Shrinking Violet

Nothing Changes on New Year's Day

Reasons I wish I hadn't told anyone about my miscarriage:

1. "I heard you lost the baby." From my grandmother. A 7 week old embryo is not a baby. It's a moment of hope and has made me sadder than I thought an early miscarriage could make me feel, but I didn't lose a baby. No need to make my life sound worse than it actually is. I had an early miscarriage after "trying" in some respect for well over a year to have a kid. I did not lose a baby. If I thought I lost a baby I could not believe in a woman's right to have an abortion, and I do believe that.

2. "D and G both have had miscarriages. I'm sure they know how you are feeling." From my motherinlaw. I know that everyone has miscarriages, and that there are a number of people who actually have it worse than me. However, D and G, who have 3 and 5 children respectively, are not in that category. Perhaps they once had an inkling of how I feel, minus the year and a half prelude, but right now I don't think they could fathom it.

3. "At least you know you can conceive now." Also from my motherinlaw. Since I have PCOS, thyroid disease, and what appears to be a luteal phase defect, having a miscarriage does not allay many fears about my ability to have a child. The goal was never pregnancy. It was a baby. One of my good friends conceived on clomid once but miscarried and ended up having to use needles instead.

4. "I had multiple miscarriages before I had you, one quite a while into my pregnancy, but the stake president told Dad that if he accepted the calling to be High Priest Group Leader that we would be able to have kids." From my mother. She also tried to tell me she has PCOS when I got diagnosed. She doesn't. She had one miscarriage at 7 weeks, same as me. The other miscarriage(s), they may have existed but they weren't clinically confirmed or anything. In addition, it implies that my subfertility woes could be taken care of if only I were a little more righteous.

5. "It's not your time yet." From my cousin. Perhaps the most well meaning of the Comments That Didn't Help, but nonetheless, is it God's appointed time for my crack addicted single mom neighbor? I suppose in some sense I believe in some sort of divine scheme, but I lost the embryo (not a fetus yet and certainly not a baby) because my uterine lining was inadequate and my eggs suck, or maybe if I'm lucky and overreacting, because of a random chromosomal defect that will not progress into a chronic problem.

The above list is a comprehensive list of what people have said to me about the miscarriage. I'm not sure what the "right" thing to say would have been, but I am positive that those things were not right. I didn't tell any of my friends mostly because I don't think anyone wants to know. It's kind of depressing and most people think I'm a complete moron for going to law school and wanting a child at the same time. Obviously I'm a little bit too overly sensitive to be talking about this with people who aren't obligated by blood or marriage to continue speaking to me.

Also, if any of my real life friends actually read this which I do not believe they do because they think blogging is stupid which is fine with me, I must make apologies for behaving like an asshole at the party this week.

I'm sorry for saying "those of us whose parents paid for college" when nobody's parents but mine paid for college. I meant to say "those of us who value education" but that also seemed to exclude a few people and it was too late when it came out of my mouth. Sorry for implying that one of you had no friends in your new city last year. Sorry for being so stupid to not know that no good concerts take place in the winter. Sorry that I have nothing interesting to say about anything (if you read this entry you'll understand I've been preoccupied). And even though my feelings were a little hurt when one of you mentioned that you didn't want to hang out with us because you have children and we don't, I understand.

Usually I feel really good after I hang out with old friends, but this last party ended with me feeling like a million little pieces. Actually, I think I felt like a million little pieces before it started which explains why I couldn't come up with a single gracious thing to say. I'm so sick of being sad. I don't think I've had a good day since December 13. I can't wait to go back to school so I have something else to do besides wallowing.

Heartache

Today my friend Joe was bragging up a storm about his wife's ultrasound pictures. As well he should. It's their first. Another friend of mine mentioned that she wanted ten kids. Another friend of mine asked, randomly, about inlaws, and I said that I didn't connect with any of my inlaws because they all have three or more kids. He knows I've been married for over 4 years. I could see him bite his tongue. Another guy mentioned that he's decided that he's worked hard on his paper and that he doesn't mind what grade he gets because he knows that he's spent quality time with his little daughter.

It's moments like these I start to comprehend the infertility black hole. Knowing that it's well within the realm of possibility that I might not have a baby for years if ever is too incomprehensible to be the source of much grief at this point in my life. I'm young. I have other stuff going on. But when other people chit chat about babies and talk about having them like it's not a big deal that involves medical procedures I feel like I'm hovering around the edges of this large black hole, getting a glimpse at the horror that awaits as it sucks me in.

For now, however, the feelings I have about not being able to readily have a child bear much more resemblance to the way I felt when I didn't get asked to the junior prom. When I didn't get asked to the junior prom, there was some doubt of course that I would never be desirable enough to ask on a date ever and that I wouldn't get married, but I knew that wasn't probable--kind of like I know I'll probably be able to have a kid someday in the indeterminate future. Instead, the primary problem was feeling unbelievably left out for the whole month leading up to the dance. And the whole, realizing just how big of a geek I really was. Which I guess in this case compares to realizing how I don't fit in anywhere at all.

I think the whole overwhelming awkwardness I've been feeling--the way I've become this annoying person that I don't like when I'm around other people--might be coming from the crappy kid situation. I'm not sure, though. I always have been a little awkward. I mean, I didn't get asked to junior prom after all.

Disappointment

Even if I don't agree with her reasoning, it still hurts to be a disappointment to my mother. At lunch last Thursday she told me that she is going to start buying baby things for a baby in her ward and that she bought some yarn to make a blanket for her first little grandbaby and, in what might have been the crowning moment of the entire lunch, said "well you're not going to have kids so it doesn't matter" when I asked her to be respectful of homeschoolers. She later suggested that I should have a kid and then my mother in law would like me more (am I taking it to far to analogize that she also would like me more?). She scoffed a little when I made a comment about needing to get good grades to get a job--silly competitive law students.

My mom knows that I have an ovulatory disorder and that I'm on medication for it. She does not know about anything else, really, but shouldn't that be enough to make her keep her mouth shut about me never having children? Shouldn't it occur to her somewhere in her little brain that it is Not. Nice. to taunt me about it? And does she think that making fun of other people's parenting decisions is going to make me want to ask her opinion about anything child related even if, as she put it today, she bases her decisions on her educational background? Oh, lucky me! I have an opinionated motherinlaw who knows all things pregnant and a mother who knows all thing small child.

I grind my teeth and clench my fists whenever I so much as start to think about how not proud my parents are of my decision to go to law school. I am so much happier now than I was working for my dad. I feel like I am doing pretty well (maybe not good enough, but I seem to be understanding at least). I feel relieved that I have a repository for mental energy that would otherwise be spent researching fertility procedures and obtaining home decor. I can't believe how oblivious my mom is. I can't believe she doesn't understand what is going on.

I know that if I knew me I would want to shake me and tell me to tell my mother what's going on already with the endocrinologists and adjusted dosages and all that stuff. If I did that, though, it would turn me into a tragedy. "Did you hear my poor daughter Emily cannot have children. She's really having a rough time of it." She'd still talk about grandchildren incessantly and she still wouldn't be proud of me going to law school. I don't see how that would make me feel better.

Zach keeps telling me that I should quit going to lunch with her because I generally come home fuming or crying or both. The thing is, though, the moment I stop going to lunch with her is the moment I officially become her (she refuses to talk to her mother at least half the time and hasn't gone to a Christmas party or Thanksgiving celebration with her family for over 10 years). I'm not willing to do that just yet, but I need to come up with a better coping mechanism.

What A Girl Wants

Sometimes I feel like God is going to punish me because He knows that in my heart I would totally trade having kids in the next five or so years for a chance to clerk for a federal appeals court judge. Thinking about that type of clerkship is pretty premature at this point, being one month into this law school marathon and having no earthly indication of how well I'm doing. Still, whenever I think of my future career goals, I have two distinct and divergent paths, and the one I prefer seems to be the one I should not prefer.

I actually don't believe in a God quite so conniving as to sabotage my dreams for not adhering to the Family Proclamation. Well, I mostly don't. My mom is the superstitious type who scoots away from me when I say something less positive about the church, you know, to avoid the lightning. Whenever I say that I hope something won't happen, she says not to say it out loud because God will hear and make sure that it does happen just so I have an "opportunity to grow". The part of me that believes in that type of God is pretty certain that I am going to either have twins and flunk out of law school or that I'll graduate from law school in precisely the middle of my class while remaining infertile. Obviously it's not EITHER I have kids OR I succeed enormously in law school and my subsequent career.

Today at church I held a little 4-5 month old baby while her mother took her other child out to the bathroom. The baby was really cute. She fussed a little, but not too terribly much. She smiled at me. I realized that if I'd gotten pregnant when I first went off the pill that my child would be about this child's age. I expected to feel sad at the realization, but I found I wasn't sad at all. Instead I felt kind of numb and relieved. I couldn't even imagine that version of my life, not that it would be bad, just unthinkable like living under water or upside down (possibly the same way that mothers think about the life they would be living if they hadn't had children?).

In the midst of this internal conflict, I asked Z if he thought that women like Sandra Day O'Connor and the female chief justice of the Utah Supreme Court could be that successful and also good mothers. He said that of course he couldn't say since he didn't know them, but he doubted it. A few months ago Z expressed uncharacteristic frustration at how I had a more well laid out career path than he did. With his new job, our equilibrium has returned. If I do manage to become pregnant, though, I fear I will not take well to the shoe being on the other foot.

Sometimes You Get What You Pay For and Sometimes You Don't

So on Wednesday Z and I went to visit the "real" doctor, which I mentioned earlier was a complete bust. He didn't have any new insight on PCOS. He gave me the exact same treatment my midwife would have given me. And, he cost tons more, which my insurance may or may not cover. I was okay with this even after the visit. I figured the treatment he recommended must be the standard of care and even though I knew the statistical probability he quoted of an 80% chance of pregnancy was completely wrong, I figured he generally knew what he was talking about.

It was okay that he was 35 minutes late, hadn't read my chart before he came into the room, and made 5 times what my midwife makes per visit while spending less time and not actually examining me. I mean the man is a reproductive endocrinologist for heaven's sake, of course he's going to know how to best treat PCOS. And that's what I wanted to know, the best way for me to proceed.

During the course of the appointment,  I asked him about this other medication I was on, and he said that it hadn't been proved to actually work. He actually gave me a bemused look like "oh you stupid gullible child" when I asked about it and especially when I told him that I felt better after taking it, like I fell for the placebo effect or something.  I was pretty disappointed because I thought I had read studies that suggested that if my low dose of this medication were increased that I might be normal and I wouldn't have to use the treatment he suggested (which actually gives a 25-40% chance of pregnancy but has side effects that I don't want). He didn't have any studies for me to read, but suggested I check medline. So I did.

He. Was. Wrong.

I typed in PCOS and metformin, the medicine I am taking. Page after page of results confirm that metformin not only dramatically increases the likelihood of pregnancy, it also helps prevent diabetes, lowers cholesterol, and improves oh pretty much every crappy symptom associated with this stupid disorder. All the studies were with higher doses than what I'm taking. Medline is the National Institute of Health database...completely mainstream. How can someone who is trained in a medical specialty not know what the last 3 years of studies have said within his specialty? And more importantly, where do I go now?

This is one of those things that really won't matter in the long run. I mean, I have okay odds right now on the whole pregnancy thing anyway and misinformation from one doctor, no matter how well trained he is supposed to be, doesn't do anything to change that. But, argh! I am so mad!

Wherein I Fall from Cloud Nine and Land on the Pavement

Until today my feelings toward law school were rainbows and butterflies. I reveled in the non-real-estate-agent-ness of my new life. The reading hadn't been hard or confusing. Sure only 6/130 students from last year's 1L class got a 3.8 or better, but I had no reason to believe that I wouldn't be one of those 6. My professors weren't even showing any signs of Socratic sadism.

This morning I woke up right on time and left the house a couple of minutes early even. This didn't matter, of course, because today was the first day of regular school at the U. and there was no parking ANYWHERE since half of the parking is under construction--seriously there were signs posted that said "Honey I shrank the parking lot".

I called Zach at 8:50 begging him to tell me where to go to park since the entire stadium lot was full. By the time I had found a spot and hiked 15 minutes, muttering obscenities under my breath the entire time, to get to class, I was nearly a half hour late (along with one other person, which made it slightly better, but not by any means bearable). I arrived just in time to hear that this professor really likes to call on people randomly--he claims this is the best feature of his class, and that the previous edition of the Civil Procedure book will not be at all helpful for this semester. I have the previous edition--my $5 find from the book sale last week.

I had almost recovered from the adrenaline-caused skittishness that comes when I'm late for something important when I went to my 10:15 Contracts class. There I was introduced to my most frightening professor yet: a meticulous thirty something woman with flawless delivery that recently returned from a yearlong research leave to write a book about baby selling, which she required us to buy as text for her course. I read the introduction and it compared international adoption to slave trade or something. Anyway, not only does she call on people randomly, but 30% of my grade comes from whether I participate in class and the quality of that participation. And there are no guidelines as to what participation amount and quality would be sufficient to get an "A". She also assigned 40 pages of reading for class TOMORROW.

At lunch I called and angrily demanded politely requested the BYU records office mail another copy of my transcripts since, though they claim they sent them last Monday, they haven't arrived. The girl on the phone tried to tell me that they had to wait two weeks to send another copy just to make sure they really were lost in the mail. I made her ask her supervisor because my ID card is being held hostage until they arrive. I sent a friendly email to update the woman responsible for receiving my transcripts and made a joke about the law school regretting giving me that scholarship. She didn't reply.

You'd think the day could only get better from here, but since it included my first visit with, as my mom would say, a "real doctor", it didn't get better. The "real doctor" was 35 minutes late. He didn't have any new or valuable information. He did contradict several studies that I read on medline, even though he recommended I read medline for articles. He also prescribed me some medication that I am not quite sure if I want to take. The medication prospect also induced anxiety of the "What the hell am i doing in law school?" variety and also of the "Why again did i make this appointment in the first place?" variety. So I have like schizophrenic anxiety now on top of having a frightening contracts professor and a parking nightmare to deal with.

When I got home from the doctor, I opened a notice that I received today in the mail from my bank. In spite of having $1000 in unused overdraft protection, not to mention more than sufficient funds in the other 3 accounts I have with them, they decided to return a FIVE DOLLAR CHECK...that's right they RETURNED the check...to a law school organization book sale. It was the same check that paid for the unusable Civil Procedure book referenced above.

I wrote a preemptive email to the president of that organization explaining the situation and asking for an invoice listing the returned check fee to assist me in persuading the bank to reimburse me. Even though I know that when I call and ream them out point out the discrepancy tomorrow they will certainly reimburse the $18.50 "convenience fee" they charged me to return the check and may, if they want to keep my banking business, give me the returned check fee I'll have to pay the NRLF organization, this means that I am about to be completely humiliated.

On Saturday Zach made me go futon shopping. There are two stores on the same road quite close to each other so we walked from one to the other. On the way back to where our car was parked we saw a young man that we sort of know. He had just been knocked off his bike by a car. He was white and trembling and had a large red road rash scrape on his leg. No permanent damage, but definitely not doing too well as he waited for the ambulance with the frazzled woman who had hit him. I think that's similar to how I feel after falling from cloud nine and hitting the pavement.

Some days are like that, even in Australia.

Bitter Bitter Bitter

Today we had three baby blessings at church. All of the mothers were younger than me, which may or may not be noteworthy since I am almost 26. Harold, the crazy man who thinks the world is about to end, asked me when we'd be blessing our baby and, being in a terrible mood, I glared at him and replied "Never. Never. Ever. That is a really mean thing to say." And then I turned my back to him and folded my arms.

Yesterday at my mom's house she brought up grandkids twice in the five minutes I saw her. Once to say that she would let her hair go gray as soon as she has a grandchild casting an "it's up to you" look in my direction. I mumbled something like "don't hold your breath" and turned away. Then she commented that Zach and I look a lot alike (thanks?) so our kids will be beautiful (I don't see the connection). I'm not sure what part of "genetic ovulatory disorder" she isn't getting, but perhaps I need to be a little more forceful.

A few weeks ago I decided I should probably cease with the ovarian and childless complaints since at this point I think a positive pregnancy test just might be the straw that breaks the camel's back as far as my sanity goes what with the law school preparations and work and everything else referenced in my last post. It surprises me how I react, though, to people who bring the subject up.

I really don't know how I feel anymore about kids or the having of one (though today I really had no use for them or their crying mothers and grandmothers many of whom bore incomprehensible tear-filled testimonies and made sacrament meeting go over by 10 minutes). I might just be perfectly happy not having one right now and perhaps I'm just bitter because nobody will let me be happy. Or angry that they won't acknowledge that my life could possibly be stressful or at all complicated without a child. Or I'm so mired in denial that I don't realize that actually I don't want to go to law school I just want to raise children.

I guess I know that I would be thrilled with a positive pregnancy test, though still doubtful at my ability to figure out the rest of my life in conjunction. More than anything I (at least someday) want read books with my little child, show him/her the mountains, and teach her/him about, well, everything. I'm excited and hopeful that I will one day get to meet a little person that is a bit of Zach and a bit of me (hopefully more Zach). Sometimes I think it would work out a little better if this little person came in say three years instead of nine months*, but present circumstances considered, I don't have the luxury of choosing. Without hesitation I would take now over never.

At this point I know a positive pregnancy test would make me happy for stupid reasons too, like the other women at church would finally think I'm normal and have something to say to me, and my parents would finally be proud of me again and be able to brag to all their friends about me, and people would finally cut me some slack because of course I have a lot going on since I have a child to care for (this last one stems from another rotten part of my day that I don't feel like getting into). I think that these stupid reasons more than anything else are what bring out the bitter monster that glares at happy moms and grandmas, ignores the well meaning lonely crazy neighbor who inquires about my reproductive plans, and cries on the drive home from church.
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* I would not be writing this very whiny post if there were even the remotest chance that I would have a baby in nine months, so no need to speculate.

The Mother of Anxiety

My mom and I only get along marginally well. I try pretty hard to humor her so that she doesn't say mean and nasty things to/about me but usually I slip and say something mean or laugh at something I shouldn't or, I don't know, breathe wrong and she flips out and I apologize. My life has been spent apologizing to my mother in order to bring peace back to the family. She doesn't accept apologies, either. Usually she just folds her arms and says "hmph" but a few hours later she pretends like nothing happened and all is well with the world.

Because I am not a big fan of this charade, I don't have an especially close relationship with my mother. She is not privy to most of the details of my life. We go to lunch about once a month and she tells me all the gossip about the people from church and tells me that I'm boring because I don't have enough money to travel ("You don't like to travel, do you? How did I raise a daughter that doesn't like to travel") or decorate my house ("Have you bought anything for your house lately? Why not?). She pouts about all of the other women her age who have grandchildren and tells me about all of her plans for when she has grandchildren. I nod and smile and when she drops me off back at work I tell her I had a great time.

I have tried to not write a whole lot about my mother on this site for many reasons. First, my family is full of people who can't keep their mouths shut and some of them know about my site. My mom will definitely find out about it someday and she will hold everything I've written against me. I've found that I deal with my mom best when I can roll my eyes and know in my heart that I didn't do anything to provoke her and I don't think I could do that if she read my site. Also, thinking about my mother too much makes me angry, sad, and helpless--my teen angst resurfaces.

In spite of making the majority of the decisions in my life with partial purpose to please my mother, I haven't succeeded. Her lack of enthusiasm regarding my law school decision, perhaps the first big decision I've made that counters what she would have me do, brings out the same bitterness that I had when she ignored me for the 6 months before I got married or when she told me that her family would have been better if I weren't a part of it (she denies both of these events but I have witnesses).

On Saturday I went to lunch with my best friend from middle school that was in town visiting. She told me that she'd heard I was trying to have kids but I have a thyroid disorder so I couldn't and that as a result I am going to law school--my mom told her mom. This reminds me of when I went to church with my family months before I even got engaged and everyone congratulated me because I was getting married. If she doesn't have information she makes it up. And this way of explaining my stupid irresponsible un-LDS like decision to go to law school makes everyone say "Oh, poor Emily, she can't have kids and fulfill the measure of her creation. Isn't it great that she is going to law school instead since she's unable to multiply and replenish the earth?"

Now, first of all, technicality, the thyroid disorder is absolutely not preventing me from having kids. Polycystic ovaries, sure, but I am well regulated on the thyroid end of things. Second of all, I am not going to law school because I can't have kids. I decided to go to law school before I even went off birth control. Third of all, I haven't told my mother of any reproductive plans period and the fact that she shares her speculations with the world AS FACT infuriates me. I want to punch my fist through the wall, spit on the ground and say every bad word I know.

After I finished lunch I was tempted to call her and tell her why spreading half-truths about my reproductive plans was completely inappropriate and ask her why if she thinks I can't have kids she insists on bringing up every pregnant woman she knows every time she's around me. I didn't. I didn't feel like apologizing for the way I really feel. So instead I'm writing this post. Sorry it's such a downer. I'll try to come up with something clever and funny for tomorrow so it won't be the top post for long.

The Fertility Closet

I was browsing Tertia's most popular posts this morning and read about why people are in or out of the closet about their fertility struggles. Here's my take on the subject as I try to feel my way through this hopefully short stage in my life.

I live in a culture that feels compelled to press for reproductive updates. Just a couple months after my PCOS diagnosis, one of Zach's great-aunts that I had never met before started a conversation by asking me when we planned to start our family. My mom brings up all of the people at church who have grandchildren on the way, talks about her plans to spoil her grand kids, and pouts whenever I tell her not to hold her breath. When people at church ask how long we've been married and we tell them 4 years, they look perplexed. Finding out I am going to law school sends them into a tailspin. In my culture/community, not having children is selfish and not wanting children is a sin.

A few months ago Zach and I started mentioning to our closer family members and friends that we are "not not trying to have kids." (To those of you who know me in real life, I haven't exactly mentioned this to my mother yet so it's not like everyone knows...discretion please.) At the time it seemed nice to trade judgment and suspicion for pity. Then, I accidentally blurted out my diagnosis to my motherinlaw when she told an offensive story about how she hated working with the selfish spoiled whiny IVF patients 15 years ago and perhaps there was a reason God didn't give them children. I've also told a few of my close friends about this little blog in which my questionable fertility occasionally comes up. Once the truth is out there you can't ever take it back, though, and sometimes I really wish I could go back into the fertility closet.

First of all, this could very easily be a temporary situation. I've only been medicated for like 6 months (metformin) and I haven't even done one round of clomid yet. Worrying now seems like serious melodramatic overreacting (to which, I'll admit, I'm a little prone to do). Secondly, I am genuinely excited--and terrified--but mostly excited about law school. While I would really like to have a kid say 9 months from now, I don't think I will be terribly devastated if I don't. A little sad, sure, especially since it is quite likely that many of my friends will have three children before I have one and my child(ren) won't have cousins his/her age in Zach's family, but I'm only 25 and I feel like I have plenty of time.

Our next fertility related step is under negotiation, that's all I'll say. If I do a round of clomid or two, it may not be broadcast real time on the blog (though I will definitely write posts real time--it's therapeutic--and perhaps put them up after the fact). I'll most likely refer to my ovaries more than some are comfortable with and less than some would like to hear. I'm not quite sure where I'm at with all this yet so bear with me while I try to decide on my level of reproductive disclosure.

Unraveling

My father in law works for/with my dad these days, have I told you that? And for the next 5-6 weeks I still work with them too. Yay. Anyway, last Monday Sam left staff meeting excitedly because Amy, my sisterinlaw, was in labor and heading for the hospital. And since I had been, in the previous 24 hours, presented with some convincing evidence that not only was I not pregnant, but I most likely did not even ovulate normally (again, as usual, but I thought I did), this put me in much worse spirits than it should have.

In order to feel like I was doing something about this exciting turn of events that did not involve rolling my eyes and thinking snarky thoughts, I decided to begin my research into finding myself the yeti of the medical profession: a qualified reproductive endocrinologist covered by my not-so-fabulous insurance, which doesn't even give a person the option to search under "Reproductive Endocrinologist".

I checked the websites for all of the hospitals and hospital systems in the greater Salt Lake area and made a list of the doctors who listed "Reproductive Endocrinology" as a specialty. I then checked to see if any of them were also listed as ob/gyns by my insurance. This procedure was actually, if possible, more dull than reading about it. It did produce 4 doctors, however, all of whom work for the same clinic, which I immediately dialed.

"Hello, you have reached __ ob/gyn department" a businesslike friendly recorded answering machine lady began "to make an appointment to see a midwife press one, to check on lab results press two, to talk with a nurse press three, to make an appointment to see one of our specialists press four" oh oh oh that was me. I pressed 4. "I'm sorry, all of our lines are currently busy. Please wait for the next available technician. Your call will be taken in the order it was received." 

About twenty minutes later, in the middle of a grand orchestral rendition of "Uptown Girl" the phone started to ring. And then promptly it stopped ringing and the line went dead. So I called back, same story a little bit louder and a little bit worse. Only this time my phone interrupted with a Very Important Work Phone Call that I had to take and when I got back, the line was dead. My fault, right? So I called again. And this time, after 27 more minutes on hold (my phone has a timer) I started to cry. My first genuine entirely related to sub-fertility tears.

They kept interrupting the elevator music with reminders about prenatal health. I know everything there is to know about prenatal health without actually being pregnant because I am a neurotic lunatic who feels a compulsive need for preparedness. Last time everyone I know was pregnant (approximately two years ago) I spent some quality time on the Internet reading birth stories and pregnancy studies and planning out when the optimal due date for my unborn child would be. What a waste.

So after I started crying, I hung up and went to the bathroom to gather myself together. I couldn't call again, though, mostly because I couldn't decide if I should call back the ob/gyn department or just call the fertility clinic already but would I really qualify to go there because I gave up on charting like three months ago and it still hasn't officially been quite a year so even though I have a diagnosed disorder would they even let me make an appointment?

We went to visit baby Mirabelle (if you can't see the picture, email me and I'll send you an invitation so you can) on Wednesday. She was cute and I didn't a. throw her across the room, b. try to kidnap her c. start crying or d. bring up sub-fertility. I think I deserve a medal.