watch Dateline anymore for a plethora of reasons, this one included.

Okay.

So.

There you go.

Busted pipes both in my ceiling and in my abdominal cavity.

June 23rd, a uterine factory reset is scheduled.

Good times!

I’m writing this on the 17th of May, a day before my period is scheduled to come and nineteen days after I ovulated (and made out appropriately.)

Which means for the past nineteen days I have interpreted any tiny fluctuation in my existence to mean I am either pregnant or not. For anyone who has ever longed to be pregnant you know exactly what I’m talking about. Suddenly everything you do with yourself from the day you ovulate could have bearing on the entire future health of your hypothetical fetus.

Feeling a little barfy? It’s because you’re pregnant, ignore the fact that you ate some seriously questionable chicken fingers chased by lukewarm fruit salad and a flat soda the night before. Commence eating nothing but Gatorade and Saltines.

Cookies and cream ice cream for dinner one night? You just ruined their chance at a Harvard education by dumbing them down with chunks of frozen chocolate cookie in your first trimester.

Forgot to take your pretatal Flinstone vitamin on Wednesday? Congratulations your pretend (or is it?) kid is now going to have a flipper.

Fell down the stairs?* Whoops, you just knocked the little imaginary embryo loose and you are completely out of luck, thanks for trying, come back again later when you’re a little more graceful.

I even convinced my husband to go out at almost midnight to procure me a Cherry Slushee because there’s a chance I could be pregnant and the violent vomiting could begin any! day! now! rendering the enjoyment of a Cherry Slushee null and void for the next nine months because they burn so bad on the way back up.**

Speaking of vomiting, with the way my last pregnancy turned out*** I seriously consider everything I put in my mouth, because it could be the first thing to come up. (Seriously, with the moosh? I felt fiiiine, then one day, I kinda had a tummy ache, I ate some Cheerios for breakfast at 8:31am MST and at 8:43 am MST on April 15, 2004 those suckers came rocketing back up in the last stall on the left at Beehive Clothing. Nothing stayed down for the next 35 weeks. The last thing I vomited up? Lime Slushee in the delivery room, I told that nurse I was scheduled to puke just after 10 am MST and to hurry up and give me the Zofran already, however she went with a ‘wait and see’ approach. Lime slushee puke? 10:08 am, Zofran administered? 10:12 am. THANKS NURSE.)

So here I sit in limbo. Wanting so badly to troll etsy for baby stuff that was never around when the moosh was a baby.  Ignoring the overwhelming desire to enter every online contest for onesies and burp cloths and bedding sets. Putting off buying one of those “I’M A BIG SISTER” t-shirts for another month**** because frankly there is a possibility that the moosh may never be a big sister.

My time would be better spent vacuuming than dreaming up ways to tell my husband, my daughter, my family and all of you magnificent witty ways to announce my pregnancy.

But that’s just the thing, it’s so all encompassing, it changes everything. If I were pregnant it would mean that spare bedroom in a new house would be a baby’s room, not an office. People constantly offer the well meaning advice of “Just don’t worry about it and it will happen.” or “You think about it too much, just relax.” and then there’s my favorite, “I had this friend who gave up years ago and went out and adopted twins and a month later she found out that she was pregnant with triplets! Can you imagine!!!!1!!”

I have to remember when it comes to magnificent stories of conception they are all the exception. For every woman out there who miraculously becomes pregnant after a dozen years trying or after coming back from cancer or after going through a heart wrenching adoption, there are a dozen more of us out there who are the rule.

Those of us who pee on sticks every month to a single line or a blinking display of “NOT PREGNANT.” Those of us who will never become stories of “miraculous pregnancies.” Those of us destined to be ordinary infertile people that most of the pregnant world will feel awkward and uncomfortable around.

To those of you who are the exceptions? You’re welcome, because without people like me your stories would never be considered miracles.*****

_______________________________________

*I actually haven’t fell down a flight of stairs for almost a year. Yay me!

**Personal experience.

***For those of you who are new here I basically barfed myself into emaciation while pregnant from a soul sucking condition known as Hyperemesis Gravidarum.

****Honestly? I’ve been putting off this purchase every month for the last three years.

*****And that? Just sounded a lot more snarky than I intended. Maybe that’s why infertiles make fertiles feel so awkward?

Monday morning I headed into a local hospital to have ink shoved up my fallopian tubes.

If you are to ever have this procedure done your doctor will either call it an HSG test or a “Hystero,” if he’s really into freaking you out he’ll give you the full name, hysterosalpingogram followed with a shallow promise of mild discomfort. When you get home you will Google said HSG test and see that yes, mild discomfort similar to menstrual cramps is to be expected. 

If you are like me you will then tweet “Who’s ever had an HSG and are sedatives a good idea?” You will get responses back ranging from “@mooshinindy heavy drinking advised” to “@mooshinindy NEVER AGAIN. GOD BLESS, you’re going to need it.” to “@mooshinindy There’s not enough tranquilizers in the world.”

You will then call your doctor to make sure he’s aware you passed out at your first colposcopy and required Xanax at subsequent inter-vaginal procedures. Your doctor will quickly prescribe you Klonopin, so quickly in fact you begin to panic even more about the upcoming violation of your previously exit only cervix.

When V (violation) day comes you should really take a friend with you. I brought Ami, I trust her more than I trust my DVR. I really suggest you bring a friend whom you also trust more than your DVR. If you’re in the Indianapolis area, I am available, I may even let you borrow Ami.

I changed into a hospital frock, bare from the bellybutton down and hopped up on the hardest most cold, cruel medical x-ray table ever. Sure they put a sheet on it but there’s no denying that the tables they do autopsies on may be more comfortable. A radiologist came in (a middle aged woman thank heavens, I can only imagine the guffawing from Ami had a hot doctor appeared to ink me.) This middle aged woman made me the same “mild discomfort” promises to which I promptly replied “Iz on deh Klonopin, rilly, iz gud…*drool*” Humor can only take me so far when I’m scared.

See all those speculums? Who else knew they came in every size and shape? Who found out they came in every size and shape after every one was shoved in their tender areas in an attempt to get their cervix to “pop out?” Anyone? By the time she popped my cervix out she asked “Uh, does this hurt? Your cervix is really irritated and bleeding.” To which I started to cry, because yes, it really did hurt and WAH, I didn’t want to know that you made me bleed. 

Ami gets four gold stars for champion hand holding.

In went the tube, which truthfully looked long enough to come out my nose, or at least tickle my uvula. The former moosh manor was filled with contrast ink and all sorts of pictures were taken of my anemone like uterus.

• I had no idea it was that small. Talk about elasticity.
• I had no idea it moves around as much as it did.

The idea behind the test is that if your fallopian tubes are open the ink will spray out the top like a shaken bottle of sparkling cider. If one of your tubes is blocked the ink will either bust its way through (which happened on my left side) or it will only pour out the open tube, or back out through your cervix if you’re all kinds of plugged up.

(click on picture to get notes on each frame.)

I am now 100% assured that my tubes are a superhighway of moosh 2.0 egg transport.

I’m not sure what’s next, but I do know my baby making parts are open for business. I also know that the sign of a true friend is one who takes you in to get donuts after a test like this, even though you’re staggering like a drunk, who doesn’t judge when you eat three of the four donuts on the way home, gets you to your couch, covers you with a blanket and leaves you to drool on your pillow in a drug induced haze for the next eight hours.

Long’s Bakery Cinnamon Fry and Carmel Iced Fluff Filled bars. Everyone  now with the nom nom.

May everyone have an Ami in their life, and open free flowing tubes. And donuts for later. And Klonopin. And a fluffy pillow and soft blanket. And people to watch your kid (thanks A. and M.!)

TMI is in the title. You’ve been warned.

I have tiny little fluid filled cysts on my ovaries. Well, tiny is all relative. If my ovary was the size of my head? The cyst on my left ovary would be roughly the size of a very large cat sitting on my head. My right ovary on the other hand would contain a litter of the very large cat’s kittens.

Not only are these cysts keeping me from getting pregnant they are basically like bodily weeds mucking up my entire internal business. (See Joaquin Phoenix reference in previous post.) These “cysts” are slowly turning me into a man.

With Cody freaking out about his 30th birthday on Wednesday it doesn’t help that his former petite feminine wife is slowly being turned into a testosterone laced barren swamp creature.

I admit the following because PCOS is common, it’s painful (!!!), and it can be rather embarrassing as you’re about to see. I have the acne of a teenager who smeared an entire large pepperoni pizza all over their face. I have been gaining an average of two pounds a week, mostly to my middle, for the last few months leaving me 17 lbs. overweight despite my best efforts. The hair on my head is falling out. If I don’t have a ponytail combed just right I have obvious bare patches of scalp showing, if I pull my hair back completely my receding hairline is painfully apparent. To counteract the hair falling out of my head I am growing hair in places Cody doesn’t even grow hair. Face, chest, shoulders, stomach, other parts, my tweezers can barely keep up. And finally? The symptom that has me ready to run into head on traffic?

Due to an increase in prolactin because my poor body doesn’t know what the heck is going on, I’m lactating.

Yep.

I was never able to nurse the moosh after she was born, but put some cysts in me and I could begin a career as a whet nurse.

The only other side common side effect to PCOS is depression. Thankfully I’m already medicated for that or that head on into traffic thing would become a serious problem.

I KID!

But only because I’m medicated.

So there you have it, I’m a short balding woman laden with acne sporting a rotund waistline and hairy chin who may squirt if you get too close.

I’ll put the whole wanting a baby thing to the side and replace it with “I just want my body back before some balls drop.”

Too far?

When I was but a young child I thought that when a dad’s bellybutton touched the mom’s bellybutton in a “baby hug” a mom got pregnant. The kid was in her stomach and after awhile she pooped it out. I never did understand where food went with all that baby crowding her business. I also never really learned the difference between pregnant and overweight until embarrassing my parents over and in front of a long time (heavy set) friend.

Sorry about that guys, kids, sheesh. Right?

My aunt remembers a dream from when she was little (well before she knew where babies were made and where they came out for reals) that she remembers to this day. She barfed the baby out of her stomach through her mouth (because in her world babies hung out in stomachs too) but it wasn’t “cooked” all the way. So she swallowed the baby and some sort of Polariod photo fluid to “develop” the baby.

the moosh is at a point where she believes that a baby is put in a mom’s tummy when Heavenly Father decides to get His act together and put one in there. Being four she’s big on turns, so when I told her that her friend was going to have another little sister she looked at me and said “God skipped you.”

Kids, sheesh.

Now that I’m a grownup I know where babies are made and I’m even more aware of where they come out and what they do to you while they’re shacking up in your uterus for the majority of a year. I’m also very aware that when there’s a problem with the baby making hardware there’s really only one easy way in.

What I wouldn’t have given for a zippered bellybutton today.

I’m just going to say it.

Vaginal ultrasound.

*shiver*

Now this is also where I date myself in the babymaking process, when the tech pulled out the “wand of wonder” today I said “THAT’S IT? The last time I had this done the thing was the size of a TSA wand in airport security.”

Obviously the girl was young, fresh and new because in her memory of schooling she had never seen one bigger than the one she was holding.

Dear 2003, I demand my dignity back. Those two ultrasounds I endured back then were similar to having a spatula inserted (and not an omlette spatula, a full on pancake spatula) resulting in the tech trying to flip my uterus back to my tailbone in one swift movement.

Today’s ultrasound had soothing music, dimmed lights and I’m pretty sure an aromatherpy something was involved. I had my own little screen to watch the goings on in the KC Baby Ranch. Sadly after two previous ultrasounds I know what wrong looks like.

And my insides are all wrong.

It’s as if the outside of me is an average everyday person with a few zits and chubby knees.

Inside? Joaquin Phoenix circa Late Show 2009.

There is a cyst party going on down south and no babies are invited until they get all of their slobbish fraternal ways off my ovaries.

The good news? I have an explanation on the sudden 15 pound weight gain, zits as far as the eye can see and hairs in places where there should never be hairs on a girl. This also includes hairs with texture that should never never be found on girls.

I thought pregnancy cured PCOS. LIES! ALL LIES!

Then there’s the results of the hundredteen blood tests I had done a few weeks ago.

Joaquin Pheonix.

Srsly.

I shudder every time I go out in public and someone inevitably  asks “So, what do you dooooo?”

A year ago I could leave the answer at “stay at home mom” but with the recent influx of opportunities as a result of this here blog I can’t really leave it at just mom anymore. This blogging thing can take a lot of (gratifying) work.

If nosy people could just let “I write.” be an answer my life would be a lot easier, but no. The nosy people need to know “Sooooo, what do you write about?” I guess that’s what makes them nosy as opposed to minding their own businessy.

My new doctor in charge of all things ladybits asked me the “So what do you do?” question at our first meeting, since I couldn’t redirect the question back to him since it was pretty obvious what he did and what he was about to do there was an awkward pause.

“Uh, I write about my life on the internet, given your striking resemblance to a soap opera doctor you may just make it into a post next week.”

And here he is. Just as I promised.

I’m going to need a nickname for this new doctor, because he’s going to be around a lot. Over $1,000 alone in blood tests and we haven’t even gotten to the dirty work. That comes next week. WHEE.

Oh hai, have I ever mentioned infertility is really long, exhausting, expensive, boring, and regularly anti climactic?

Taking suggestions for Dr. Soap Opera’s new nickname, he really is quite handsome, in an “I look at cervixes all day” kind of way. NO I’M SORRYS, this too shall pass in it’s own time, if I’ve learned anything it’s that. I’ve also learned how much I really like someone when I find out they’re pregnant (HI ANNA AND ERIKA! LOVE YOU AMBER!)

If you feel an incontrollable need to say “I’m sorry” tell me your favorite kind of cake instead. Mine’s chocolate, or any one from Costco. Costco cake, mmm.

Doctor Costco Cake has a nice ring…

Here goes nothing.

Up to this point I have not had anyone get medically involved in my fertility issues outside my yearly spread ‘em, scrape ‘em, squeeze ‘em. I didn’t have insurance nor was I completely sure that eight babies during law school was the best idea (wait, you mean not everyone that goes through fertility treatment gets eight babies? Bummer.)

This past Monday after a Blissful weekend I finally went in to see a doctor. I was in a jovial mood and joked about how I’d make him famous if he could get a litter into my uterus. We joked back and forth about the baby making process and about the appearance of stray body hair (Did I ever mention that I had PCOS? In addition to the occasional RUPTURE of a cyst on my ovary I had dark thick whiskers that grew from every crevice? I didn’t? Wonder why…)

When it came time for the actual exam, results and the real questions his face turned grim. I could tell he didn’t want to have to tell me what he found and what would have to be done about it.

I’m not ready to go into those details yet. With my upcoming travels through February and March it delays  what needs to be done due to timing. And focusing on what I’m going to have to go through will only cause me more heartache.

But let’s just say the answer is not as easy as a prescription for Clomid accompanied by a few months of hot flashes, scheduled sex and hormonal surges of crazy.

I’m going into this hoping to find the humor in it, for some reason I though being able to get pregnant would be natural. Like hunger.

You get hungry, you eat a cheeseburger.

You want to have a baby, you make out.

I’ve had so many sweet people email me thanking me for helping them through their own fertility issues. Some send pictures of their miracle babies, others send me photos of the little kids they were blessed to have through adoption.

I know there’s still some of you out there who can’t get babies where you want or need them to be. I can’t give up and lie to you about how much I’m hurting.

Because I am.

And I cannot be ignorant to all the kindness my readers have shown me. You don’t need to read this stuff, no one makes you. The world won’t stop if you don’t read my blog. But you do. And I’m grateful for that. Grateful that you take the time to send me hugs and kisses and chocolate.

@mooshinindy if it’s hell you have to go through then we will all go with you holding your hand. -@Adrienne

Thank you. All you faceless people and people whom I’ve had the honor of meeting. Thank you for letting me throw my little snit fit pity party.

Business as usual tomorrow? I’ll be discussing prenatal vitamins. If we can put a man on the moon and Apple can make the iPhone, why the hell can’t we make a prenatal vitamin smaller than the state of Rhode Island?

P.S. I’m leaving comments open as long AS NO ONE SAYS “I’M SORRY.”If you can’t think of anything to say besides “I’m sorry” then tell me your favorite kind of sandwich.

P.P.S. Oh, also, if I depressed you enough and you are an emotional eater HAVE I GOT THE GIVEAWAY FOR YOU! Martinis and Chocolate over at my review blog, you’re welcome.