Flotsam

Psst!
Today is my fourth day on 500 milligrams of Metformin.

I know! I didn’t tell you! I didn’t tell anyone, because I was fairly certain that I would quit once again, because it was too hard. And then I would have to retire from blogging in shame. And wear ashes and sackcloth—which would probably be more attractive than the rumply clothes from my dry-cleaning bag I am wearing at the moment.
But never mind that now.

Here is a recap (or just a “cap” as I haven’t posted about this before):
Saturday night: Took first Metformin pill before bed w/milk and hunk small piece of cheese. Awoke during night to incredible gurgling, roiling noises from intestinal region. But no corresponding side effects—all bark and no bite, so to speak.
Sunday morning: Felt…meh. Nothing specific, just…meh. Thought about going back to bed a few hours later, but resisted, as I think napping was my undoing last time.
Sunday afternoon: Experienced unpleasant fullness after eating lunch, but feeling quickly dissipated. Felt healthy and energetic, like athlete or young person.
Sunday evening: Took second pill before bed w/milk and hunk small piece of cheese.
Monday morning: Felt perfectly normal.
Monday afternoon: Decided to tempt fate by eating bacon cheeseburger and French fries. Still felt fabulous, as I was obviously invincible.
Monday evening: Was taking a bath when assaulted by breathtaking intestinal cramps and the immediate need to remove self from tub to toilet. Emerged from bathroom half-an-hour later shaky and depleted. Spent remainder of night nauseated on sofa, having panic attacks. The Nearly shook his head and said “You flew too close to the sun on wings of bacon and cheese.” Alas, he was right.
Tuesday morning: Slight intestinal distress upon waking.
Tuesday afternoon to Present: Continued to take Metformin. No further side effects.

Of course this weekend I am ramping up my dosage, so perhaps my post after the dose increase will be titled “Pride Goeth Before A Fall (to the floor in pain clutching one’s stomach).”
But I hope not.
I had planned to restart Metformin in August. Theoretically, I re-started early in order to avoid the pressure of knowing that I must be up to (and tolerating) 2000 milligrams by September. This way, I can increase my dosage more slowly without a scramble to get in three months at my full dose (for egg-quality and miscarriage risk-reducing purposes) before the IUI.
Secretly (well not so secretly, I suppose, as I am writing about it here) I am hoping Metformin will turn out to be all the punishment my slut ovaries need, and that the Nearly and I will have the option of conceiving on our own. And I am having a hard time waiting until December to find out if that will be possible. Also, even a small dose of Metformin is likely to improve my insulin resistance—and the health effects that accompany it—and that can only be a good thing.

It’s odd—I never thought I would miss charting and peeing on inscrutable plastic oracles, but in a way I feel like the Nearly and I missed the “fun” part of attempting to get pregnant—or at least the part that doesn’t involve a third party, stirrups, and me hearing “Ride It, My Pony” playing in my head several times a month as I submit to the dildocam.
Most couples have a year of trying on their own before ending up with an infertility diagnosis. I’m not saying that is always a good thing—obviously a year of charting is pretty useless if you don’t ovulate, and tooth-grindingly stressful even if you do—but I think it gives you some time to transition. Our year was derailed by a miscarriage and then by over six months of tests, finally revealing that I do not ovulate on my own–we could have unprotected sex until our hip joints give out and not end up with a baby.

I thought that didn’t matter one whit to me, anymore. But now things with the Nearly are better than they have been since before the last miscarriage—we can look at “Baby’s First Spjorklatt” at IKEA without me getting sad or him getting edgy—and I feel slightly melancholy. It is a small thing, I know, but wouldn’t it be lovely if we could gaze at one another across a room of cheap-but-well-designed Swedish children’s furniture and then return home to make a baby in our own bedroom? If I can buy both a stylish armoire and a set of six cocktail glasses for $100, surely anything is possible.