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Places to Go:
Are you KIDDING me???
November 17, 2005
Dear Health Care Professional:
Subject: Contraindication of Femara* (letrozole) in premenopausal women
Following discussions with Health Canada, Novartis is advising you of concerns about the use of the aromatase inhibitor Femara* (letrozole) for the purpose of ovulation induction in the treatment of infertility. Novartis is aware that Femara* has been or is being used to treat infertility even though statements in the Canadian Product Monographs warn physicians about potential embryo- and fetotoxicity with or without teratogenicity. There have been post-market reports of congenital anomalies in infants of mothers exposed to Femara* for the treatment of infertility.
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The above has been floating around fertily websites all day & it effectively freaked my shit out. I mean come on! The day that I start Femara the drug company that makes it warns against using it for the treatment of infertility. Great. thanks.
Madam Universe, you are certainly challenging my Optimism.
But HA! I got you. I called my RE’s office nervous as a mofo & held on the line until my favorite nurse got on. She calmed me down by reminding me that drug companies need to make disclaimers all the time. That, in fact, this specific warning is geared to remind folks NOT to take Femara when pregnant. The same can be said about the much used (including by me) drug Clomid. The difference is that Femara leaves your system almost immediately & Clomid can hang around as long as two cycles later.
I then got the generic, “But of course with all medications there can be risks.”
AAAAHHHHHH!!
But that was immediately followed by, “But we stand by this drug.”
ok.
phew.
Right?
Shit.
Fem-Bot
I have, in my possession, 10 2.5mg tablets of Femara.
The only awkward part in obtaining them (besides dropping trou for the RE) was when the young pharmacy assistant that always handles my GM’s medication said she had never heard of the drug. Then when she typed it into the database to see what it was she looked back at me & got this really sad look on her face. I then remembered that the drug is not currently classified by the FDA as a fertility drug, but as a breast cancer treatment drug.
Yikes.
I rushed up to the counter & whispered, ‘I don’t have breast cancer. But I am infertile.’ She kept the sad look & whispered back, “honey, that is sad news too.”
& she’s right. It is sad. It’s awful. The worst diagnosis I have ever had (including the “you may have a brain tumor” diagnosis from the lens crafter tech at the mall).
The RE repeatedly referred to me this morning as “one of our unexplained infertility cases.” Jokingly saying things like, “we just can’t seem to get rid of you.”
ha fucking ha ha
But I am still wearing the red cape of optimism. A bright blue H on my chest stands for Hope. I plan on using my powers for good. & for getting knocked up.
So other than the awful jokes, the RE appointment went well. He offered me a choice: new drug or injectables. I was surprised at that. I remember the first couple of cycles everything was dictated to me. As in, “THIS is what you will be doing.” Now it is all, “Well…you could try THIS or you could try THAT…or you could do a combo of this & that.” It’s like getting lunch at Burger King. They’ll serve it up your way.
So the combo platter that I have ordered is:
5 days of Femara on cd 3-7 (just took the 1st pills!)
u/s on cd 12
hcg/trigger shot on evening of cd 12
IUI on morning of cd 14
+HPT on morning of 12/24
& a vanilla shake
Thanks to all who danced with me yesterday. We should have an infertiles Prom or something.
Dance Dance Revolution
So I have my post lap appointment with the RE tomorrow morning.
I am already practicing my cheerleader presentation for him:
‘Be Aggressive! Be Be Aggressive!”
I want it all: the pills, the ultrasound, the trigger shot. Gimme Gimme.
I am wildly, out of control drunk with optimism and certainty.
Yes I am aware that if this cycle doesn’t work I will crash a bit at the peak of the holiday season.
But I am not going to think about that.
I want to purge my mind of any doubts or fears.
This is it, I tell myself every moment I get. T
his will be MY month.
I invite you to join with me in my dance party of excitement. Dosey Do with some Hope. Do the cabbage patch with Glee. Get your groove on with Positivity. Do the Lambada with my friend Optimism. Slow dance with Certainty. & save the last dance for me.
We will slow dance, cheek to cheek & whisper in each other’s ear how we knew it would happen.
Protected: Go ahead. Play the effing Muzak
Ok. Now that Halloween is long past & Thanksgiving is officially over you can play some Holiday music. But not too much. & not all at once. You know, maybe ONE holiday song every other hour. Depending on the song. But if you must know I will think you crass for doing so. In my book it is WAY too early. It isn’t even December, people! Be in the now. The end of November is a fabulous time of year. The pause before the shopping, the wrapping, the hustling & bustling.
It’s the time of year where you can play outside & crunch in the leaves. (as my cousin is demonstrating) You can eat 7 reheated starchy things & nobody will scoff at you for doing so. You start a little bit of day dreaming about what Santa might bring you…
This Christmas is either going to be the best one EVER or it will be the one where I get really shit faced & cry a lot.
You see I’m just about to be at the cycle. You know, THE cycle. (um, the one post lap. They say it is a magical cycle.) If I have done the math correctly (carry the one) I will find out if this soon to happen cycle worked on Christmas Eve. & if that isn’t the kicker I should also remind you that it will be my 30th birthday. Cute, right?
Seriously, can you imagine that morning? Me waking up to sneak some extra gifts under the tree, warming up some breakfast rolls in the oven & then rushing to the potty to pee on a stick. The three to five minutes that follow aforementioned peeing will set the tone for my entire Holiday season. If there is no + then goodbye Happy Birthday, whatever to your fucking Merry Christmas, New Year can kiss my ass.
I know it is early to be harnessing the energy of the Universe, but I don’t think simply writing Santa “bring me a positive HPT!” will work. So here I go:
Oh Magical, Beautiful & Benevolent Universe. I am in awe of all that you have created. I bask in the heat of your sun & I shine in the beams of your moon. I have planted trees, roses, and eucalyptus in my garden. I have felt your energy as my hands worked the earth. Please allow me to grow a child. Please allow this to happen this cycle. & if it doesn’t please protect me when I drink too much.
fixing it
One of my closest, dearest, most cherished friends is sick. He has been for a couple of years now.
At first his illness was just referred to as “that fucker! It won’t get me!” It was the villain in a comic book. Not quite real.
He vowed that he would conquer it.
& I believed him.
& some days I forgot that he was even sick. That makes me so ashamed to admit. It seems cruel somehow.
But his outward appearance defied illness. He continued to work out & take pride in his physique. He continued to look the part of healthy.
When I saw him this summer he glowed. Somehow his teeth were whiter. His dimples deeper. His eyes so vivid. We talked about the old times. We talked about the shitty times. We made plans to work on finding rich doctor boyfriends.
& once again I forgot about his illness. Like something that was on the tip of my tongue but never came to mind.
Last night we spoke on the phone for 90 minutes. It was brutal.
He’s had a cold for two weeks. He groaned with baritoned laughter when I told him he sounded like Bea Arthur. He had just popped a pill that would make him loopy for a while and he needed to be with someone that would keep him present.
This cocktail of pills that he takes just to live have started to suck the life out of him. Ironic that it would work out that way.
His humor has darkened. It is often mean & maybe what you would call disturbed. I tried not to be offended when he got vulgar.
Every time the conversation got too fucked up I would ask about his cat, or his Mother, or the weather. Anything to bring him back to the present. It seemed like his vulgarity was something like a fun-house ride that pulled him in. It pleased some part of him to see how far he could go with me before I cut him off.
It seemed like a test.
He has decided that I should model for a fetish magazine that he reads. Something about big footed women. At first it was funny. At first I was even flattered (although I feel very silly for admitting that)
But then I wasn’t. All of a sudden I very much wasn’t.
& while he was rambling on I found myself growing sadder & sadder. This is his mind. This isn’t his mind. Which is the real man that I know? Should I be yelling at him? Demand that he stop talking in such a horrid way? Cheer up?
Or is it some sort of right that he has inherited along with his sleepless nights? By being ill does he now possess a card that lets him say, feel, act in any way that he wishes.
Just for sport?
By the end of the call his venom had dissipated. There were traces of the friend I first met. A softness. By his tone he seemed to apologize.
I can’t shake the feeling that I have failed him. If it was a test, then I certainly failed.
Tagged
I got tagged by the lovely Muriels. I feel so special! Go over & give them some good Follicle mojo!
2 names you go by:
Cali
Red
2 parts of your heritage:
English
Irish
2 things that scare you:
Rodents of Unusual Size
The unknown
2 things you’re wearing right now:
Long-sleeved PJ’s
Uggs
2 of your favourite bands or musical artists (at the moment)
Flaming Lips
Liz Phair
2 favorite songs (at the moment):
There’s Always Someone Cooler Than You (Ben Folds)
Islands in the Stream (Dolly Parton)
2 things you want in a relationship (other than real love):
A chef
A partner in crime
2 truths:
If I eat more my pants won’t zip up
Shitting after surgery hurts like a mofo
2 physical things that appeal to you (in someone else):
Laugh lines
height
2 of your favorite hobbies:
Reading magazines
Watching Murder She Wrote with GM
2 things you want really badly:
A life fulfilled
Peace with the Universe
2 places you want to go on vacation:
Prince Edward Island
Big Sur
2 things you want to do before you die:
Publish
Make amends with my sister
2 ways that you are stereotypically a dude/chick:
My fondness for beauty products
My appreciation for frilly undies
2 things you are thinking about now:
Can I go to the Winn Dixie in my PJ’s?
Quick! Think of something brilliant to type!
2 stores you shop at:
Winn Dixie
J.Jill
2 people you would like to see take this quiz:
Kate (Katebug)
HD (One Small Corner)
Where are MY shoes?
Every week I search ebay for plaid doc marten boots. Not just any plaid, but THE plaid that I purchased in Scotland over 12 years ago. The boots that I wore to prom, high school graduation, entire first week of freshman orientation. These were the boots that defined me so well. I wore them on the plane the day I moved to L.A.. I wore them to my 1st day at work at the studio.
But after years of wear & love they had gotten down right funky. A ‘friend’ & part time boyfriend convinced me that in order to properly grow up I needed to toss the boots. So I did. (I have never forgiven you, Michael.)
Two years after I tossed the boots I started missing them. Each milestone I accomplished since their passing seemed false.
When I started going to the clinic for IUI’s I immediately missed them again. Sure I had my chuck taylors - but it wasn’t the same.
So for the past 9 months I have been searching. Googling, calling, e-mailing shops all over the world.
Today I found THE boots. My plaid. But the fuckers are only in women’s size 7. What sort of insane universe does that?? If you or anybody you know has a pair of plaid docs in men’s size 10 just collecting dust in the back of the closet let me know. I am in the market.
Back with the people
Good Morning. This is the first day since THE day that I have felt normal. It will be the day that I wean myself off of groovy pain medication. It will be the day that I eat something more substantial than yogurt or broth. It will be the day that I catch up on all of you.
I considered writing up a sort of play by play of my lap experience. (& I may still keep considering it) But at this point I don’t honestly remember much. I remember being so terrified that I would say something idiotic while going under that I forced myself to be mute. I remember being in pain when I first woke up and then suddenly not feeling anything. I remember trying to get dressed and being pissed off that it wasn’t happening very well.
& the next thing that I remember is wednesday. I woke up around 10am and my Grandmother was napping on the bed next to me. My kitty, Talula, was resting on a pillow behind my head and Admiral, the dog, was curled up between GM & my legs. I remember feeling very loved at that moment. & Then the pain smacked me upside the head.
As far as pain goes, this was a new type. I have had period pain, broken bone pain, hangover pain, just been fired pain, he doesn’t like you that way pain, and tattoo pain (to name a few). But surgery pain was something altogether different. It was a combination pain. Moshu WITH kungpao. Peanut butter & jelly.
Incision & organ settling.
It is very odd to be so aware of one’s internal organs. To feel your female bits settling down after being pumped with gas & shifted about.
At the end of the month (November 30th to be exact) I will go in for my post-op check & if all is good then I will be given a prescription for the newish fertility drug, Femura. I am still at the early google stage on Femura. So if any of you guys have some stats to share let me know. What I find now mostly has to do with its use in the breast cancer world.
Oh - & some good news. It the midst of all this body chaos my gang remembered to ovulate on time. I was worried that the lap would fuck things up in there, but my innards bounce back. Woo hoo!
I smell burnt toast so I guess Mom is up & trying to make me some breakfast. (awww) Mom in the kitchen still makes me giggle.
I survived!
I am all medicated & feeling no pain at the moment so this will be brief.
Everything went great. The R.E. did a lap/hsg combo. Both tubes are clear & all essential female parts are good. He can’t explain why the original HSG was blocked. But it ain’t no more. woo hoo!
Headline is: I am good to go!
He wants to switch from clomid to femura . My very next cycle I can do an insem.
I’ll write up more details when I am feeling better. (actually I feel like I could run a marathon - but I can’t seem to find a comfortable way to sit in this chair.)
Thank you all for sending me warm fuzzies. There was a moment yesterday, just before they put me under, that I felt a blanket of love. Knowing that I have such wonderful people rooting for me & caring about me is a very blissful feeling.
Getting anxious
I can’t help it. Rationally I know that I will be ok. That this surgery is a good thing.
But how do I prep the mind for this? I am a new kind of nervous. This is beyond 1st day of school, or new job jitters. This surpasses blind date or traffic court. This is maybe on par with the feeling I had just before I got my tattoo.
I am looking forward to it (as I know it will do good not evil), but since it will be an experience that I have never known my mind is bouncing around like crazy imagining the worst.
I am making lists of everything that I need to get or do before hand. But another awful fear is that nobody will take care of me. Like the shrink said last tuesday: I am a caretaker. I have been my entire life. My Mother (bless her) is not so much. She is a woman that I sent out for pain pills when I broke my ankle & came back four hours later as she had decided to run into a bookstore 1st. For those four hours I was in insane pain.
I at least learned to get pain RX before hand & I have already picked it up.
But will she be able to take care of me? Will I let her?
I think I will go to Church this morning & offer up some of those selfish prayers. Those, “please let me live”, “please let this work”, “please don’t let me crap on the table or anything equally embarrassing”.
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