Friday, June 30, 2006

All in all it's just another left hook to the chin

She asked me to come to the appointment with her. She needed a level head to help her remember the questions that needed to be asked. I was her brain, that day.
About a month or so ago, she had some difficulty catching her breath. It began when she was sleeping - waking up, gasping for air, tightness and pressure behind the coughing. A preliminary xray led the radiologist to think it might be emphysema. Her doctor said that seemed unlikely, and ordered additional views. Those most certainly did not look good. A CT scan with contrast was ordered. By now, she was having some difficulty walking a moderate distance without becoming short of breath.
There is a mass pressing on her left bronchus, 4.2 x 4.9 cm, with widespread interstitial honeycombing and infiltrates, and lymph gland enlargement.
The pulmonologist told her, that in his opinion, it looks to be "sinister" - that's a comforting way to say "malignant". He wanted to do a bronchoscopy, which in her case would be about 50% successful in obtaining a biopsy; and a possible follow up with a PET scan. Yesterday was the bronch. Her husband accompanied her. The doctor told him, based on the initial appearance of the cells, it was certainly cancer. She has to wait for the final pathology report to determine which type, so they can work out a treatment plan. Of course, it is the weekend, and a holiday, and the 3-4 day wait will drag on seemingly forfuckingever.

All I can do is be here when she needs me, and try not to google too much. Right. I brought her some gladiolus, with wavy blooms of variegated yellow and burgundy. There is nothing else to do but wait.
She's 56.
And fate/the universe/whatever can suck it.

Monday, June 26, 2006

File it under irony

Just when I think I've run out of things to blog about, the local newscast steps up to the plate.
There was a story on recently about some group somewhere (not here!) reaching out and ministering at a porn convention. They placed the following cover on bibles to distribute to those who most need conversion.

As if that isn't just the coolest thing EVER.

Today's noon news hit me with possibly one of the funniest things I've heard in a while.
Creationfest 2006 has been cancelled.
Due to threat of flooding.
Tell me you see the humor in that.
If you fail to find it even mildly amusing, allow me to present you with this website and the two most awesomely creepy people I've seen today.
To paraphrase one of their enlightening articles, GOD IS PISSED.
Those poor people with tickets to creationfest had better start praying a little harder, lest a tsunami come kick their ass.

Friday, June 23, 2006

For every time there is a reason

This sure wasn't written by an infertile!

Dear Wife,
During the past year I have tried to make love
to you 365 times. I have succeeded 36 times,
which is an average of once every ten days.
The following is a list of why I did not
succeed more often:

54 times the sheets were clean
17 times it was too late
49 times you were too tired
20 times it was too hot
15 times you pretended to be sleep
22 times you had a headache
17 times you were afraid of waking the baby
16 times you said you were too sore
12 times it was the wrong time of the month
19 times you had to get up early
9 times you said weren't in the mood
7 times you were sunburned
6 times you were watching the late show
5 times you didn't want to mess up your new hairdo
3 times you said the neighbors would hear us
9 times you said your mother would hear us

Of the 36 times I did succeed, the activity
was not satisfactory because:

6 times you just laid there
8 times you reminded me there's a crack in the ceiling
4 times you told me to hurry up and get it over with
7 times I had to wake you and tell you I finished
1 time I was afraid I had hurt you because I felt you move


Dearest Husband,
I think you have things a little confused. Here are the reasons
you didn't get more than you did:

5 times you came home drunk and tried to screw the cat
36 times you did not come home at all
21 times you didn't come home with energy
33 times you came too soon
19 times you went soft before you got in
38 times you worked too late
10 times you got cramps in your toes
29 times you had to get up early to play golf
2 times you were in a fight and someone kicked you in the balls
4 times you got it stuck in your zipper
3 times you had a cold and your nose was running
2 times you had a splinter in your finger
20 times you lost the motion after thinking about it all day
6 times you came in your pajamas while reading a dirty book
98 times you were too busy watching TV

Of the times we did get together:

The reason I laid still was because you missed and were
screwing the sheets.

I wasn't talking about the crack in the ceiling, what I said was,
"Would you prefer me on my back or kneeling?"

The time you felt me move was because you farted and I was trying to breathe.


Don't say something stupid that you'll soon regret.
This, I promise you.

She asked me about my baby ring and the little heart-shaped charm with the baby feet.
Of course, I launched head-first into my story.
By the time I mentioned "stillbirth", she corrected me with "miscarriage".
I firmly restated that I indeed delivered a stillborn, as he was 35 weeks.
That's not term.
We were going to induce at 37 weeks, he just didn't make it that far. You are aware that the state law recognizes a fetal demise after 20 weeks as a stillbirth, right?
::Blank stare::
Did you name him?
Yes, and we we had a funeral, and he has a grave marker and everything. He was almost 5 pounds. 32 hours of labor. Epidural.
(Meanwhile, I'm wishing I had just sidestepped this conversation in the first place. But, donning my superhero cape, I set out the educate this woman)
Once I came up for air, she asked me the cause of death.
I calmly explained the cord knots.
How is that possible?? (I swear she didn't believe me)
I guess he just wiggled around too much when he was little. And I have shit luck.
No, really, I mean, I didn't think that was physically possible. I was taught that the umbilical cord is like a garden hose turned on; you can't tie a knot in it so tight that the water doesn't continue to flow.
Well, I guess you were taught wrong, because it certainly happened in this case, and to several other women I've come to know in the months since.
Hmmm... well I guess you learn something new every day.
I'll bring you in some pictures as a visual aid.
No, that won't be necessary, I can take your word for it.
Oh, but I insist. Bitch.


Was taking a shower yesterday morning, and the hubster had to come in to pee.
He said, "Smells like numfoarleguh".
And then flushed.
The bastard.
I said, "What?"
He didn't hear me over the flush.
"G, what did you say?"
"What did you say? Smells like what?"
And then he left. The house.
And I spent all day, at work, with this niggling little bit of curiosity in my mind.
Maybe he dropped a hint about a surprise vacation. Yeah, he wants to go to Florida! Or better yet, Italy! OMG.
No. Turns out he thought it smelled like pancake syrup in there.
I don't know what the fuck he was thinking.

Sunday, June 18, 2006

That's odd

I stopped by the cemetery yesterday to check on Nick. When I got home, G stopped himself before asking how he was doing. It's weird. Today I thanked him for being such a wonderful father. He admitted The Boy had turned out okay, after all, anyway. I told him he was a father to more than just The Boy, and he joked the dogs had turned out okay in the end, too. We sort of had to chuckle at that. We've raised one Boy and many animals in our 18 years together. That counts for something. Somehow he can't quite bring himself to include the babies we've lost. Nick is really the only one he grieves, because he was the only one that seemed real. He got to hold him, and count all his parts, and see the chin-dimple that rivals his own.
The others just seem like a passing glint of hope.
I suppose it is for this reason that we don't discuss making more. He knows I want more, and I'm still trying, but he doesn't want to be all wrapped up in the process. After we lost the little girl, he told me he was done. That's it. No mas. Nyet. Fin. I told him I was not done yet, and bargained with him for one more shot. I told him I could not handle another late loss, but an early loss would be tolerable. He said 'whatever', and the discussion was shelved. Secretly, I intended to keep any future pregnancies to myself until "the danger zone" was passed; I now know, however, that is the funniest damn idea I've had. The whole time is a fucking danger zone. But, I told myself, if I could make it past 16 weeks or 20 weeks... huh. Yeah. Then it would seem like something tangible and I'd give up. Throw a few 6-13 week losses in there and I could almost overlook them. Almost. I'm not made of stone, you know. (Please understand this in the sarcastic tone I am famous for). To explain this a little better, in case I'm talking in circles, we are trying. He knows we're trying. It's not being done in some clandestine secret manner that would shock him to find the half-used vial of hcg sitting in the door of the fridge. We just don't discuss it. He doesn't want to know how sticky my snatch snot is, what my temp was this morning, or what cycle day I'm at. He knows that when he is summoned to perform, he is getting hassle-free nookie, and that alone is worth it.
For this weekend's screwapalooza, after the third forced insemination, it sort of went into a downward spiral. I couldn't even perform, and that's almost impossible. I'll back up here by saying that the hubster never has difficulty finding the wherewithal to do his duty. I'd go so far as to say he finds it almost enjoyable. So I erroneously assumed that this time should be no different. We're putting away laundry, The Boy is out doing whatever it is 17 year old boys do, and I lock us in the room. No response. I begin to undress. No response. I start to undress him. "What are you doing?"
Checking on the package, darlin'... why don't you come over here and let me handle it with care... (or something else slightly less grody, I forget).
"You sure want to get pregnant again, don't you?"
That was it.
That one phrase right there ruined me for the rest of Saturday on into today.
I can't explain it.
Maybe that's how they (The Men) feel when they know they're being used. I don't know. Thing is, 'I'm' not being used, and there's no reason why that conversation needed to affect me so.
The rest of the conversation was about as exhausting as our sloppy attempt to complete the transaction.
What are you talking about?
"You, wanting all this sex all of a sudden."
So, I like to make love with my husband... nothing wrong with that.
"It's just weird. I know what you're up to."
What I'm "up to"?
"Well, aren't you hoping to get knocked up?"
Are you new here?
"Nevermind, I shouldn't complain."
Right, so just shut up and do me.
But it was sad. Pathetic. Miserable. I've never felt so... ashamed? I can't find the right word.
This is our last attempt at impregnation for a while. I can't say how long of a while, because I'll be 37 soon. Maybe I'll give it up all together. But I can't. I just can't. I can't give up, but I also can't continue. I've had it. I have other things I need to be focusing on, and this just ain't no fun no more. Because it was such a fucking hoot in the past. Whee.
The hubster is accepting an opportunity to travel more than he has in been in the past 10 years. Instead of being based one small state away, he will be driving far and wide for weeks at a time, taking in the country's charms and "taking a break" from whatever it is he needs a break from. On some twisted level I wonder if it is me, but I do know that his current job is taking it's toll on us all. Maybe he needs this. Maybe I do. I don't have any answers. I don't even have any questions. I just am.

Saturday, June 17, 2006

weekend warrior

First off, just let me say: motherfuckingsonofabitchgoddamnitshit.
Ok, all better.

Remember that birthing scene from "Aliens"?
Yeah, its like that.
These are my eggs hatching.
God help us all.

Or at least those unfortunate souls in my immediate line of sight.

So, I'm a little cranky today. What I generally like to do when I am unable to breathe without squatting down in unbearable cramping pleasure is go to the post office. Today's episode finds us squaring off with Mr. Anus Maximus and his stupid girly ponytail.
Act one, in which Julie gets her game on:
Scene: standing in line (behind a priest) for upwards of 15 minutes, no pen available. I approach the counter. From the onset, this man has an attitude. He is ugly with bad breath, a poor taste in clothing and hairstyle, and he's giving me grief. After establishing the most economical means of sending my two packages, I am pointed to the nearest pen, handed two shipping labels to complete and the following advice:
"Don't forget to tape that up".
(Looking around for tape), I don't see any tape...
He sighs and points to the back wall.
Oh, I need to buy some tape?
"Unless you have some in your car". [smirk]
{Why, yes. I do believe have a roll of packing tape in the trunk next to the tire iron that I will use to bash in your bitchy little brains ...}
Oh, I thought you had tape.
"Why would I have tape?"
Because you ship packages... that's okay, I think I can figure this out. [rolling eyes]
Act two, in which Julie finds some levity:
Scene: Standing in line (behind an obviously pregnant woman with three maniacal children under the age of 5, (one possibly not her own)). I approach the counter. Another clerk is smiling at me gently and asks how he can help me. I ponder that question thoughtfully, completely, and honestly. I hand him my packages.
"Would you like insurance?"
Does that cover lost packages, or just damage?
"Well, are you shipping perishables, glass, liquid, or other fragile items?"
No, these are shoes, and this is a garden stone.
"The insurance is for damage. I don't think you could lose a rock, too easily". [chuckle]
I don't know, I lost my marbles, once. [wry grin]
[smiling a gorgeous smile, blue eyes beaming with admiration at my considerable wit] "Well, that's easy to do, but it wasn't our fault".
We're not so sure of that... [glaring my sincerest I-hate-you-and-will-curse-you-with-a-warty-scrotum kind of look to the clerk at the next window]
(scene fades)
Yeah so anyway, I come home and the guys are performing some sort of emergency surgery on The Boy's vehicle (formerly my own POS). Much yelling is enjoyed by all. Storming through the house, ransacking of drawers and boxes, greasy black handprints on all that dares to be in the path of angry men on a mission. Something about stripped caliper bolts and rotors. As if brakes are important; I'm pissed off at the jackass who parked in my spot. Can't a girl catch a break today? Fuck.
I'm off to find a burrito and some chocolate. If I happen to smother a bunny later, I'll make it look accidental.

Thursday, June 15, 2006


I wouldn't say I fell off the wagon, because I never really was ON the wagon. I petted the horses, checked the wheels, gathered some straw, and considered climbing aboard. But before I could jump on the back, something spooked the team and the goddamn thing ran me over.
One more time. I can stop whenever I want. Just one more, and I'll quit for good. Promise.
I'm ashamed to admit I have a drug problem. Clomid, Serophene, Clomiphene citrate - all names for the same thing: devil drugs, I'm telling you. Those little white fuckers with the enticing promise of engorging my ovaries to the point of bursting out eggs, eggs, and more eggs...!!!!
Yeah. So.
I did do another round this month. Today was my follicle scan.
I had two or three good ones on the left. Huge ones.
My right ovary is MIA. After much searching and grinding and digging around, it may have been located, all small and lumpless - there sure as hell were no follicles there - nor the hunky cysts that tend to hang around on the old girls. My honest guess? That wasn't my ovary. It exploded last month and left behind a white flag of defeat.
I got the trigger - at a half dose.
And the advisement that, if I don't conceive this month, I am to return for a scan at the onset of my next cycle - before I'm due to start the Clomid (as if), so they can ascertain what leftovers I might be sporting. I don't know what they're looking for, but I will consult Dr. Google. And they think maybe I should be doing the follicle scan around cd12 instead.
What-EVER. I mean, gosh. This is like, so totally uncool.
After this coming weekend's screwapalooza, we will grudgingly enter the psychosis-inducing two.week.wait.
And that's all I have to say about that.

Friday, June 09, 2006

Running with Twinkies

Hey! How ya doin?
Not a whole lot going on in my world to blog about this week.
Soper posted this many moons ago, and I just wanted to stress how important relaxing, focused meditation can be.
And Twinkies. Ohm.
Sure, Buddhism teaches an eight-fold path, but we're bitter, so we're only going to follow four.

The Bitter Woman's Guide to Zen

To know nirvana, you must understand these four noble truths:

  • Any thing that angers me will incur my wrath
  • All suffering is caused by my wrath
  • You can avoid my wrath by not being stupid
  • You can avoid being stupid by following the four-fold path:

-- Do not say anything to contradict me.

This is called "Right Views"

-- Strive, at all times, not to anger me.

This is called "Right Intentions"

-- Do not say anything that you know, or even suspect, will anger me.

This is called "Right Speech"

--Keep a chocolate bar and a Twinkie for me, on your person, at all times.

This is called "Right Conduct"

You can find the road to nirvana by contemplating the ancient koans, or riddles:

  1. What is the sound of my fist slamming against your head?
  2. All beings tremble before violence. All fear death. All love life. Knowing this, would a wise man poke a snake?
  3. Tabibi once asked Baso, "What is Buddha?" Baso answered, "Fucked if I know. Where's my Twinkie?"
  4. Right Views. Right Intentions. Right Speech. Right Conduct. If a student has the patience to wait until the mud clears, the student will not get his ass kicked.

Peace be with you.

A twinkie split.
Bananas are just too healthy
to waste on a bad mood.

Saturday, June 03, 2006

Running with scissors

What follows is a completely banal account of my daily goings-on, and some other useless crap thrown in for fun. The emergency exit is located at the upper right corner of your screen, marked with an "X" for your convenience. We are not equipped with safety belts, and you may keep your tray tables down.
Last weekend's conjugal visit in sunny Virginia was nice. A sticky, sweaty, hellish heat kind of nice, but altogether relaxing. The Boy and His Friend went to an expensive theme park for a combined cost of three trillion dollars (including food and one ruined cellphone). For the most part, I stayed in the airconditioned room watching movies and peeling grapes. The hubster worked all three days (double time pay, his choice to do it), but we got to hang out in the evenings.
Upon our return, I commenced peeing on sticks, performing complex quadratic equations, swearing off sweating, imagining the triplets and myself at Megalomart, and collecting newspapers and aluminum cans for entertainment. It was my last week at my current (old) job; a touch bittersweet in a "fuck you and the ass you rode in on" kind of way. I'm gonna miss them. ::sniff::
Today I'm doing 38 loads of laundry, switching out my winter-to-summer clothes, vacuuming, cooking, gardening, and general errand-running. I need to find a branch of my bank that is open on a Saturday. I have to stop at the pharmacy and pick up my new prescription, then dollar general for the super-fun-sized-family-pack of monster-mega-maxi pads (and coffee, paper plates, toilet paper, soap, and some birthday cards). I already mugged my postman to retrieve my giant-stack-o'bills that wouldn't fit in the "outgoing mail" clothespin. My dog wants to go play ball. The hubster is home this weekend for Big Boy Chores. Right before we left for VA, my icemaker blew a hose and flooded my kitchen. We *think* the floor is going to survive, but this pouring water into little trays and waiting for it to freeze just isn't acceptable. Who lives like that?? We're putting in the big (window unit) A/C. By we, I mean them, because I'm a girl with cramps. Menstruating does have its advantages. Really. For breakfast I had a low-carb energy bar, 5 cups of awesome Starbucks (make-my-own) coffee, and a strawberry Bacardi Silver. If you think I'm kidding, you'd be wrong. The boys went golfing, I had a lively conversation with Kellie about sex-related topics, and did a load of dishes. My life is full. If it wasn't going to be drizzling all weekend, I think I'd scrub the dead bug carcasses off my bumper. Maybe that will give me something to do tomorrow. I'll try to fit that in around the furniture rearranging, treadmill placement, carpet shampooing, and cabinet cleaning plans. Monday is when I start the Dream Job. There is something cathartic about an impending launch. Ok, that doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but it is true, for me anyway. I want to get rid of the old and start fresh. I bought new clothes, I'm doing my spring cleaning ( a little late, but you can't be all working hard and stuff when there's a chance you might actually be insane or something, uh, I mean, the "P" word...), and I'm feeling absolutely stupendous. Manic, but in a giddy sort of way. For sale: one bridge, bonus troll included.