Thankful salutations to those who have commented in honor of de-lurking week–I simply adore getting comments. Perhaps it will get old, eventually, and I will merely dismiss them with a languid wave of my manicured hand before rising from my desk to ring a tiny bell alerting my kitchen staff that I am in the mood for more fondue, please, and make it snappy.
Yes, it seems unlikely to me, too.
One of our cats has lost his mind. It is my favorite cat, the one I got at the pound two days after my miscarriage last year (I stumbled into the Humane Society wearing pajama bottoms and more or less demanded a kitten, eventually paying for him partially in quarters. Another story for another day, perhaps). His name is Lennie—we named him shortly after the death of Jerry Orbach, you see—and here is a picture:
We have a very close relationship, he and I, and if I get up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night he drags himself out of bed and follows me, sitting by the toilet with his eyes half-open until I am finished and he can go back to sleep.
Lennie has always been an exceptionally talkative cat. But for the last few days he has taken to bleating at nothing. He seems convinced that there is some especially delicious insect on the ceiling, and has adopted a watchful “eyes on the skies” pose since Tuesday, moving about the upper surfaces of the apartment, occasionally rising up on his haunches and saying “MERAAAo?”
There is nothing there, people.
Yesterday morning the Nearly suggested that he has “Cat Scratch Fever” which seems as likely an explanation as any. When the Nearly stops writhing with mirth at his own cleverness, remind me to punish him for insuring that I spent my entire Friday at work with a Ted Nugent song (or, rather, the one line of it I know) lodged firmly in my head.
Boss: “Have you had a chance to write your reviews?”
Self, In Mind: “Cat Scratch FE-VER!”
Self, Aloud: “I’m working on it.”
At the moment, I am feeling ill from the Metformin. Not quite as bad as I had expected—I am taking the extended release version, and I took the pill with some soy milk and a vitamin B capsule. If this is the worst of it, I think I can manage. If the side effects increase markedly with my dose…I won’t think about that right now.
I am keeping track of how I feel for the Metfomin page I am making. Hopefully it will be an uplifting account that ends with me feeling better and having ovulatory cycles, rather than with my dehydrated corpse found smeared with vomit and excrement on the floor of my bathroom.
Taking my first pill, last night, marked the beginning of fertility treatment for me. Metformin is my first non-diagnostic step towards getting pregnant. It will take me almost a month to ramp up to my prescribed dosage, and after that we have to wait two more months for the lessened miscarriage risk and elevated egg quality to attach, and sometime around then I will have another monitored cycle to see if the Metformin is working. Dr. Doctor doesn’t think I will ovulate on the meds alone, but you never can tell, with my ovaries.
When I started this blog, I thought getting pregnant would be the least of my problems. I was worried about endometriosis. I was worried about having another miscarriage. I was worried about dealing with the two I had already had. What I was not worried about was that I had never managed to detect ovulation through temperature charting—I believed the OB Gyn who told me that charting was unreliable, and that the fact I had a cycle (almost) every 35 days meant I was ovulating.
Imagine my surprise.
Still, I have a fairly good track record of getting knocked-up, once something prompts my slothful ovaries to release an egg. If Metformin regulates me enough to make that happen, it is possible that I could have a baby without any further medical help.
I feel very odd. I didn’t start this blog to talk only about infertility—I started it to lend a veneer of productivity to the time I spend not working on my writing. That is a need that will persist even if I get pregnant and stay that way long enough to end up with a child.
That is a need that will persist until I am laid, cold and dead, in my grave.
But I also started Flotsam to have a place to talk about things that don’t lend themselves to conversation with the people in my real life. Thus far, those things have centered largely around the region of my nethers. Most of my readers and blog friends are infertile, and I am afraid they will vanish if I am lucky enough to escape injections and catheters and whatnot. I wonder–am I still an infertile if I get pregnant with only Metformin? I know I am getting far, far ahead of myself, but the bewitching Manuela had a post that made me come over all thoughtful.
I think what it boils down to—pregnant bloggers feeling guilty for being pregnant, non-IVFers feeling guilty for escaping IVF, others feeling guilty for going straight to IVF—is that we are all so massively relieved to have found this community that we are terrified of losing it—even if, every single month, we are bleeding money and emotion to do just that.
Ugh. I have been eating the same peanut butter sandwich for an hour. Nothing sounds less appealing to me right now than food, but I know an empty stomach will only exacerbate the situation. Perhaps I will at least lose a pound or, er, twenty. Perhaps Metformin is the new Wormtini.
My mouth tastes like a crypt, so I am off to try to brush my teeth without disturbing my fitful gag reflex…
Oh, and speaking of which–whomever found my site a few days ago by searching for “First Time Fellatio Blog,” Relax, you’ll be fine!
Remember to breathe, and whatever you do, don’t bite down.