about being a panda in a rabbit world.

Tiny Gramma told me one night a few months ago while I was sobbing into the phone “I don’t know why I was a rabbit and you ended up a panda.”

If you’ve ever watched Planet Earth (which if you haven’t you have no business being on any sort of technology whatsoever) you’ll know that pandas are like the worlds most unluckiest pro-creators despite being devastatingly cute. (Much like me in both respects.) Why can’t cicadas or sloths have crappy odds at procreating? Because I’ve seen sloths and I’ve seen cicadas and trust me the world needs no more of either.

In the passion and fury of my post yesterday where I segued into the whole infertility thing without meaning to I didn’t really acknowledge that I live in two different infertile worlds.

One is online. Where people understand. People get it. People talk about it. And the people who end up pregnant understand how much it means to me when they take the time to tell me before it hits the twitter fan. For those of you who have done that for me? A thousand fuzzy kisses (uh, yeah. I need to pluck a little more.)

The other world is what surrounds me on a daily basis. I am a member of a church that pretty much puts Catholics to shame when it comes to multiplying and replenishing the Earth, especially when we have the option of using birth control. (And no, we’re not told to make dozens of babies. Families are just really really important to us, so a lot of LDS people choose to have a lot of babies before they turn thirty. Personal choice. Not religious decree.)

I have watched…wait for it…over 60 pregnancies in the last three years since moving to Indiana. These are just people that live by me.

In the past week I have had three pregnancies made known to me from people that are in my congregation. That is not counting the previous two that already existed or the other two that just completed their nine month run. I have watched at least a dozen women be pregnant twice since living here and just this week I have now seen someone pregnant three different times within three years. After some of your confessions yesterday I don’t feel so creepy that I’ve kept count.

Outside the stereotypes of my religion I am abnormal. I was married just after my 18th birthday (and am enjoying it immensely thank you very much,) had a child at 22 and sometimes desperately want another before I turn 30.

Inside the stereotypes of my religion I am abnormal. I have been married for eight years and yet I only have one child.

My mom didn’t even have me until she was 32.

I find myself wondering so often “Why am I so worried about this? Is it because I can’t? Is it because the people around me are procreating at breakneck speed? I’m only 27 followed closely by OHMYGOSHIAMALMOSTTHIRTY.”

I’m very conflicted about being stuck between the “normalities” of these two very different worlds. I’d like to just be comfortable in my own little world. But there’s not enough medication for me to do that just yet.

Two of my closest friends are having babies before July is over. I have received news of other pregnancies of Internet/IRL friends as well, all of them giving me hope that one day it will happen for me. And for their miracles I can’t thank Heavenly Father enough for answering the prayers I’ve poured out in their behalf.

Sometimes my happiness for others is diminished by the irresponsibility, disrespect or overwhelmingness of it all.

(Which BTW? Dr. SallyForth? My old OB had the option of different appointment availability for infertility patients so I never had to enter his office face to belly with a room full of unwed pregnant teenagers. You *may* want to look into that.)

God doesn’t need/want me pregnant right now. For whatever reason. Today I’m okay with this. Tomorrow could be different.

But no matter what? If you have a little floater down there in your uterus? I want to know about it. And I want to know how I can help.

I just hope you can understand that some days are better than others.

I’m learning how to deal with this.

And sometimes it’s just very very confusing.


Please don’t take the panda personally.

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falling on my face.

The day is coming that I will hurt you. Or offend you.

Consider this your warning as I am just now beginning to acknowledge that this is my curse/gift.

I hurt people unintentionally. A lot. When I think I’m being funny, or ironic, or helpful it turns out that I’m only causing another person grief and heartache. I’d like to say it’s only happened once. But it’s happend a lot. Everytime I learn. But I wish I could have learned enough the first time to keep it from happening ever again.

But alas every person is different.

Therefore falling on my face each time is a wretchedly new experience.

And no matter how things are resolved I always feel as though I have this poorly patched crack that everyone is watching, waiting for it to fall apart again.

There was a time I was spiteful, vengeful and just plain mean. I hurt people and I hurt them on purpose, I didn’t care.

(I call this era B.C., or “before Cody”)

But P.C. (post Cody) I’m a little more human. And have become more and more so as the years have gone by. I have sought out those who I was nasty to in my B.C. life and offered apologies. People I hurt deserved them and I knew that I needed to come clean to be able to start anew.

And yet here I am. Still hurting people when I don’t mean to.

I have been very ugly in the past year about pregnancy. It has been brought to my attention multiple times. And everytime I feel horrible. But to everyone I hurt? It’s my own thing. It’s nothing against you. And I’m sorry that I lashed out at you the way I did.

I’m on a very confusing road and somedays are worse than others. I’m sorry if I cross paths with you on those bad days. But I promise. It’s me. Not you. And I am getting better.

In May I wrote a fairly ugly post about infertility. One of the uglier ones I’ve written. But it got all of that ugliness out of me and put it out there on display. And I’ve felt much better since. It hurts when people say “I’m pregnant, but I was afraid to tell you.” I don’t even know why that hurts. But it does. My own personal battles aren’t going to leave me any less happy for you. I want you to enjoy your pregnancy. I want to know about your heartburn and vomit. Really.

What hurts more is when I find out through the grapevine. It is obvious that I am having severe problems conceiving. People around me know that. In many situations I feel like the big giant infertile elephant in a room full of fluffy humpy bunnies. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it when someone admits to me that they are pregnant, before the word hits the street. Call me selfish. But it helps a lot to be able to have that private moment with someone, to see how excited they are. To be excited with them. I’ve kept many secrets of pregnancies around me.

But when a new pregnancy is being discussed and the conversation shuts down as soon as I walk by? I feel as though my freak flag is flying. I’m not dumb. I know what you’re talking about.

To those of you who may have friends struggling with infertility that find themselves pregnant? Tell them. In person. On the phone. However you communicate the most naturally. Have them at the top of your list of people to tell. We can keep secrets. We want so desperately to be happy for you but it’s hard when we’re the last ones to know because you didn’t want to upset us.

When we take our kids to see fireworks we warn them that it is going to get loud so when the big booms do come, they don’t come as a surprise.

A lot of times we don’t tell our kids something before going into it for fear that we will scare them before anything even happens. Generally you don’t go to a mall walk your kid straight up to Santa and plunk them down in his lap. You warm them up to the idea. Let them get used to it.

This is longer than I wanted it to be. And I got off topic. Sorry.

I’m imperfect.

And I hate myself for that sometimes.

I hate that I can hurt other people so badly without meaning to.

I hate that I even have the capacity to hurt someone.

Especially those that mean the most to me.

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so! what’s next?


So it’s been about two and a half days since my innards were spelunked and I currently feel as though there is a very full puce colored balloon in my tummy that just has to be full of very nasty noxious gut gas. Got a visual on that? Good.

Just imagine the worst gas of your life but not being able to get it out the front or the back.

(Which reminds me. What did the stomach say to the burp? Give up? “I’ll let you out the back if you go quietly.” HA!)

So far the shoulder pain that a lot of you warned me about hasn’t been much of a bother. Of course from the way my last post reads and the way a lot of my tweets have been sounding I’m not sure I’ve felt much of anything over the past 48 hours let alone been coherent enough to comprehend any of it.


So I hurt. A lot. But my spirits are spry as a spring chicken.

Know why?

Because I have an answer! A timeline! HURRAH!

Now if any of you want to fill in the blanks because you’ve had this happen to you as well I’d appreciate it. I’d go out googling it but last time I did that I found out about teratomas and OH MY GOSH my doctor pulled a teratoma out of a girl a few weeks ago that had AN EYELID WITH EYELASHES IN IT.

The plan is to shut down my reproductive parts for six months with some sort of shot. (I got this news from Cody, he said “it sounded like something like, uh, Dem-uh, I don’t remember but it’s a shot.“) Now I won’t get the official MEDICAL definition and description of what’s going to be next until my follow up appointment but I can tell you that I like that where Dr. SallyForth is going with this. To know that for six months I can just live my life, let my little uterus get her freaking act straight and then assault her like a rabbit in heat when all is healed and taken care of. (Did you get a good visual on that too? YOU’RE WELCOME!)

Things I’ve learned while being laid out and gassed up?

Daytime TV stinks.

Simply willing food to appear in front of you does not work.

Many many women have all sorts of nasty things done to their uteri.


It takes approximately 23 minutes for narcotics to hit my system and make me ten kind of floppy fingered fun.


mmm. breakfast. (and lunch, and ironically dinner too.)

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to all eht blogs i’ve loooved….

hi hi hi!


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.


pazz the drugs!

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squeaky bloated, fat and clean topped with pearls.

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

per vagina

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.


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.”

@drsallyforth plz set @uterus straight.

(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.

Southern Fairytale passing along the pearls to a disheveled moosh.

(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.

peachbutt design 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!


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finding humor in blood, sedatives and lady parts.

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.

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a uterine factory reset is scheduled.

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.”


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.



There you go.

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

June 23rd, a uterine factory reset is scheduled.

Good times!

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I am the pregnancy rule.

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?

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