Giving Up

Just give it up to God, Heather. If you allow Him to take on this problem, He'll give you an answer. You just need to give it to Him.

I can't tell you how many times I heard that during my struggle with infertility and I can't even begin to tell you how many times I just wanted to strangle the person uttering those words.

How can someone like me "give it up to God" when someone like me believes that God doesn't give a shit in the first place? So, who'm I supposed to "give" it to? WHO?!?

I would rail and cuss and shout at the carpet, the furniture, the television, even the cat. Because I didn't (and still don't) believe in giving up my problems, my issues, to an omnipotent entity who, I believe, is more concerned with manipulating the black hole at the center of the Milky Way than with the state of my girly bits. Besides, if God is listening and paying attention to little ol' me, he'd get annoyed pretty quickly since I'm like a toddler when it comes to getting answers. Have you thought about it? Have you? Can I have a zygote? PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE? Just one tiny little puny fertilized egg? CANICANICANI?

My aunt-in-law, who also had fertility issues during her childbearing years, noted that when she and the uncle-in-law were having difficulty conceiving, they turned the planned nursery into an office. And WHAM! they found themselves pregnant shortly thereafter.

Hm, I thought, giving it up to the office. I could do that. Put my mind on something that is tangible, physical, to get my mind off my ovaries. I get this. I can do this.

It was then that I decided to give up my problems to the fish. After years of putting off volunteering at the Tennessee Aquarium, I signed my name on the dotted line. During the six months between my fourth failed insemination and the fifth try that resulted in Miss-Miss and Bubba, I scrubbed algae off fake rocks, fed bonnethead sharks, and was molested by sturgeon (don't ask). I didn't think about my ovaries the whole time, I just had fun. Hummed, even. I played rock-paper-scissors with kids on the other side of the tank and tried to convince them, using hand signals, that they could somersault better than I could scuba front-flip. It was the first time in years I wasn't bitter toward the parents standing before me with their sweet progeny.

That picture up there at the top of my post is of my windshield. Even though I gave up my aquarium post after the twins were born, I kept the parking sticker on my windshield because it reminds me that I do have the capacity to shut off my brain every now and then. Which is a blessing because there are times when my own inner chatter would drive a six-year-old crazy.

Are you there shark? It's me, Heather.

Conflicted

Up until yesterday morning, I thought I might be pregnant. And I wasn't happy about it.

And that upsets me.

It took four years, a misfiring reproductive system, surgery, insulin-controlling drugs, hormone injections, Dr. Miracle, and numerous artificial insemination procedures to finally have Miss-Miss and Bubba. It was a time of confusion, tears, wailing, and just general tearing of my hair. It was agony and I can distinctly remember a phone conversation with Ty-man in which I asked, no begged, him to divorce me so that he could find a woman in whom his seed could find purchase.

He flatly refused (thank FSM). And we had our beautiful twins. Dr. Miracle promptly put me back on the insulin-controlling meds and waited. He knew what would happen.

Me? Not so much. At least, not until the twins' first birthday when those three over-the-counter pregnancy tests loudly announced Whoa, Nelly! Lookee there! You gotta a bun in the oven! Whoda thunk it? Your f-ed up egg-makin' machines done fin'ly figured it out!

Let's just say that after J-man's weaning, Dr. Miracle put me on some strong-ass birth control. Really strong. Not only to keep another surprise at bay, but to also control my endometriosis. Now, for a woman whose teen-age, pre-oral contraceptive period days were legendary (Yeah, hi. Mr. South Charleston Kroger Manager? All those Kotex products on Aisle 12? I'll take them all. Yes. No, I'm not kidding. They'll be gone within 10 days. Seriously. Give them to me! OR I'LL BLEED ALL OVER YOU!!!) and for a woman whose 20s were spent on the phone with random gynecologists trying to convince them that Ortho-Tricyclene and Tri-phasil were the biggest jokes of the pharmeceutical industry because, control bleeding and cramps during one's monthly cycle? Total, complete, and utter bullpucky.

Now I'm taking Ovcon-50. Damn. My period? One day long. I barely even know it's happening. Cramps? What the Hell are those? Zits? Never heard of 'em.

And when my never happens anymore period finally decided to show up three days, instead of two, into the sugar pill row, I. Was. Freaked. I was worried that the Ty-man's super-sperm had somehow broken through the defenses of the strongest of oral contraceptives. That maybe taking pill #10 at 11:30PM instead of 11PM had caused that random egg to cut loose from my shriveled ovaries and make like Clint Eastwood out of Alcatraz (God, I love that movie).

And I didn't want that fourth child.

And I feel like such a hypocrite for knowing I don't want anymore children. I mean, come on. I used to rail at women like me who didn't want anymore when all I wanted was just one. I couldn't stand the women who were Fertile Myrtles, popping kids out left and right, complaining about the whole thing when there I was, begging for the sciatic pain. I wanted the fat ankles. I needed the stretch marks.

And now? I don't. Women like me used to piss me off. And now, here I am. One of those chicks rejecting the eggs I have left. Horrified at the thought of the pitter-patter of two more feet. Perfectly content with the three I have but not willing to make room for one more.

Because honestly? I'm crazy enough as it is. One more mini-me would send me over the edge.

And I feel guilty for feeling this way.

Fruit Juice Breaks Me Out

I'm one of those mothers.

You've heard of us. No sugar! No candy! No cake! No chocolate! No sodas! Halloween and Easter are the most stressful times of the year for us mothers who abhor sugar. It's an absolute no-no. Recent reports of Cherokee county, Georgia, using candy as part of a rewarding system in its schools has me thinking of running for the homeschooling hills.

Yeah. That's me. Over here in suburban Atlanta. Freaky anti-sugar mom. HI!

And I know, I know, there are mothers and grandmothers out there who are absolutely horrified that I don't give my children sugar anything - as horrified as I feel when I see my cousins-in-law feeding their one-year-old undiluted Sprite and chocolate bars. Because we all know it isn't summer without ice cream. It isn't fall without candy corn. You HAVE to have cookies in the winter and spring BEGS for months of chocolate-crunchy eggs. But I have a reason, a very good reason, for despising sugar in all it's heinous forms.

I learned a very valuable lesson about sugar. I have a huge sweet tooth and I pretty much crave sugar and chocolate on a daily basis. I was the kid who would come home from school, scam a dollar from my dad, and run a few hundred feet down the street to the Shop-A-Minit for a Hershey's Big Block chocolate bar and a Pepsi. This was a daily ritual and on the weekends it was all about that little bitch Debbie. The price I paid for this kind of chocolate/sugar habit was finding out at 30 that I was insulin-resistant and infertile because my body decided it was best to over-produce insulin to counteract my sugar-fueled diet and therefore cut my estrogen production down to practically nothing.

My sugar habit nearly destroyed my ability to become a mother.

When the need to freebase some chocolate becomes over-powering, I find some fancy Belgian 75% cacao chocolate and cut it with peanut butter in the hopes the protein will slow down my pancreas a bit. And I limit myself to three pieces. The kids? They get sugar on their birthdays, Christmas, Halloween, Easter, and on the odd chance someone hands them a sucker. And at those moments? I'm horrified. I just want to snatch the sucker out of their hands and shout to the offending person, "HOW DARE YOU RENDER MY CHILDREN INFERTILE!" But I calm down and realize that one sucker won't hurt. Two suckers a day for the next 30 years probably wouldn't hurt, either.

But I can't be sure. I can't be sure that they inherited my pancreas or Ty-man's. I can't be sure that Miss-Miss will have the same problems as me when she decides to start a family. What I can be sure of is that when the twins celebrate their third birthday this coming weekend, they'll taste a little of their birthday cake, push it away, and wait for one of us to bring them fresh fruit. I'll smile and think how wonderful it is they prefer fruit over cake and I'll gladly cut up whatever they want, regardless of how badly the fruit juice burns and flares up the eczema on my hands.

But I'll also feel sad that I've deprived them of enjoying one miserable slice of birthday cake.

Impasse

PCOS. I've talked about it before. It usually stands for Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. I have it and many other women all over the world have it. But for this post, let's assume those letters actually stand for:

Please
Cry
Out your
Story

I have a private family Web site. It's a place where I (attempt) to regularly post pictures of the kids, Ty-man, and myself for friends and family who are out-of-state. It's also a place where I've posted my PCOS story. This story has been on-line since 2004 because I got tired of answering the same, uncomfortable questions over and over and I also wanted my page to be a resource for other women who were searching for answers.

The first time I ever received an e-mail from a woman who found my PCOS page, it took my breath away. I mean, I created that page for other women to find, but I didn't really think anyone would truly find it. And she did. They all did. At first, the e-mails I received were full of thanks and the sharing of stories. These fellow PCOS sufferers were glad to know someone else was out there, someone who understood and was trying to educate. We would exchange a few e-mails, commiserate over the difficulty of the disorder, and move on.

But lately, the tone of the e-mails have changed. I'm getting e-mails from very young women. Women in their teens. Women, girls really, who are devastated by this syndrome. Who want medical advice from me. Who want me to tell them that, yes, they'll someday have children of their own.

Wow.

At 16 and 18 (the ages of many of these girls) I couldn't even conceive of conceiving. It was the furthest thing from my mind. Even if I had known at 18 that I had PCOS and that conception of future Heather-spawn was going to be difficult, I would not have worried about it. Scarlet O'Hara and I have something in common - we worry about things tomorrow. It just wrenches my heart that these girls expect answers from me when I didn't have the answers for myself while in the midst of PCOS treatment and fertility madness.

There have been several times over the last few weeks, after receiving these e-mails, that I've thought about taking down my PCOS page, or removing my e-mail address from it. Something. Because the contact is heart-wrenching and I no longer know how to respond.

It's True Blog Love, People

Well, it's official. We are officially out-of-bounds, in unknown territory, testing out deep waters. You see, I hooked up with NATUI yesterday. No, not that kind of hook-up. Just keep reading.

Did we do lunch? Yes.

Did we exchange crazy kid stories? Yes.

Did we talk about the latest drama occurring in the People's Republic of Blogistan? Yes.

Did I go with her to her annual appointment with Dr. Miracle and stand by her side while she endured a Pap smear, pelvic exam, and vaginal sonogram to check the integrity of her ovaries since Mr. NATUI was unable to make the trip south (effing job) for said appointment and moral support?

Hell. To. The. Yes.

Yes, my friends and fellow citizens of the PRB, NATUI and I are no longer just blog buddies. We are more than that. We are true. blue. friends in fallopian tubes.

Allow me to explain. When you take a yearly trip to see Dr. Miracle, you get a hug, a kiss on the cheek, a question of "How are the kids/husband/job/you?", the usual breast exam, PAP smear, and pelvic exam. The difference between our Dr. Miracle and other OB/GYN docs is that your blood is drawn for a full hormone/triglyceride/lipid/insulin panel, and you receive a vaginal sonogram.

Yes, the dreaded vaginal sonogram. Not the pretty pelvic sonograms you see on TV where Insert Actress Name Here is placed perfectly on the exam bed, gorgeous make-up, cute maternity clothes, pelvic transducer gliding over her lubed-up belly, actor and actress smiling at the monitor and at the fake images of their TV show baby. Um, no, that's not even close to what I'm talking about. I'm talking about a vaginal sonogram transducer, a long, angular, plastic probe (covered with a latex condom and some lube - not kidding) that is not-so-ceremoniously placed in your vagina, up to the cervix (and sometimes past the cervix) and moved around to get perfect measurements and to look at your ovaries. That's the sonogram I'm talking about.

Now, some of you fellow bloggers who have been pregnant in the last ten years know what I'm talking about when I say vaginal sonogram. At times, when trying to ascertain precise cervical measurements during pregnancy, a vaginal sonogram is needed. I've had pregnant friends who wondered aloud, "Gee, Heather, I had a vaginal sonogram when I was pregnant with my baby and I don't know what you're complaining about. I didn't think it was all that bad."

Heh-hem. Yeah, um, be quiet and allow me to describe.

NATUI and I both suffer from endometriosis and ovarian cysts. Endometriosis makes the lining of one's uterus extremely tender. When Dr. Miracle inserts that vaginal transducer and begins looking around at your ovaries (this requires him to push that damned thing waaaaaaay the hell up your cha-cha) (yes, I used cha-cha-thank you Cartman), he's looking left, he's looking right, and each time he changes direction you. come. off. the table. Oh, yes. My last lovely sonogram was this past February. I'm due for another in September. I had more of these sonograms than I can count during my fertility treatments and both pregnancies. And every time Dr. Miracle changed direction yesterday while looking at NATUI's ovaries, she came off the table and I crossed my legs.

That, people, is love.

So, the next time you hear about bloggers getting together to share blog love?

Yeah, whateva.

Me and NATUI know what true blog love is all about!

First, I Would Like to Thank the Academy...

I have received my very first blog bling! Woo hoo! I'm so very excited to have received an award for my blog.

Ms. Not Afraid To Use It graced me with this wonderful award after we found out that not only are we sufferers of the dread endometriosis, but that we also have the same friggin' surgeon who removed our endo and helped us have kids. Talk about your seren-you're-kidding-me-dipity. Not only is this world small, it throws you for the coolest loops sometimes! NATUI is in the Atlanta area, visiting family, this week, and we'll be hooking up this coming Thursday evening. I will be sure to take pictures of this momentous occasion and post them here on Friday (as long as I'm conscious - she said something about sippable chocolate, hmmmmm).

All the women in my family have endometriosis (in fact, my aunt was unable to have children because of it) and I have been cursed with it as well. In addition, I have PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome) which caused infertility. I went to see Dr. Ceana Nezhat (at the recommendation of a friend) and he not only diagnosed my PCOS, he performed the surgery that got me on the right track to removing my ovarian cysts, the endometriosis, and reversing my infertility. It's because of his work that I have my three beautiful children. So, that's my story and I'm stickin' to it!

Again, thanks hon, for my very first blog award, and I'm so very proud to graciously accept it! If you would like to see more about the award and my story, click on the award graphic above. And, by accepting it, it is now my job to pass it along to another worthy woman who has gone under the knife but cannot be kept down by her endometriosis. Here you go, Vonda! I love ya, doll and that sweet little Ella Rose is an absolute miracle!