Sarcomical

and now, for some actual words...

i've been taking the easy way out. i've been posting photos, photos, photos (okay hey, they ARE fun and i do really want to share all of the things we did on our trip) but the truth is there's quite a bit going on here.

or...NOT going on here, in terms of the SarcomiBaby Experiment.

we've been unsuccessfully on a wait-and-see/do-what-we-can-in-the-meantime path since i had The Procedure (laparoscopy) ten months ago. i tried acupuncture for about four months, changed some things in my diet and have kept track of everything ad nauseum. then i moved on to the "aw, screw it" approach after we finally decided that perhaps talking, eating, reading babybabybabystuff 24/7 was not exactly how we wanted to live and may in fact be driving me a little bit over the edge. so we began to obsess less about physical logistics and making sure i was eating/doing/reading/timing/tracking everything to the point of becoming a ball of baby-obsessed nerves that jumped when you looked at it funny...and instead tried to ease up a bit for a few months to allow us step back and regather our serenity.

and so we are here. 35 and 36, kind of freaking out about being over 40 when we have a 5-year old at best. not that there's anything fundamentally objectionable about that for us - i mean, we're the ones who waited until a couple of years ago to really do something about this seriously, but still it does create a bit of a freakout when i read my diary from age 9 where i marveled at my mom turning THIRTY. so...yeah. it feels a bit weird for both of us i suppose since we had such young parents.

and then there's the fact that we're talking adoption. the truth is, even when we were in our 20's and weren't thinking about kids, we both agreed on our mutual interest in adoption someday, whether we had our own children or not, so of course that is becoming a high priority for us as we realize we're probably talking 2-3 years to complete the process. even if we got pregnant before then, i still think we'd want to go through with it. so now here we are at the crux of several very costly and emotional processes, adoption and possibly an attempt at IUI, which i was supposed to have done around january, but i was very hesitant after reading about the success rates and what all that Clomid meant for women with endometriosis.

sigh.

but no, i do want to be hopeful and positive. my tendency when faced with things that are overwhelming is to hide, crawl into a quiet cave and hibernate until all's clear. but obviously in this case, that will only mean waiting longer and longer and reducing our chances of either route to parenthood more and more. sooo...we're pushing forward. i've been returning to yoga and trying to get as healthy as possible for what is coming up, and i plan to go back to my acupuncturist as well. and then there are the doctors...

there you go. that is one of the things i've been up to lately.

Tap

Two days ago I experienced acupuncture for the very first time. For some reason, I'd had zero (ZERO) concern or fleeting thought about whether or not it would be uncomfortable. Yes, that's what I said; I didn't even think about the needle aspect. I honestly think I've been much more preoccupied with the fact that I'm starting a cycle of Clomid this week for the first time, which was partly why I had made the decision to venture into that office if only to aid in managing the stress and offset the crazy emotional fallout I've heard can accompany that process. So then it hadn't occurred to me, oddly enough, that this might remotely be painful. I didn't think about it, that is, until the nice tiny woman in the white coat, three needles in hand, said, "It doesn't hurt as much as people think it does."

WHAT.

The truth is, it didn't hurt. Much. The first three needles were tapped into the cartilage of my ear. I'm not going to lie, at that moment I started to feel a tinge of panic. Wait...was that panic or a white-hot burning sensation on the right side of my head? Well, let's call it a draw. Honestly, it was manageable, and once she had done the other side, everything else was easy. EVEN THE ONE ON TOP OF MY HEAD. Yes, after placing a needle between my eyes where I am perpetually scrunching in concentration, she moved above my head. "Whoa, hold on, whatcha doin up there Tiny White Coat Lady?" was all I had time to think before she tapped a single needle into the center of my skull. I felt like Frankenstein getting a bolt inserted...except for the fact the I didn't feel a single thing. What a bizarre sensation.

By the time she finished I was a 13-needle pincushion, and she told me I had 20 minutes to lay and relax as she shut off the lights and turned up some spa music. And OH SWEET SWEET SUNBALLS she turned on a heat lamp and aimed it over my torso, and after a few minutes I felt like I was spread out in a sunny field like in those allergy commercials.

I didn't ever fully fall asleep during the 20 minutes (which felt like 10); but that may have been partly because I kept hearing Mr. S. move around (yes, he came in support even thought that meant he had to watch his wife get impaled). Just when I was getting to the point where I thought "Ahhhh...here we go, I'm going to have myself a nice little nap now", she came back in and said it was time to take them all out. It was over. And while I wasn't expecting to feel completely different right away, I was surprised that I didn't really feel that different at all. In fact, the headache I'd had when we arrived was still in full force. She had told me that I could expect to feel better emotionally after the first visit, but by the time we got home with takeout pad thai I still wasn't noticing much of a difference in my state of mind.

That evening though, and these two days since, I have felt a major ease in my inner chatter, which had been riddled with anxieties the past few months, and I am finding that I do in fact feel very calm and at peace, despite the fact that I am now on day three of my first 5-day Clomid prescription, which is supposed to mess with you in quite an ugly way. The tales of psychopathic rants and frightened husbands huddled shakily in dark corners have been well-documented in blogdom, and I was not looking forward to the possibility of hellfire raining upon the SarcomiHaus for a few weeks. I know, I know...I'm only on day three, but I'm optimistic, especially knowing I have another session with Tiny White Coat Lady on Monday. She promises more needles, so...

Eeep.

Only embarassing if you are alive...

Here's a little something that's been keeping me busy lately:

Babies.

Oh, fantastic. A post about babies. LAME. WHO likes babies? Who wants to hear about stupid, cute, layabout babies? Who wants to see fat, sweet, slobbery baby cheeks? Ew.

Well, as completely unappealing as they are I have to talk about them, because a lot of things in my life have been completely baby-centric the past couple of months. So...sorry, but you'll just have to bear with me. I know. It'll be hard. But I think a few of you can do it.

The fact is, Mr. Sarcomical & I have not had the best luck in the offspring department so far. For a while we thought it was timing, then we weren't sure, then we said let's just wait it out, then we said wait that is colossally stupid look how old we are, then we found out that the endometriosis that has pretty much traveled down my maternal roots for a few generations has probably been instrumental in halting the miniature person creation process.

So.

We scheduled a laparoscopy for myself with my doctor (who is perhaps the sweetest and most encouraging physician ever to exist outside of an episode of Grey's Anatomy but not those dark & twisty girls, you know that one smiley girl named Arizona or some other state who is always sunny and cheek-dimply?), and I actually had that done last Wednesday. (I'll be telling you about that experience in the next installment of Reproductivosity Weekly.) But first...FIRST, I decided to tell her in the appointment just prior that my mom happened to mention in a phone conversation that "oh by the way I've also had fibroids, I don't know if you want to tell your doctor that or not" and when I did Ms. SmileyPants Doctor got a flash of serious and said "Oh. ...well let's get you in for an ultrasound to check for those before your procedure. Because, you know, if that's an issue we'll have to take care of that first surgically."

Oh. Okay. Um, haha, let's check on that. And p.s. THANKS MOM. Great genes. Awesome.

Also, p.s. "What is fibroids?" asks Mr. S. "Uh...I'm not sure. Hmm."

Whee.

Mr. S. came to the scheduled ultrasound with me, because I was feeling kind of nervous about it. That flash of Serious Face on my happy doctor made me wonder if what I thought I was taking care of was going to end up being more serious than I had thought. Bleh. And just when he had kind of successfully distracted me, the door to the waiting room opened and for a microsecond I looked up and something immediately registered in my brain:

Our old next door neighbor. The one who moved out of the neighborhood with her husband & kids about 2 years ago. She's an ultrasound technician. Oh Sweet Torture Chamber.

Here's what went on in my head:

Oh dear God please please please do not let her be the one doing my ultrasound oh come on do you really think they have more than one person doing them in this little office right now? WAKE UP. YOU LOSE. Get ready to be spanked by coincidence and you know what else? I'm just gonna go out an a limb and assume that the simple ultrasound you thought you were getting is more...involved and may have required a leeeettle more..."prep work" than making sure you were wearing nice underwear. Oh my God if I am wrong about what this is that's happening and SHE is the one doing it then I am going to turn around and run out of here in a puff of cartoon-like smoke before the humiliation burns my face off ARE YOU SERIOUS, UNIVERSE?!?

After much nervous tight hand-gripping, we were called back and OF COURSE she recognized us "HEY GUYS!?!" Crap. Yeah...no chance this wasn't going to happen, was there?

...and no chance this wasn't going to be as horrifying as possible, right?

NOPE. NO CHANCE IN HELL.

We get back into the room, and I'm like "soooo...this ultrasound, it's..."

"...yeah. It's internal."

MOTHER. EFFER.

"Oh, Keri, let me apologize. I am not really...I mean...I didn't especially prepare for this. I'm stupid, I thought this was just the kind of ultrasound you see on tv, I'm an idiot, I..."

"Oh, please. Melissa, don't worry about it! I do these all day long. It's no big deal, it's fine! I'm sure it's fine. Don't worry, please."

Whatever. Because also? I mean, they knew this when I made the appointment (THEY SAID "OH IT'LL BE NO BIG DEAL), but this was also the first day of my period. (Any guys left in the room? Did that clear you out? I hope so.) So...I pretty much decided the only way to make it out alive was to go to my happy place and stay in a waking coma until I was out of the building.

The situation, you see, just wasn't grotesque enough. Wait, you thought it was? NO. YOU ARE WRONG. Because when I was in the other room changing, Mr. Sarcomical tried to break the ice by asking her how things were going...you know, how's your husband and whatnot...OOPS THEY GOT DIVORCED. I came back in and he whispered quickly "Whatever you do don't ask about her husband THEY SPLIT UP!" I swear to God there was NOTHING not vomit-inducingly uncomfortable about this day. NOTHING.

Except.

Everything looked okay, and finally some good news:  all clear on that front, thus the fact that I just spent the past week in recovery from the laparoscopy (which was an entirely other surreal experience for another day). Mr. Sarcomical was also convinced after looking up at the big projection screen during the procedure that there is literally no distinction between my ovaries and the fuzzy pictures of UFO's from the 50's.

Anyway. Working on that SarcomiBaby, that's what we are. I mean, not for 2-3 months according to doctor's orders, that is. But we are. There will be a lot going on here in the meantime, but there you have it. That's what's been brewing here while I've been a little blog absent.

Striped Socks, Asymmetrical Robes & Dignity

I had my first *ahem* appointment with a gynecologist in approximately 7 years last week. As part of the whole "yeah, maybe we'd better look into the possibility of this 'procreation' thing with a little more clarity and intention" process, my trip to the most dreaded of all offices above even the scraping dentist and the glaucoma air puff eye doctor was imminent.

Having made it so long without having to go through the...hoopla, let's just say I felt anxious. But really, I'd call any woman out as a rotten, no good liar if she said the experience was ever breezy as a butterfly landing softly on a kitten's nose. No. In fact, I'd liken it much more to the anxiety of seeing a diapered sumo wrestler running toward you while you're backed up against a wall of Saguaro cacti. ...Yeah. Much more like that.

Let's even skip discussing the amount of energy and annoyance brought on by the idea of the prep work alone. Ah yes, I've read the articles that claim your doctor has little to no expectations in that arena, AND YET. We obsess. And assess. And now, because now I've begun to drum my thumb against my keyboard and seek awkwardness refuge glancing outside my sunlight-saturated windows, we move on.

I felt socially inept in that office. Not in a haha way, either. On top of the general pressure of the visit itself, I have so craftily avoided doctors' offices for such a long time that I was pretty convinced the building itself had me a little stupid with unfamiliarity. After the nurse took my blood pressure there was a nanomoment when it seemed she was trying to...hand me the cuff? I don't know, I reached out for it and then pushed my hand forward in a pseudo stretch move when she instead grabbed the other end and took the thing back over to the desk. Whatever. I told myself she probably didn't see that and gave myself an "I'm still cool and also super sophisticated" pep talk and moved on. 

Then came the fabulous question & answer part of the game when, as a new patient, you get to regurgitate all matter of responses to inquiries into your habits, history, and the current state of your innards. Am I the only one who feels a disproportionate level of smugness when I get to say "no" to nearly all of the "Have you ever had...?" and "Do you have a family history of...?" questions? Oh, yes. I'm sure I've just impressed them because my family's stroke-free and I'm not a smoker. Then of course comes "Any family history of endometriosis?" (YESYES) and "Have you ever had issues with depression?" and you kind of want to say, "...uh, well, define 'ISSUES'", etc., etc., ick.

The fun just starts there. Truly. Then it's time for robes with weird asymmetrical openings in wrong places, avoiding the cold floor (and, let's face it, trying to feel a little less naked) by keeping on cute striped over-the-knee socks, having the "Well it's really good that you're coming in to start this process now while you've still got a little over a year before hitting 35, because..." conversation, trying to get dressed again fast fast fast yet gracefully before that stupid knock on the door, OH and I forgot to tell you about the way I wouldn't let them tell me my weight because I threw out my scale 4 years ago to avoid the very nitpicky way I watched the numbers move all day long, so they had me step on the scale backwards. Yep. This entire visit I was pretty damned dignified, alright. PRET.TY. DAMNED. MUCH.

Also, I got lost exiting the office and wandering the connected medical building/hospital hallways to find the blood lab...where I was violently assaulted by a mean, horrible sadist from the dark forces man who turned my inner elbow green and made my entire right arm ache for 3 days.

On the up side, my doctor was completely and utterly awesome, caring and upbeat. So. I'm kind of looking forward to seeing her again this week. Also because I'll get to keep my clothes on. And my blood in.

The two-week dance...

I know that some of you knew full well what this was going to be about just by looking at the title...and that's because you've been where I am right now. You've felt annoyed, talked yourself into dizzying circles, convinced yourself to see things that weren't there, become inconsolably pissed & irritatingly mopey, and generally lost all sense of your sane self.

You, like me, were waiting to find out if you were pregnant.

The truth is, I am nearing the end of this two-week wait to find out if things "took" (so to speak), and I hate that I'm so aware of every day and every hour and every stupid ache and pain in my body. I hate that I'm thinking about it as much as I am, I hate that I spend energy paying such close attention to each twinge and stitch, I hate that I'm just a tiny bit tempted to visit those gross trying-to-conceive forums where women use "DH" to refer to their "Dear Husbands" (BLEH) and thusly abbreviate every other word while discussing their cervixes in detail (and please don't be offended by my use of the word "gross" there if those spaces were helpful to you, because for all I know by the end of this I may be eating my words and stalking through those sites one day with rabid intensity and a fistful of chocolate).

I also REALLY hate how some people act like our not getting pregnant yet is some sort of hostile act against them and demand "so WHEN are you going to have a baby, already?" as if we are intentionally pausing in the middle of business to say "hey wait a minute, what if we just keep screwing with so-and-so's heads and make them wait a little longer! ohmigod ohmigod let's do it, IT WOULD BE SO HILARIOUS hahaahaaaah!". Really? Do you think that particular question is going to suddenly shed light on our supposed Baby-Despising Eyes? Thaaaat's right. Suddenly it all seems so clear! I don't know what we were thinking! Keeping a baby from you like that. Ah, and apparently Honey, we are supposed to have some sort of "relations" in order to make this happen. Whew, glad that's cleared up.

Honestly.

All that being said, we actually have been trying for a little while and I'm not completely sure how easy it will be for us. But I am (aside from above) trying to be really positive about it. But these last 5 or 6 days, man...they KILL. ME. The sense of resolution feels like it will never arrive. It's a torturous set of days and hours and minutes and seconds...and then (typically) I find out, feel a sense of relief from the sheer act of KNOWING, and set my sights to the next four weeks (often kicked off by picking out my consolation bottle of wine with the prettiest label I can find).

I think I will take delicious delight in being a mother; there's a part of me that longs for the chance to love little cheeks and take an obscene amount of photos of tiny fingernails, but I also try to tell myself that I can be a complete person before that happens, too. Perhaps there is more for me to do, more for me to explore, and I am being given an amazing opportunity to do those things with the freedom my current situation allows. I'll be happy either way, but that doesn't mean I won't continue to anticipate the day when things change.

Oh, distract me. Or tell me, how did you get through those days of limbo? I've pretty much relied heavily on Valentine's Day candy, puppy ears and Law & Order marathons. SIGH.