refrain

refrain (n.) A phrase, verse, or group of verses repeated at intervals throughout a song or poem, especially at the end of each stanza
refrain (v.) To hold oneself back; to restrain or curb a behavior

I'm trying to decide if I have it in me to refrain from uttering the same old refrain that has become a monthly saga.
Guess what? I don't.
I'm at the end of my 2ww. Big whoop.
CD29. Are those distant tell-tale cramps I feel? Naw, surely it must be implantation. I think I'll go redecorate the nursery.
I have within me the ability to imagine any sensation that could possibly be misconstrued as early pregnancy symptoms. It's quite a talent, I assure you.
I fucking hate this. I hate, hate, hate it. What is worse, is the disgust I feel for myself for allowing hope to creep slowly in, when I know damn well that even a second stupid line doesn't mean jack shit. This is the last time. I mean it. I'm quitting cold turkey. I can change, I promise. You'll see. No more ttc bullshit coming from my bitter little corner of the blogosphere. To hell with it. And back again.
So, uh, I'll be back around cd1. Or, you know, with a due date to announce.
Riiiiiight.

I should probably switch to decaf

Useless Trivia 101
(A pussy by any other name...)
Infant beavers are called kittens.
Beavers communicate by postures, vocalization, scent marking, and tail slapping.
So, uh, who else browses through encyclopedias at 3am?
Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

Taking it like a man

The Boy got nailed for speeding, I believe I've already mentioned that. Partly because of the magnitude of his offense (# of mph over the posted suggestion), and partly because I wanted him to learn a lesson, I made him go to court. Not to fight it, per se, but to hopefully get a reduced fine and a payment plan. This young man is going to be working his little arse off, you see. And, of course, there is always the teeny shred of hope that the ticketing officer would not bother to show (they are so busy fighting real crime, you know), and perhaps it might be thrown out. heh. heh heh. Well anyway. There was also the angle that the stretch of road the officer said he clocked him on was not the same street noted on the citation; if it happened on street "a", there was hardly enough pavement between the potholes and railroad tracks for him to have accellerated to the alleged mph. If It happened on street "b", there was of course that van that pulled out in front of him who 1) slowed him down and 2) was clearly going faster than he was. Cut and dry, don't you think?
As it turns out, the cute little police officer in the tight little pants (who hardly looked older than The Boy) was awaiting our arrival. He took us aside. "I'll knock this down to 10 over if you plead guilty," he said. My, his cuffs were shiny. I liked the way his early-morning stubble accentuated his hardened jaw and bulging adam's apple. A bead of perspiration glistened on his.... Oh yeah, where was I.... The points assigned to his novice driving record would be cut in half. One year without any violations, and he'd be in the clear. Sounded good to me. I mean, really, who has ever fought a speeding ticket and won? All I'd hoped to accomplish was a reduced charge, a payment plan, and some well-earned respect for the law from my son. So, I got what I wanted. Except the nice man in the uniform. They wouldn't let me take him home. ::sigh::

Boldly going where I should fucking know better

"I totally get what you're saying," he told me. Man created God in his own image, organized religion is a human invention, and the presence of an omniscient power serves to help us explain the unknown.
"But, what about the miracles?"
What about them? Can they be proven? Who wrote about them? His followers.
"Well, why did he have so many believers if it wasn't true?"
Perhaps he was a very charismatic person. People needed something good to believe in, and his purpose was admirable.
"So, you don't believe in God, but you believe in Jesus?"
No, and no... I am completely agnostic at this point. I don't have any proof either way, therefore an answer does not exist; only opinions. In my opinion, the notion of a god is actually a pretty harmless allusion, and an even helpful one when you think about it. DO UNTO OTHERS. TURN THE OTHER CHEEK. LIVE AND LET LIVE. As far as Jesus goes, yes I do believe there was a person alive who taught the golden rule and strove for goodness; do I buy into all of the amazing actions? Not so much.
"What about the resurrection?"
Nope.
"But there's proof of that."
Show me.
"It has been recorded; people that saw him and spoke to him after the crucifixion."
Again, his followers.
The New Testament was written by men with a motive. There were revisions and editing out the wazoo. There were books left out.
My point is simply that life is a series of random events that cumulate into one giant chaotic pile of Hmmm.
"I still don't see how you can dismiss Jesus as a plain old human being."
Ok, fine. He was a cybernetic organisim sent from the future to save mankind.
"You shouldn't say things like that, even if you're joking."
Why, is he going to punish me?

In which I slough

A mental debridement, of sorts.
It's supposed to rain in the spring, I know that much. All the moisture makes for pretty new flowers and grass and trees and baby animals and bright and sunny summer is just around the corner where the sky is a lovely shade of azure.
And yet. The sky has been weeping for days now, weeks it seems, and the mud and gunk and grey skies have merged so that they feel more a part of me than my surroundings.
I find optimism and hope to be a rare commodity of late. I suppose that is, at the very basic level, a defense mechanism to protect oneself from disappointment. While an outsider would likely consider me to be bitter, those who know me - I hope - would know that I just find it difficult to trust in the goodness anymore. Somewhere along the line, I managed to turn my leeriness into wariness, to the point that I overlook the pleasant moments of life. The joy has diminished.
Yen in a box. I hate that white box. I never entertained the notion that I would see another. To say I wish I hadn't sounds crass, but let's confront the monster for what it is, and know that, in some small way, we small troop of killers faced it together in support of the attempt of closure. To bawl out my own insecurities and shame when another is hurting much more than I is torture and release in conflict.
She was cautious when she told me of her news; I believe I pointedly asked her to fess up. Of course I was happy, in my own prudent manner, and oddly hopeful. There seemed to me to be many more recurrent loss stories than happy endings, and I wished for her to beat the odds. She did not. Of course. I mean, who said any of us deserve a fair shake in life? Whatever force drives the universe is a fickle ass without compassion or any sense of reasoning.
I encouraged her to lay low, sit on it a while, don't get her hopes up, essentially. In my mind, that was to protect her. I did not intend for her to bottle up her emotions, for this was an occasion to be shared, the complete journey, to release her frustrations in whatever medium was available. And it was good. She told me that, if things went poorly, she'd need the ability to purge her mind openly. She was correct, as usual. To play ostrich is a tactic that even I find nearly impossible. Looking back, I wish that I had faced it all with more hope than hazard.
So, I go through my days with a sense of avoidance. Regardless of where my thoughts may take me, my actions are usually carefully planned and executed, allowing me to wield my power of control in a delusional direction. Ignorance. Either I'm ignoring the plot to this story, or I'm just plain stupid. I waste valuable time and money in pursuit of prolificacy hoping that maybe, just this one time, I will reap what I sow. And, if hindsight is any indication, I shall.
I ache. From my head, to my heart, to my swollen ovaries, I am in pain. Conflict. Disgust. Anger. Desire. Excessive hormones aside, I'm just not in a good place right now. This cycle had been planned out for a while, and things seemed to be going as planned. Everything looked perfect. Had I waited the suggested number of hours for our romantic tryst, I would have been shit out of luck. The hubster was called away at the most inopportune of times, creating a critical imbalance to my supply and demand schematic. Perhaps that is the way it was meant to be. It wasn't meant to be. Shall I sit here for a certain number of days, two weeks, attempting to hatch hope? Great expectations; Lowered expectations; Fuck it.
My parents live by a pond that many a fowl calls home. On one occasion, a pair of ducks chose to make their nest in dad's flower garden. This patch of irises and tiger lilies happens to be adjacent to their driveway; each evening my father had to slink carefully to the front door to avoid being chased by the irate parents-to-be. Somewhere along the line, the daddy duck became rather dictatorial to the mommy duck, and would not let her leave the nest. He would peck at her and curse loudly to the point where she appeared to be trembling in fear. I'm unsure if he let her leave to find food, or if he was kind enough to provide a take-home meal. What I do know, is at one point, she had had enough. She got up from the nest, turned around, pecked open her eggs, and left. We saw a skinny stray cat enjoying the fruits of her labor.
Is that what it all boils down to? Is that part of this great "plan"? Like a food chain in the wild, are we really just pawns in some ethereal game of chess? I don't want to play a game without rules.

Thaumaturgy

Nine pretty follicles, all in a row
Each and every one of them look ready to blow
Endo lining looks ripe and thick
Doc says don't worry, and slips me his...

22 gauge 1 1/2" needle full of hcg.

I did it. Seven on the right, two on the left, and we're just oh so hopeful.
I must have missed the lecture on how fluffing miserable this shit is. I feel homicidal and crampy already. Okay, just a tad more than normal, but still.
Now if I can demand my husband to supply the goods everything will be hunky-dory. Or whatever.

I am so dumb.

Trigger this

This morning, 0730, I am to be splayed on a table for a date with the dildocam.
A follicle scan, as they like to call it.
Spelunking for cysts is more accurate, methinks.
If one or more of the little darlings looks assertive enough, I get poked in the ass.
Ah... the joy. The anticipation.
The underlying indecisiveness of even bothering anymore.
I had a dream the other night of lemmings. Running, pushing over each other, shoving their way to the front of the crowd, falling off the cliff... all dead except for the last few that landed on the soft pile of the ones that went before.
When I lost Nicholas, the last thing in the world I could have imagined was wanting to "try again". I was adamant. My hubster was adamant after the loss prior to Nick; with Nick he was at least cautious until it seemed like a real possibility. To tell you the truth, I was the one insanely nervous with the girl; he was hopeful (you've had two losses, this one will make it! he cheerfully lied).
Now, I just don't care anymore.
I felt more upset upon finding out The Maybe was female than I did about the loss in general. After the month-long gorefest leading to a hemorrhage, emergency D&C, and a four unit blood transfusion, well I just got a little more pissed.
I always wanted a girl.
I honestly wish I didn't ask for the gender.
In my mind, it made more sense that the fetus would have been a boy. Boys are trouble. For a little princess to have done this to me is unfathomable.
Like DD mentioned, the reaction my husband offered up on hearing the news was far less than I had envisioned. I believe his exact words were "Julie! Why are you doing this? You need to just let it go. I didn't need to know that. Just stop it."
Thanks for your support.
If anything, I feel the need to prove to myself that I CAN do this.
It's a pride thing, I guess. I'm not sure what I'd even do at this point if I did make a live baby, but look at him with an I-told-you-so smugness, and curl up in a bottle of Xanax.
So, I'm sitting here today, debating whether or not to keep my appointment, and wondering when, if ever, would be a more appropriate time. Next month? Next year? Never?
If you sit a bunch of monkeys in front of typewriters (that's just how low-tech I am), eventually one will write Shakespeare.... or something like that. If you try and fail enough times, eventually your luck is bound to change. Right? Right? C'mon, tell me... right?
Yeah. Right.
I zoned out at commencement, during an insightful yet boring speech. I thought about the 13 or so years from the accidental pregnancy leading to The Boy, and the
time spent raising him, putting my career on hold. Those are years I wouldn't trade for anything, though I do wish there were some siblings for him in there. But that's my point... I raised my son. I'm pretty much done. We had accepted our lot and moved on along with time. When The Boy hit high school, it seemed like we were in a good place financially for me to complete my degree. First semester back full-time: pregnant... miscarriage. Don't ask me how the conception even happened, but in the end it took 6 weeks to complete the miscarriage, including a modified extraction maneuver to get the little last bits and pieces on outta there. Amazingly, my grades barely suffered. An "A/B+" student, Dean's List, nomination to the honors program... all distinctions I enjoyed. It wasn't really that hard. I'm just naturally intelligent. Yeah. By the third semester I found myself expecting Nicholas, and as the pregnancy progressed I decided I had better take the next term off, since I didn't know for sure "when" he would be born or if the VBAC would work. Should I just schedule a c-section for spring break? Gee, I'd really hate to delay my graduation. In the end, I took the time off, because instead of the stress of a newborn, I succumbed to the delight of a grief so intense one can taste it. By the time I returned, I tried really hard to keep my grades as high as before, and I did well... until again found myself pregnant with The Maybe. This, I found to be incredibly weird. If someone could, please, explain to me how, after 16 years of trying, including IF treatment, my body decided to fuck with me on three.seperate.occasions. when the last thing in the world I was doing was "relaxing". I was pretty ill with The Maybe. Morning sickness hit me hard, fast, and early. I had these body aches and pains and just generally felt kinda 'down'. I struggled on through my final semester when she decided she had to go. She had had enough. I suppose I wasn't as happy as I should have been, and I didn't pay as much attention to her (or myself) as I should have. Burn me once, shame on you; burn me twice, shame on me. Her timing was considerate, and I only missed one day. Of course, the baggage she left behind caused me a bit of a problem, and you all know the story of that. By the time all was said and done, I ended up failing a very important course that I then had to repeat this term. Sure, I could have been done in December, but why not prolong the process as long as possible? That's what I do. I can't complete anything on time; miscarriages, degrees, Thanksgiving dinner. Such a slacker.
So, I find myself wondering why I should even bother. In actuality, I'm done. There is nothing to be gained from any of this. Positives or negatives - I think I could go on without either option. I am embarking on a very exciting leg of this journey called my life; while another child would certainly be welcome, I'm not entirely certain one is necessary. I'm not sure I need to risk more loss and heartache, not to mention the time spent in recovery. Time wasted, while I could have been pursuing something I have some control over. And that's what this boils down to. Control. I absolutely can not tolerate anything be left to chance or whim. If I, personally, can't manipulate things to even the slightest degree, then it's all shit. Anything worth doing is worth doing well.
And yet, responsible, respectable person that I am, I will show up for my appointment in a few hours. My usual wand monkey is off; if I understood correctly, the doc himself is to perform my scan in the morning, a full hour before the office is opened. How would it look if I didn't bother to show? I have no way of reaching them to cancel. And I *am* curious to the goings-on of my private innards. Cripes, it's been 5 whole months since they've been on film; they do enjoy the limelight. But do I get the stim? That *is* the whole point to doing the scan. Why waste his or my time if I'm not going to go full throttle...
On another note... watermelon Smirnoff and calcium-enriched OJ is pretty fucking tasty.

bitter little pill

Ironical? Rhetorical? Mockery?
Stopping for breakfast and ordering the Double Play special.
A crow perched on the sign leading to Sanctuary.
Corner bar on the way to the cemetery: Last Call.
VBS: Let your children vacation with God.
~~~
Today is the due date for my little girl who couldn't be with us anymore.
Today is the day I complete the degree for which I sacrificed so much, including the three little babies that suffered their demise during my educational endeavors.
Today I will plan complex feeding arrangments for my mother and mother-in-law's Mother's Day brunch tomorrow.
Today I will sadly think of all my friends out there who have lost their children.
Mothers.
And I will swallow my sarcasm but for a moment.

There's love in those balloons

Alex and Travis, together...



(Click to see, they're far away)

I don't even know how to title something like this.
Catherine's baby has died. The Beast was just around 20 weeks, and seemed to be doing well.
This is all so wrong. It is unfair. It is horrible and hateful and ridiculous and wrong. WHY?
As she stated, she has been paying special close attention. Just yesterday she felt panicked about it, and... received another blow.
She's only four days away from Alex's anniversary.
Her Sam turns four soon.
This is too much for one month to handle. And way beyond what one mother should have to endure.
This wasn't supposed to happen. Not now. Not to her. If this was fated to be, why not earlier? This isn't supposed to happen after 16 weeks. Not after 20 weeks. What on earth is going on here?
I'm sorry for my friends.
I'm thinking about you.
I'm crying. I'm angry. I'm confused.
Mostly, I'm just mad.
And I love you.

Second verse, same as the first

That cycle went for about 33 days. I never saw even the faintest second line on the OPKs. My temps indicate that I possibly ovulated somewhere around CD22 (but I rather doubt it). If so, I'm looking at shortish LP.
But anyway, that was attempt numero uno.
Dr. Wonderful has increased my clomid to 150mg. I'm eyeing up some natural progesterone cream to slather myself in, just for fun.
This period is simply monsterous. As an added benefit, I've had the opportunity to enjoy raging mood swings and a plethora of bodily discomforts.
Other than that, not much else to report. I'll be spending a joyous morning with the hubster trying to fix a $700 problem in ye olde check book. We'll need that money for the triplets I'll be sporting soon. heh heh heh