Flotsam

Until Wednesday, I thought the phrase “my heart is in my throat” was metaphorical. But I spent the hours leading up to my consult with my heart pulsing wetly behind my tonsils, making it difficult to draw the deep, cleansing breath I was sure would finally make my hands stop shaking.
At the clinic, I sat in the waiting room updating my yearly paperwork and shuffling through my bulleted straight-to-IVF argument, a sheaf of clinical studies and success rate information, and a list of questions for Dr. Doctor. I read People magazine’s musings on whether Paris Hilton was a good or bad influence (bad), and looked suspiciously at a picture of Suri Cruise (I’m sorry, that baby does not look real to me. I am fairly sure she is made of high-quality polymer and a toupee). Eventually I was called back by a nurse who asked me to take off my boots and step on a scale.
This is when I noticed that I was wearing one black argyle sock and one blue striped footie-sock.
I hopped onto the scale and the nurse slowly moved the little weight allll the way over, giving me a puzzled look. I tried not to hiss at her. Yes, I weigh more than you’d think looking at me—-I’m very dense, bitch, get over it. Then she reset the top weight and moved the appropriately chunky lower weight over with a thud. When she started to slide the little weight again I may have hyperventilated a bit, but Josie has since assured me that our clinic’s scale is always over by six pounds.
Next I sat in an exam room for a while, whispering statistics to myself and trying to find a way to position my feet that made my mismatched socks less obvious.
And then there she was, Dr. Doctor, my sweet endocrinological love muffin.
Unfortunately, the first thing she noticed was my feet.
“Are you at least wearing clean underwear?” she asked, laughing, “Hopefully if you’re in a car accident they’ll focus on that.”

She asked some questions about my recent cycles, sighing sadly and making notes on my chart. Then she said “So, are we starting a Letrozole IUI?”
“Well…actually…” I crossed my legs, noticed my sock, uncrossed them, and tittered nervously.
“I don’t know why I’m so nervous about this! Hahaha! Ahem. Erm. *Cough* Anyway, the Actually and I had a long talk, and he is wondering…I mean we both are wondering, I mean we were thinking of seeing whether we could perhaps move straight to IVF. If you allow that sort of thing. Or, you know. If it’s done. By others.”

Well said, Alexa. I clutched my pages of cogent arguments and cursed myself. This is about the time I was expecting Dr. Doctor to guffaw condescendingly, or worse, pick up a glass jar of cotton balls and throw it against the wall, where it would shatter, raining shards of glass upon me while she yelled expletives and asked if I was crazy, and what kind of operation did I think she was running here, anyway?
Instead, she nodded.
I squinted at her warily and continued.
“I have insurance that covers infertility, but I’ll only have it for 18 months and there’s a $5000 lifetime maximum that includes IVF. If we do Letrozole IUIs we won’t be able to afford further treatments if they fail.”
“I completely understand,” said Dr. Doctor, continuing to nod emphatically.
This was not in the script, I thought, clutching my papers, Who told her to ad lib?
“Also,” I said defensively, “IUIs don’t have a very high success rate.”
More nodding: “Probably at best a fifteen percent success rate, while IVF would be close to 60%, given your age.”
“Er…yes. And you said yourself that injectable IUIs aren’t indicated for me due to the high risk of multiples or cancellation–”
“They would get very expensive. We would have to stim you slowly for a long time, and you still might end up cancelled after spending a lot of money.”
By now I was completely discombobulated. I had prepared arguments and counter arguments! I CAN’T MAKE COUNTER ARGUMENTS WITHOUT SOMETHING TO COUNTER!
Dr. Doctor had launched into a comparison of the clinical findings regarding egg quality and PCOS. I shuffled through my notes, and then, as she began discussing my future protocol, I gave up and joined in.

So. IVF it is.

In my bewilderment, I forgot to ask nearly half of my questions. Hearing Dr. Doctor say that moving directly to IVF was perhaps the smartest thing we could do given our circumstances was a little shocking, because part of me feels like perhaps I am merely being overdramatic, and one of these mornings I will wake up pregnant and find I wasn’t infertile after all. Never mind the fact that I do not ovulate-—in fact, this seems to be the sticking point. I have only had two cycles in the past two years where there was actual sperm and egg. Of course, at my current rate, it would be ten years more before I amassed the year of unsuccessful ovulatory cycles after which I would presumably feel I was “officially” infertile, so I’ll just have to get over it. Dr. Doctor wants me back on the pill as soon as my day three tests are re-done, and I imagine it will seem more final then, when I know there will be no more “maybe I’ll ovulate this month” before I start plunging needles into my flesh.

The next step is a slew of pre-screening appointments and orientations, all of which are scheduled before the end of January. I am especially looking forward to seeing whether I can get the Actually to faint during injection teaching.

Oh, and for all who asked: “House suit” is just a fancy name for a sweat suit. A comfortable pair of pants, made from fleece, velour, or other soft material, often with a jacket or wee hooded sweater. I don’t like the term “sweat suit,” as I do no sweating in mine, preferring instead to loll around the house eating sausage. Generally I only wear the housepants (with a t-shirt), rather than the full ensemble, unless the Actually is on one of his cost-saving heat-miser kicks. Surely you all wear housepants at home? Or do you actually remain in your jeans/skirt/stylish trousers when you return from work? I generally have my bra off and pants unbuckled before I have crossed the living room, but then I am funny like that.

A frequent concern of brides as they plan their nuptials seems to be the involvement—or lack thereof—of the groom. Lackluster enthusiasm on the part of one’s paramour for the finer details of wedding planning is seen as a bad thing, a sign that said paramour is not properly invested in preparations for Your Special Day.

Be careful what you wish for, is all I am saying.

The Actually and I had long intended to have custom invitations designed for us by a letterpress studio. We wanted something we could frame, and that could be a keepsake for family members.
So, there we were, discussing possible design elements:
“How about a bird?” I say, doodling on a piece of paper.
“A bird would be nice,” replies the Actually.
There is silence for a few moments, and then the Actually lights up.
“Hey! You know what we should have? Besides the bird, I mean.”
“What?”
“A bear and a robot!”

Now, never let it be said that I cleave too closely to tradition, that I am unwilling to try new things. I am as modern as the next girl, provided the next girl isn’t piloting a hovercraft. But a bear and a robot? Really?

“Really!” enthuses the Actually.
“But…why?” I ask, “Am I the bear, or the robot?”
“You’re the bird!”
“Oh. And you are…”
“I don’t know—the robot? Or maybe the bear…”

Nothing says love and commitment like a bear and a robot. Perhaps the bear symbolizes our past, and the robot our future; the bear our primal, animal love, and the robot our respect for one another’s intellect.

“Actually,” says the Actually, “Maybe I’m the bear and the robot.”
“You know what?” I reply, “It doesn’t matter, because we are not having a bear and a robot on our wedding invitations.”

And then there is the issue of attire. Mine is already decided, and I have been asking the Actually–with increasing concern–what he plans to wear on the day we are legally wed.
“I know what I want to wear,” is his response, “but I don’t know if they make it.”

Ah. I feel much better, now, hearing that.

“Not a tuxedo?” I ask timidly, “or a suit of some kind?”
“I’m going to wear a suit, but not a suit suit,” he explains helpfully.
He goes on to say that he got an idea from The Science of Sleep, but isn’t able to describe the outfit for me.

Hearing that your fiance’s inspiration for his wedding look comes from a surreal French film is less reassuring than you might expect. But as long as he’s not in a bear-suit or a robot costume, I’ll be happy.

Over the last few days I have had the following conversation about thirty times:

Me: I think I’m manic.
The Actually: You’re not manic.
Me: Are you sure? Because I have a million ideas racing through my head, and last night I couldn’t get to sleep until eleven.
The Actually: Eleven, huh?
Me: I didn’t say it was a full-blown mania, it could be the beginning stages. Also, I did a bunch of online shopping at work today.
The Actually: It’s Christmas.
Me: It’s just…I have all this energy, and I’m so excited about everything.
The Actually: That’s called “happiness.” Now leave me alone.

I am very suspicious of both happiness and excitement–I always have been. Some of this is the result of growing up with a manic depressive father and learning at a young age to scrutinize his behavior for the signs of exuberance that generally precipitated the less benign stages of mania. But much is merely my temperament. It is in my nature to be suspicious of happiness. Happiness is dangerous. Before a man is crushed by a falling piano, he inevitably steps out into the fresh air drawing in a deep, satisfied breath and exclaiming over the beautiful day.
But there is simply no denying that I am in a perilously good mood.

I know people say scratch a cynic and you’ll find a closeted optimist, but I’ve always maintained that if you scratch a cynic all you’ll find is a pissed-off cynic demanding to know why you’re scratching him. But here I am, and it is hard to write blog entries when I find myself so…out of character. No one wants to read me burbling over my lovely fiance and beautiful wedding and finally-concrete reproductive plans, and yet that is all I seem able to do. The Actually is happy, I am happy–we’re both so goddamn happy I could vomit.
So enough about that.

Instead, let me tell you about the other day, when I fell face first into the coffee table.
No, I hadn’t been drinking. It was something far more treacherous than alcohol that caused my accident: it was exercise.
You see, I am getting married in five months. In an effort to ensure that I do not look like a satin-swathed Hindenberg floating down the aisle, I am attempting to get back to my fighting weight. Or my bickering weight, at the very least.
Because I feel about diets the way nature feels about vacuums, I have decided that I must start burning more calories. I quite enjoy weight lifting, and I recently ran across an interesting weight workout designed specifically for brides with at least three months before their wedding (Yes, I found it in a wedding magazine. Shut up.). I figured my extra two months would give me a buffer for the many times I am sure to skip my workout in favor of watching West Wing reruns and eating pieces of cheese dipped in melted cheese. All very well and good, except that the first exercise turned out to be anatomically impossible.
I tried, really I did. I lay on a mat, and I crossed my feet over each other in an improbable fashion and raised myself up on one arm so as to form a sort of isosceles triangle, and it wasn’t until I attempted to raise my other arm, the one holding a five-pound weight, that I lost my balance and fell straight forward into the coffee table.
So, things aren’t all bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens over here. It’s more bright copper kettles and the occasional humiliating snafu. Next time, remind me to tell you about how I fell off my stability ball and knocked over our Christmas tree.

Last night I convinced the Actually that babies are born without ears.

We were sitting on the couch watching Law & Order (our default position), the Actually cradling Irma in his arms. She can be very needy.
“Aww,” I said, “she’s just like a baby, only with bigger ears!” (And a tail, but never mind that now).
And then, for some reason, I kept going.

“You know, babies don’t have ears,” I said, stroking Irma’s furry underbelly.
The Actually gave me a look. A weary, familiar look.
“They do so.”
“Well, okay,” I said, as if he were splitting an unnecessary hair, “technically they have ears, but they’re not developed—at birth it’s just a little flap, with a hole. Sort of like a lizard might have.”
The Actually stopped petting Irma, looking skeptical.
“But of course by the end of the first year, most babies’ ears are full grown,” I assured him.
He went back to silently petting the cat, and I turned my attention to the television.
I say things like this all the time, and the Actually very sensibly ignores me, never fooled for a second.

But this time, he turned to me after a few minutes and asked, quietly:

“Were you kidding? About the ear thing?”

When I had wiped the last tear of mirth from my eye I sighed contentedly.
“Oh, I am SO blogging this.”

It astounds me how easy it is to convince otherwise intelligent men of absurd things, as long as these things are related to periods, childbirth, babies, or female-ness of any kind. In college one of my best friends mentioned to her boyfriend that girls’ nipples fall off at puberty, only to grow back later. When the boyfriend expressed his disbelief she laughed at him.
“I can’t believe you didn’t know that!” she said, chuckling to herself.

She told him that his mom probably still had his younger sister’s nipples in a box somewhere, as they are generally saved for sentimental purposes, like baby teeth. The boyfriend was horrified. My friend shrugged and returned to filing her nails.

He didn’t learn the truth until he called his mother and asked whether she had his sister’s nipples in a box. I believe the force of her laughter after he advanced his nipples-falling-off-at-puberty explanation blew his hair straight back on his head.

It is important to take joy in the simple things that make life worth living. For instance, the pleasure of convincing a loved one that earless babies are born every day in delivery rooms around the world. Try it tonight. You won’t be disappointed.