Gorillabuns

yabba dabba doo!

Today I went to a Reproductive Endocrinologist. You know, the voodoo doc of fertility. After a few spiritual chantings, aura cleansing and three waves of his magic wand, I'm cured of all that ails me. Well, not-so-much. I really wish it were all so easy. Instead, I left my consultation more confused than before with only a few snip-its ingrained into my pee-sized brain.

Thankfully, I had a friend go with me who has gone this route before so she could decipher, take cliff-notes and well, basically listen to everything that did not filter through my ears and hit the save button. In essence, I was working on operation overload in which all I heard was "yadda, yadda, yadda, your are old, bibbity, bobbity-boo! Why are you taking Xanax? yabba, dabba, doo! 40% chance of miscarriage because you are old, blah, blah, blah, blah, So! we'll see you when you start your period next."

What?

Seriously, I have a degree. A couple of them with an almost Masters. Seriously, I WAS a drug rep and know how to communicate with Doctors, their jargon and upspeak but when it comes to something as freaky as having to discuss my expired eggs, I go into a semi-comatose state in which I barely know my name and just nod, and nod and nod as if I understand what the hell he's saying.

After the appointment in the comfort of my friend's car, I asked her to tell me "really, tell me straight. What did he say?" Because, you know, I'm 10 years old and have to have my mother take care of me since I don't know which way is up these days. A damn fine mother she is let me say because she dumbed it all down for me so I could recite passages to my husband without faltering too much.

Basically, in a nut-shell - I don't think the dude is TOO worried about me. Well, about my eggs that is but maybe about my mental state. When I'm ready and bleeding like a stuck pig, I'm to call and have him do an ultrasound on my innards to see if this hen should be dressed and primed for next Sunday's special meal or should be shot full of unnatural hormones for laying three-legged eggs for the next circus run. 

The one thing I am VERY happy about is he didn't berate me about my weight because seriously, it's not like I don't know I'm heavy and quite honestly, this large and in charge beast hasn't let weight get in the way of getting knocked up the past two times. He also was not very concerned with my "slightly elevated" FSH numbers. If you want to know what this means? Don't ask me as I didn't pay a bit of attention. All I heard was something to do with "foot on the pedal to make the car run."  Yes, my reproductive unit is defined as either an awesome muscle car or a bad, run-down Nova.

The doctor went on to say he would give it a year with whatever measures we were going to take. Wait? What? Doesn't he know I'm going to be 41 soon? A year? I'm so not a patient woman. Aren't we supposed to move, like fast? Super, warp-speed fast?

Quite honestly, I think he, my friend and well, everyone in the free world thinks if I would calm the fuck down, I might actually get pregnant.  In the end, I think my eggs are too shaken up with frustration and performance anxiety to do their job properly. Maybe they need to take some Xanax. Maybe they should just enjoy the free ride for awhile. A lesson I should be taking at the moment as well.

repeat with me, "breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out....."

chocolate bar

 
And now for something completely different and not-so depressing.

From the words of my husband, "are you really making fun of my daughter?"

"No baby, I just think her answer is funny."

You be the judge.

I would have given anything to see Celia's teacher's face upon reading Celia's answer about her favorite treat.

good grief

I should be happy with the end of my maturational years resulting in three, two beautiful children in our midst but sadly, I am not. I have three, two relatively healthy and happy children. Children I would give life and limb for their lives, health and subsequent happiness. Children I truly feel grateful for being a part of their lives but in the end I am left wanting and yearning. I'd say for a third child but since we've already traveled down this fucked up, non-paved, dead-end road of confusion, I'm wanting another chance. Just ONE MORE FUCKING CHANCE! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD,I SWEAR! I'LL DONATE MY EARTHLY PLEASURES TO CAPTURE ONE MORE CHANCE OF HAPPINESS! To feel complete as both a woman and as a mother.

It seems based on medical testing, naturally, I'm on the road to ruin and dilapidated sludge. Basically, I'm not 20 anymore. Who knew after carelessly throwing caution to the wind and successfully dropping eggs on the lawn of pleasure and paradise like an Easter bunny on a massive frenzied drug induced chase - the eggs I now have left have been left sitting in the hot and stuffy glove compartment a tad too long. Long enough to emit a gaseous presence but just that. Spoiled and overly ripe and well, not perfect.

After receiving such awesomely mind-numbing news this week minutes before a Girl Scout function that my FSH is now over the legal limit to operate a vehicle after sun down under the right road conditions - I now have the option of going to an infertility specialist. To, I don't know, charge us a fuck-load in tests, shoot me full of more hormonally imbalanced shit into my cavernous cavity of unstable negative/positive corroded battery charges. In essence, I've received the dreaded news. I'm old as fuck and if I have the mental stability and drive, I can continue onto another path of more frustration and despair. 

Quite honestly, this road trip I've been traveling for these past fews months is making me car sick  for me to accept and all I really want to do is get off this mother fucking ghoulish merry-go-round and travel a path of absolutes and certainties. A path I know that has been covered up in brambles and dried leaves with small twigs leading a way only noticeable to the lucky little leprechauns where their fine fortunes may be hidden for their freakish ever-knowing families to only relish in. Not available to people like me. Man, I really fucking hate those creepy fucking Keebler elves. and their fucking shitty cookies.

So now, I enter a new uncharted territory of pain, grief and suffering. Holidays have started to arrive with a vengeance. Painfully, I watch my husband trying to grasp someone else's child who is two months older than Thalon and I find myself turning away from response a- both for himself and myself. Trying to keep the "situation" light, normal and well, non-creepy. Mainly because if I didn't like these people so much, I would steal their beautiful child. "My Steadfast friend," you know I'm only slightly joking here. I didn't steal him when I watched him a few weeks ago. Personally, I hope you or no other person I know has to go through this hot and cold grief. Grief that comes out of no where. Hyperventilated sentences mixed with hysterical crying over the most bullshit of situations known to man because you can't find a parking place or you don't know what the fuck everyone else's thinking but only yourself. Because, truly, my mind can only take so much tension and complication. Choosing the "correct" brand of Chocolate milk sends me into the corner of the butter aisle - sucking my thumb for someone to make a GD decision so I don't have to.  So, if you are asking me if I'm on edge of a very rusty and overused razor long ready for disposable, then yes, I am. My husband is on the proverbial edge and my girls are on the edge but way too smart to get too close. I feel they are the only ones that have a chance of escaping all of this with only a minor year or two years of therapy. To me? This sounds like good news and sadly, I think they are the most sane of us all.

I do believe my husband and I would like to "check out" from the next few months of festivities of joy, celebrations, would-be celebrations and well, remembrances. Remembrances that I feel will completely kill me when they get here because, quite honestly, I don't know how we are going to make it through it all in one piece or at the very least slightly cracked - even Super Glue may not be strong enough to fix.