A Beautiful Day

Another Beautiful Day

A blogger friend of mine, Kinneret at life's bright chaos had her baby! Please go visit and leave well wishes for her new arrival, Prince Chaos!

On Having Another

Harry X and I had a conversation yesterday about giving Simon a sibling.  It's interesting because the thought has been in the back of my mind since he came - during the difficult (hah! that's an understatement) period of infertility I've always said I'd be happy with just one child.  And you know what?  I still could be.  And so could Sal.  Our little unit of 3 could definitely continue to work for us.  We're ecstatic.

But I must admit now that I have this child who makes me radiate with love (at least toward him - Sal may tell you a different story!), I kinda want to do it again.  NO, I don't want to go through the infertility and the miscarriages then the anxiety then the pre-e/hypertension/bedrest/general anesthesia Csection/hemorrhage/2nd surgery/3rd reopening/2 weeks fever/2 months infection/1 month NICU.  No - who would? But I love being a mommy.  I think I'm pretty good at it so far...it's hard at times but it feels so natural and so right.  I feel like I was meant to do this.

So Harry X and I were talking about our (our being Sal and me, not Harry X and me, silly!) options for another baby - adoption being the main consideration, simply because of all the hell we've been through.  And I'm all on board with that except for the fact that we have 2 embryos on ice sitting in a freezer at the fertility clinic.  And I have a very strong (and perhaps maybe very foolish) instinct that one of them is viable - one is Simon's future brother/sister.  Maybe I'm delusional in putting on my rose-colored glasses again but the docs did tell me that now they know how my body responds to pregnancy that they can handle it, and much better than the last time.  It's food for thought.  It's something to think about.  Not now, of course.  For now I'm loving the bond I have with Smacky and delighting in watching him grow and become.  But soon - I'm talking around a year from now-soon I'm going to have to call my RE and book an appointment to discuss thawing and insemination of those happy little spawns of our very first IVF cycle.  Of course there is no guarantee that either of them are chromosomally intact (we didn't do PGD on these guys).  There is no guarantee that either or both will survive the thaw.  There is no guarantee one will take.  But they are there, and they are ours, and we worked incredibly hard to get them.  I need to resolve their fate so to speak, before considering alternatives to building our family.  It's just something I need to do.

After that, I'm open to adoption, though mixing genetic children with others is a tough line to walk in the emotional-upbringing department.  But like Sal says, because I've been there myself, (at least when it comes to one parent),  I'm probably the ideal candidate for the challenge.  As of late I've been warming up to that idea.   Harry X likes China adoption- he knows a few couples who have gone that route.  Sal's uncle built and operates a mission in Santo Domingo where women approach him all the time begging him to find their child a good home in the US.  I keep wondering if a trip there sometime soon might be in order.

Anyway, we'll see how things go.  I guess I'd just like to go on record stating that I don't think this is all over just yet.  Part of me wants to make sure Simon has more family and not feeling alone when Sal and I get older.  The other part is more selfish and is driven by my personal hopes to expand my role as a mom.  We'll see.   Like I said earlier though, if it's not meant to be our family of 3 will be just fine...even more than fine.  We haven't lost sight of how incredibly lucky and blessed we are to have our one, and I know we never will. 

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COMING SOON!  THE SIMON-CAM!!!

Yes, soon Smacky-Lips will be available LIVE with crib shots for all his friends and family all over the world on the internet.  Come watch Simon (or his empty crib) 24/7!  Stay tuned!

The Importance of the Freezer

This post by Harry and the linked article jolted me into a bit of a reality check.

We currently have two embryos on ice, or "totsicles," as they are affectionately called by the infertile community.   These tots are blastocysts obtained from our first IVF attempt.  We did not have PGD done on these embryos but there remains a solid chance that they are viable and chromosomally okay.  When these were stored, we were so lost in the throes of infertility that we didn't even consider that we would ever have "leftovers."  We were busy using every resource and strategy to get and stay pregnant - we were convinced we'd be using them at some point, after our IVF insurance coverage ran out - to do a Frozen Embryo Transfer, perhaps as a last-ditch effort to have a baby after everything else failed.

But everything else didn't fail.  Unless God forbid the unthinkable happens, we're going to have our dream baby in 6 weeks or so (Dr. High Risk changed the 37 week cut-off to 36 today).  And although in the back of my mind I keep thinking we can do all this again if we really want to, practically speaking, do we really want to?  Seriously?  Part of me remembers not a year ago bargaining with God and assuring him I'd be really happy with just one - one dream baby would make our lives complete.  And part of me is very okay with one.  But then I'm having these constant dreams lately of a dark-haired little girl who makes me dance on the beach with her and won't let go of my hand... the same type of dreams I had of swimming with a baby boy in a pool before we were finally blessed with this pregnancy.  Who knows what we will do?  Who knows how Simon's arrival may affect our mindset?   We may say never again as he'll be all we can handle.  Or we may pine for a sibling for him.

Which brings me back to the issue of the totsicles.  What if we decide one is enough after all?  What are we to do with them if not use them?  We could donate them to another couple, though our tots would certainly reduce the odds of success given our history, and it would have to be one desperate couple who would endure a grueling treatment cycle only to use our miscarriage-prone embies.   We could donate them to research, though I am currently shamefully not versed at all in the details of the Stem Cell Research Bill being ponied about in our local legislature and not sure if this is something we can (or even want) to consider.  What I know I don't want to do is thaw and destroy...although I am fully pro-choice, I am also the deeply affected product of a long struggle with infertility, and have come to learn the hard way how precious these little bundles of cells really are, and to not give them a shot at life would kind of, I don't know- it just wouldn't sit right with me.  Then again, the PNH side of me says I'll take those embies straight to a lab in CA if I have to if it means we get that much closer to saving lives and curing diseases.

It's a conflict, one which I will no doubt have to resolve at some point in the near future.   We've got some thinkin' to do.

The Unfairness of it All

A beloved friend of mine from the infertility message board I have frequented since 2003 underwent surgery in March to remove some uterine fibroids in the hopes that it would help her chances of getting pregnant.  This friend told me the horrific news today: she found out she has endometrial cancer.

Said friend is the co-moderator of the board; she is patient, considerate, kind and gracious.   She's the moderator who will sit in a chat room by herself for 3 hours just in case a desperate infertile pops in with a question.  She's the type of person who, despite her infertile troubles, signs up for the Avon 3-day Walk for Cancer.  She's the type of person who, despite seeing dozens of women come and go on the boards while she herself remains unpregnant, never gets judgmental or impatient with the most challenging of people.  She's an angel.  She was my secret Santa this past holiday and sent me an incredibly thoughtful and personal gift.

Maureen is scheduled for surgery the end of May.  After 5+ years of unsucessfully trying to conceive a child, the gods of fate, in their infinite insanity, have arranged it so that she will need a hysterectomy.  That's right - not only does she get cancer, but permanently loses any chance for a child of her own.   People, it just doesn't get any suckier than this. 

I know this woman and I know her to be courageous and strong and optimistic (she's going to walk the 3 day DESPITE surgery scheduled the week after).  If anyone can see her way through this, it's her.  She will graciously find a way to find the good in all this.  But in the meantime, those of us who know her will be forced to sit and wonder why and how nature chose to test the will and limits of such a beautiful soul. 

Maureen, we love you and our hearts are with you and your family. 

Not so Magnanimous

Would someone please tell me why a woman with 3 kids who is trying to conceive #4 spends her time on infertility support boards?   Just what does she need support for?

I'm all about the plight of the secondary infertile, and can even make peace in my head with the tertiary infertile but I just can't grasp what the drama is all about with #4.   And I'm trying, believe me, because I want to be big and not judgmental.  I want to be generous in mind and spirit about this.  But the bottom line is she pisses me off and yes, I'm pregnant and one would think all my worries are finally over but no, I still don't feel like reading her clomid/OPK temping-is-so-hard sob stories.  I just don't feel a shred of sympathy for her.

I understand the experience of infertility for anyone is horrible, and part of that is the sobering realization that your body isn't doing what you expected it to.  But for me, the worst part of infertility was the feelings of social isolation...maybe for me, the PNH took care of that whole body-failing part before I started trying to have a baby - I had already worked through that- so my biggest source of anxiety defaulted to learning to live with the possibility of childlessness.   And # 4 clearly doesn't have to worry about that.  AT ALL.

Maybe it's knowing that a #2 for me is clearly not in the picture; it's just not doable given our infertility and my illness and our age.   Sal and I have little choice but to fully appreciate and be content with one child.  If we begin itching for another, we won't have any options (even if we could adopt, with my illness, I just wouldn't do that to anyone- being half-adopted myself, I'm very against blending biologicals with non-biologicals).  Maybe I just have a hard time accepting that this miracle that's coming- this baby who took 3 years to make- may in the end not be enough for us. 

And it's likely he may not be...given the masses of secondary infertiles who grieve their infertility just as much as any primary, I'm thinking what makes me any different? What will stop me from craving a sibling for my miracle?  What will make me feel as if I'm not failing my child by not giving him more family to love?  Could realizing this dream of finally having a baby only serve to fuel more desire to make more - to try again?  Do I have to do this all fucking over again?  My G-d.

I hate you #4. 

I hate you for reminding me of this, for bursting my bubble over our miracle.  I hate you for waking me up to the fact that I will likely have to work very hard to make emotional peace with having only one child.  I hate you for making me realize that one probably won't be enough - that I'll always want another.  I hate you because you remind me that this infertility thing probably isn't over, not by a long shot. 

I hate you because I am probably not so unlike you as I would like to believe.   And yeah, you're "finally" pregnant with #4.  Congratulations.

Bitch.

Not Guilty

I've noticed a recent theme lately amongst some of the infertility-related blogs I frequent.  It seems a good number of prego infertiles and even those who now have babes of their own are feeling apologetic for daring to sound off about the dark side of being knocked up or complain about the trials of adjusting to motherhood.

I too am feeling guilty...I feel guilty just for being pregnant.   Part of me really does feel a little awful for having been so lucky as to wind up where I currently am: 13 and a half weeks with no looming issues...baby appears healthy and normal and I'm doing just fine.   Even my PNH, which we had assumed would cause at least some issues early on, has seemed to creep into the recesses of not only my psyche but my bone marrow as well.  I haven't felt sick...AT ALL.  It may be that because my body is so accustomed to anemia and fatigue that I'm just not feeling the impact of the pregnancy.   But really, overall I FEEL great, people tell me I LOOK great (I've been blessed with fuller breasts, flushed rosiness, clearer skin and a nicely rounded firm lower belly), and the baby is fine.  Seems pregnancy becomes me.  I acknowledge this fact and say a small prayer of thanks for it every day.   Why me?  How did I get so lucky???

Every day I recall our struggle to get pregnant.  The enormity of infertility is completely lost on normal folk...but those who know - those women who have endured the loss of the innocence; those who have been stripped of their programmed evolutionary right to reproduce - they know and they'll never forget either.  Infertiles learn the harshest of lessons ~ in their quest to execute their very primal instinctual drive to reproduce, they find out they are damaged in an incredibly basic way.  The struggle to conceive will ensure that they remain "different" than all of their friends and family; the daily implications of an ignorant society ensure a relentless feeling of isolation and failure.  Add to that the insult of the invasive, unpredictable processes involved in fertility treatment; add the insult of the costs involved and the years it can take to achieve success; add the miscarriages and the rollercoaster of the hormones; add the depression, the anxiety, and the omnipresent meddling thought that you may never have a baby to love.  Throw in the thoughts of the insulting, degrading process and costs of adoption and you are living in what I can only call a holy living hell on earth. 

The hell does not let up when an infertile finds out she is pregnant.  There is no overwhelming glee; there is no Hallmark moment when the infertile smiles knowingly and coyly at her husband while she gives him a pair of hand-knit baby booties.  There are instead more clinical tests, ultrasounds and technical discussions.  The worry shifts immediately from getting pregnant to staying pregnant.  One beta is only as good as the next; one ultrasound is only as good as the one after it.  And it goes on and on...I thought hitting 12 weeks would bring welcome relief to the constant anxiety (or the code orange, as Brooklyn Girl puts it) .  But it did no such thing.  We infertiles, through no fault of our own, have been programmed to wait for the bad thing.  We know the hard way that life has a funny way of saying fuck you at the most inopportune of times.  We know that to plan or count on anything in this life can be a quite naive and futile waste of time. 

So here I am with what has been thus-far a pregnancy of very good dreams.  And I'm only quasi-happy, mostly because the bitter pill of infertility has left a nasty aftertaste in my mouth.   And I feel guilty with  that "quasi-happiness"...I shouldn't have a complaint in the world right now.  Why?  Because my infertile sisters are still out there suffering and would trade places with me in a heartbeat.  They're frustrated and aching and I know their pain- God I know their pain - I know what it is to lie awake in bed every night from 2 AM - 5:30 AM for years analyzing your past choices, agonizing over future choices, and wondering when, if ever, this will come to pass?  How will I find happiness if I find I can never have a child?  Will I ever be normal?  Will I ever be a mommy?  Will I ever be blessed with the opportunity to love and care for a family? 

And here I am, 20 steps ahead of them.  I'm on my way to the other side.  I'm slowly leaving my infertile sisters behind on the path.  I'd like to think I am a beacon of hope for them, but know that in that darkness my situation is just as easily a jarring reminder of what they have yet to achieve..a reminder that they remain different, that they remain lost.  I remember times on the message boards where I couldn't bear to read another "Guess What?!" post ~ there was a point where I couldn't stand reading "success stories" and found a newbie prego's complaints of nausea and bloating revolting and insensitive.   I mean, I would have done anything to be nauseous and bloated with a baby...really.  Why did I have to be subjected to this?

And so us pregnant infertiles feel guilty sounding off about our new-found troubles.  And when I read these infertile blogs- when some of these very strong beautiful women are suffering enormous bad luck and experiencing awful situations,  I empathize and I cry because I KNOW how stupidly horrific the whole thing really is.

I think about how nice we women are.  I think about how generally we like to be liked...we don't like hurting people's feelings and we try to always be sensitive and supportive, because, after all, that's what makes us women and separates us from the beasts we marry.  It also makes us feel apologetic when something nice happens to us.

But let's think about a different way of looking at it.  A pregnant infertile, given the holy living hell she's endured to get where she is, almost has more of a RIGHT (if you'll allow me to get a little sanctimonious here) to whine and complain and bitch about her current situation.  She's been through it all.  And just because AFGO or, in the case of infertility, the MFMOFAAFGO (mother fucking mother of all another fucking growth opportunities) should have hopefully given her the grace to be forever sensitive to those who may still be suffering, she herself is still suffering, only in a new and different way.  And she should feel very NOT GUILTY for her hard-earned circumstance.  She should finally let herself enjoy what it feels like to be a normal woman by bitching her heart out about all the anxieties and discomfort that a pregnancy will bring.   She should take a queue from the "oops hee hee I'm pregnant again" crowd (those who actually had FUN getting pregnant and don't even think to apologize to anyone for it) and gripe about how hard it is to sit for long periods of time and have a meltdown about shower plans or what color to paint the nursery.  She shouldn't have to apologize for complaining how hard it is caring for newborn twins or fear that she might sound ungrateful or unappreciative for her circumstances.   Why?  She's worked harder for those circumstances than a lot of women work in a lifetime.  She endured holy living hell on earth and then some.  She deserves it.  She's not LUCKY; lucky is getting pregnant the fun way, right away.  She's worked her ass off for this pregnancy and put up with crap which would send many of those unapologetic whiney "oops" fertile myrtles out there to the verge of suicide. 

To my infertile pregnant sisters and mamas out there: it still sucks sometimes and don't I know it.  Feel free to let it all out...you'll get no grief from the likes of me. 

And to my still-not-there-yet sisters, my heart is with you every day, more than you know.  I am forever aware of my fortunate situation, however hard-earned it may be. There may be times though that I  may sound ungrateful and obnoxious.  I'm not trying to be and I don't mean to be.  I just gotta let it out. 

Rumination and RPL

Thank you beautiful ladies, for your comments yesterday. I appreciate them more than you know.

This morning I saw the therapist. She specializes in infertility and I must say was terrific and extremely helpful. Miscarriers, keep reading. You'll thank me for it.

Interesting:

A mentally healthy woman will normally take about one year to emotionally heal after a miscarriage.
ONE YEAR.

Latest studies on pregnancy and symptoms show the MAJORITY of pregnant women will experience NO symptoms until the end of the first trimester. And many will never experience any adverse symptoms throughout their entire pregnancy. Also, the more you get pregnant, the less you'll tend to feel any symptoms...that is because your body has already learned how to accomodate the hormones.

The scenario for the miscarrier:

A woman who experiences RPL (Recurrent Pregnancy Loss) is basically forever changed; that is, it is very unlikely she will be able to enjoy a pregnancy or relax to any real degree. Like Pavlov's dog, RPL women have been conditioned: You get pregnant, then you miscarry. An RPL woman has no positive pregnancy experience to draw upon. Therefore, negativity rules the day. The mind almost craves the "relief" that a miscarriage will bring...because it would complete the familiar pattern. Through no fault of her own, a woman who has suffered miscarriages will have extreme difficulty in trusting that a pregnancy may make it to term. She will instead wait for the bad thing to happen. She will likely ruminate and obsess over waiting for the end. She will need more reassurances than "normal" women.

A woman who has miscarried within the past year who becomes pregnant again will have an especially difficult time of it as she has not completed mourning the loss of the previous pregnancy.

As a successful pregnancy progresses, there is of course some relief to the anxiety, but most RPL women will not acknowledge that things are "okay" until they hold the baby in their arms, and even then they may have trouble grasping the reality of it.

Hard(ish) for others to understand:

A repeat miscarrier will feel relief at a negative pregnancy test. Instead of hope, pregnancy brings dread and anxiety. (I SO relate to this.)

Like it or not, a miscarrier has been traumatized and victimized by something absolutely beyond her control. She can't blame anyone or herself; she can't try to make sense of it or rationalize it. It is a senseless random act of nature and a woman has no choice but to take the pain and accept it. She can't sue someone, she can't blame anyone. It is simply and purely bad luck of the worst kind.

What we can do:

Unfortunately, because of my history compounded with my illness, I found out today that I will likely never be able to actually enjoy being pregnant. At times, my anxiety will become quite great and I will have no choice but to endure it and work through it. But that doesn't mean I can't do things to make myself more comfortable:

1) I need to train myself to avoid ruminating- that is, when I start to wonder about losing the baby again, I need to immediately choose to engage in another activity -whether that be cooking or quilting or knitting or even watching a movie - I need to force myself into keeping my mind active with another interest. That much I have control over. I have a choice to obsess or a choice to work on something or be productive. Thus far, I have been often consciously choosing the obsessing route.

2) I need to live in the day and take a queue from the 12 steppers - for today, I am pregnant, and isn't it wonderful? Carpe diem. Enjoy the moment. All that good stuff. Easier said, but a very wise recommendation nonetheless.

3) By all means, if I'm melting down, call for an ultrasound...and I don't have to apologize for it.

4) Forgive myself for being an overanxious negative Cassandra...none of this was my fault, and I'll never be able to make sense of why I've been victimized in such a manner. My current mindset was forged by circumstances far beyond my control and I can't just snap out of it. Part of me may never truly heal. I just have to plod through the best I can.

5) When someone congratulates me on my pregnancy, say "thank you," instead of cautioning the well-wisher to avoid getting their hopes up. Stop saying things like, "Yeah, we'll see if I'm pregnant two weeks from now."

6) Promise myself to stop checking my boobs for tenderness 18 times a day.

I think I can do these things. I feel a bit lighter for having gone today - I hope this helps some of you.

And so now I'm going to get off the internet and go bake some holiday cookies. Then I'm off to shop for some gifts.

Lo, Happy 40th Honey. I love you.

The Zen of it All

The thing is that tomorrow's ultrasound will show whatever it will show. And there's not a damned thing I can do about that. And that burns me up. It burns me up that I can't do ANYTHING to help things along, nor can I predict what the outcome will be with any accuracy. As soon as I'm convinced I'm losing the embryo, something happens which will suggest otherwise, like a tummy pull or I'll notice my sore hard full breasts. And then, like today, I spot beige again, which deflates me like a balloon. And then I'll get another tummy pull, or realize I'm sobbing while I address my Christmas cards...and then I notice I'm not as bloated as yesterday. None of this means anything in either direction. But because I have absolutely NO control whatsoever, I continue to grasp at straws and try to make sense of something. Just a little sense. I just need a little something to go on. Something to push that 50/50 viability in one direction or another. But all it does is create more agony.

What I'd like to see : a full-sized fetal pole with a heartbeat on the high end of normal with an hcg upwards of 60,000

What I fear we'll see: zippo...defragmented yolk sac, deflating gestational sac, open cervix, diminishing hcg

What I'd like to do: leave the clinic with a pic of the cutie pie and a spring in my step, only to break down 2 days later while I wait 2 weeks for the next ultrasound

What I don't want to have to do: a D&C next week, deal with this loss during the holidays, attend the parties and feign happiness when I'm crushed like a grape inside, plan our next step

There's nothing I can do. Whatever is, IS. Deep breath.

Tough Cookie

A few days ago Sal & I talked about another miscarriage and what it would mean for us. I confided in him and admitted that I will likely go off the deep end. Perhaps not, but I'm spinning out of control as it is...I can't see that the nail in the coffin will do much to calm me down. My emotions this time around are raw and sensitive and volatile.

And so, I agreed that perhaps it's time to sit down for some therapy...not the type I've been to already- not the infertility group where the men sit with their hands in their laps and heads down while the women sob into tissues. I need to sit down with someone. Alone. Because although I like to think I'm fairly intelligent and can logically work through this stuff, somedays the weight of it all just may indeed break me. I like to fancy myself one tough cookie- I get through it and can still manage to see the glass half-full, but lately - lately it's been harder. The entire situation makes me profoundly sad.

Sal says he will come if I want. I don't want him to. Overall, he's been an angel, and I'm already forgetting and forgiving him for being swiss cheese when it comes to keeping our early pregnancies to himself. He seems to be handling things relatively well, although does get short periods of being intensely crabby with me at times. Somehow he manages - we manage - but this time I'm feeling that things may be different.

So I called the shrinky-dink who operates out of our fertility clinic. She returned my call and asked me why I'd like to come in. I briefly explained our history, and that I was prego again and waiting the resolution of a vague ultrasound. She immediately told me she was sorry for our losses. After some conversation, she explained an interesting concept: if this pregnancy sustains itself, I will have more emotional trouble than if it fails..."How, with your history, will you be able to get through 8 more months of pregnancy? You'll be waiting every day to lose the baby." Hmph. Good point she makes because thus far, that's pretty much what I've been doing.
And so I scheduled an appointment with her for Saturday morning, the day after the ultrasound.

My goal with this therapy is simple: get through the holidays.

Don't TOUCH Me! -and other confrontational instances

This pregnancy may or may not be viable and I have no choice but to live with that uncertainty for at least the next 3 days.

What I can count on however is that regardless of what may be happening (or not happening) in my uterus, regardless of my apparent lack of dramatic pregnancy symptoms, the hcg (pregnancy hormone) remains in sufficient amounts in my system to wreak havoc with my otherwise fairly rosy demeanor...havoc may be an understatement.

Poor Sal can't touch me lately without me flipping out.  It's not that I don't love the man- you know I do...dearly- it's just that for some reason he cannot say or do anything that doesn't irritate me to some degree.  I am hypercritical and quick to admonish.   My skin crawls if he holds me the wrong way, or holds my hand too long, or gives me my injections "wrong."  Mind you, with the shots, I am impossible to please.  All I want is for him to get away from me, and quickly at that.

And it's not just Sal in this predicament.  I am taking no shit from anyone.  And if I sense you're giving me some shit, you're going down.  Today I picked a fight with a coworker via e-mail.   He did something he does ALL the time- it's an ego thing he has, where he has to put his 2 cents into situations having nothing to do with him.  He's for the most part smart and means well, but a lot of his behavior can be whittled down to self-promotion.   This personality tic of his usually results in creating more work and damage control for those unfortunate to have been in his path.   Normally, I just accept it as part of what I know and love about the guy, understanding that with his yin comes great yang.   Today, I just wasn't having it.  And so I clawed him like a cat. He was confused and defensive and instead of apologizing I went down the very small-minded road of having the last word, even though that word may have made little sense to him.

Fast-forward to a call to help-desk (a.k.a. the "helpless desk") at work.  At 2 PM or so my employee profile just gave out and I lost my connection.  I didn't quite like the tone of the greeting the IS "helper" gave me upon answering his phone.  He is notorious for his condescension and, well, unhelpfulness.

Me:  Are you angry?  Why the tone?

IS guy: Huh?

Me: Look I didn't call to bother you- my connection crapped out and I need help.   It's not like I'm trying to annoy you on purpose.

IS guy: Well what's your problem?

Me:  Right now my problem is finding someone in a helpful frame of mind to reset my profile.

IS guy: WHO is this?

Me: Who are YOU?

IS guy: (perplexed silence)

Me: You know what?  Is Bob in today?  Let me speak with Bob - Bob has worked with me before and he's HELPFUL...

IS guy: I'll uh, put you through.

I believe Bob has a wife with several children and may have endured this type of "woman" thing more than once.  Bob understood me.  Bob took care of me.

When I hung up the phone I burst into tears. 

And I've cried on and off pretty much the whole day.

Later on, Allie Dog crept up next to me for some love.  Her breath was so bad I sent her away.   These days I can smell her breath from the next room.  While we're on that subject, everything smells like B.O. to me, and everything tastes like metal.

So there you have it...I'm one crabby-assed, possibly-miscarrying, no-sleep bloated veiny hormonal mess.  And I'm taking no prisoners.  Wanna piece of me?