I had my post-round-one-of-tamoxifen consultation appointment yesterday. I learned a lot of interesting things. First of all, long before I started the tamoxifen, I got a p+7 blood draw the results for which took literally three months for the blood lab to return (no explanation given). The results were:
progesterone: 14
estradiol: 84
Dr. L said that the progesterone was in the normal range (over 12), though she would prefer to see over 15 - but the real problem was its relationship to the estradiol, which is supposed to be 1:10. (It's 1:6.) The estradiol was just way too low - she said it should be over 150. (I asked her whether this was a sign of, say, premenopause, and she said it was just a luteal phase defect. Hmm.)
Then last cycle I had a p+7 draw (admittedly I had to guess when p+7 was) and the results were:
progesterone: 19.8
estradiol: 197.8.
That's almost exactly ten times, and both numbers are good. Dr. L was beaming. Rarely do doctors get excited about one's health (I think they're sort of bored of it), and nobody ever says nice things about mine (even when my blood pressure this time was 96/60, the nurse was totally unimpressed. DUDE, THAT'S REALLY GOOD. Actually, she told me not to WORRY because it wasn't "TOO low"!!!), though I can certainly see why not, given what they have to work with.
Anyway, I brought up the CM problems and my extreme dissatisfaction with them. I asked three different ways whether the HSG and SHG, or the colpo, could have caused the problems, and she was adamant that this was impossible. It sounded totally possible to me, but OK. She also said that since my estrogen was clearly higher, I should have had more CM, not less. Nevertheless, she obligingly wrote out instructions for me to take Mucinex (apparently I need to take TWO of my crazy extra-strength pills that I bought), and amoxicillin (apparently I need three a day to do the job). I'm to start taking both on CD11, or four days before I expect peak day (I appear to have ovulated on CD14 last cycle, so maybe I'll start on CD10?). I figured I'd fill the prescription on Friday, which will be CD8.
Her nurse had told me via phone that she does not treat thyroid problems, so I already got a referral for an endocrinologist from a friend and made an appointment for September 3rd - the first slot available. I planned to ask Dr. L whether that was too far off; I'm certainly hoping to have it moved up, since as I understand it ttc is pointless until I get on thyroid replacement, and also I plan to start my diet (that no-artificial-carb diet) and exercise kick as soon as I get the pills. To my surprise, instead of starting with a disclaimer that she doesn't treat thyroid issues, she said I should at least be on some replacement for now, and wrote me a prescription for (I think) thyroxin or whatever it's called. She also wrote a requisition for a full blood lab for thyroid testing, and told me to fill the prescription and start taking the meds when they call me with the test results (unless they advise otherwise). I was going to get the blood drawn tomorrow morning, but as it turns out, she circled "thyroid panel" on the requisition, and my lab has stated that they do not do "panels" and the doctor has to circle the individual tests. So I left a message at the clinic, and hopefully I can sort this out and I can go on Thursday. About a week for the results to come back means I'll be lucky to start on the meds before ovulation, but maybe they'll help anyway. I'm just delighted that she did this already. I did ask whether she could determine a dosage before further testing (my TSH level was 7.04, BTW, and I believe normal is under 2.5), but she said she was starting me on a really low dose. I was startled when she said it was 50mcg. One of my aunts is only on 10 - my mother takes 50! But, I'm not a doctor, and I'm so happy I'm getting something to treat this now, instead of in September after I've wasted months on tamoxifen that won't work and been tired and depressed for longer.
I had one other question about the thyroid blood draw, and maybe y'all can help me with this: does it matter what cycle day I do it on? I know my first one was on p+7, but maybe that's just because I was having progesterone and estradiol done that day already? I'd really like to do the draw as soon as possible.
So that's the story from the doctor's office, but I'm not done. This is the Cervical Mucus Sequel and it makes the first chapter of the mystery sound bland and really unmysterious. So anyway, I'm clearly having an improved cycle (thank you, tamoxifen) - other than the several extra days of cramps I can't medicate away, of course. I had NO tail-end spotting - NONE. And on CD3, when I fully expected the spotting to start, it was practically heavy (normal flow). Unusual for me! Anyway, today is CD5. I started the tamoxifen on CD3 as I was supposed to (though I took it in the late afternoon on CD3 and CD4, and in the morning today). I still have faint spotting today, but I also noticed this morning...slippery. I did the stretchy thing and there was no stretching at all, so I decided that didn't count (since I had a similarly weird interlude last cycle). Then in the middle of the day (this is gross, sorry), I noticed that I had a clear spot on my pad, which stretched almost an inch. Wasn't sure what to make of that, but I wasn't sure that on a pad counted. I got home from work and though I've still got spotting color, this time there's a little bit more slippery (not the drowning-in-CM I'm accustomed to for 2-3 days of my fertile phase EXCEPT RECENTLY, but clearly some), and it stretched almost two inches. There's no ignoring that one.
So apparently somebody decided I should start my buildup to peak (or otherwise have a bizarre day?!) on CYCLE DAY 5. I now have no idea when to take the Mucinex and amoxicillin or even when to fill the prescriptions - or whether I need them at all! And another question that requires your collective wisdom to help me answer (keeping in mind that I'm STILL bloated and crampy): do I have sex with my husband tonight???
I swear all this stuff is designed to confuse me.
Claude Moore Colonial Farm
The only thing separating our neighborhood and Langley (CIA Headquarters) is a little patch of land called Claude Moore Colonial Farm. This area is set up to recreate the life of a poor family living on a tenant farm during the Colonial period, 1771 to be exact. I took the boys there last week and was impressed with the questions Atley asked the farm family and the lengths that the actors went to in their attempt to create an authentic experience for their visitors. 
The boys initial reaction to the experience was complete shock and horror. Atley got big tears in his eyes when he realized that the people were not wearing shoes. He timidly asked them why and they explained to him that they were too poor to wear shoes in the summer and that they were saving their shoes for winter. He was also surprised to see the children working along side the adults, that of course, was my favorite part.
It was obvious that cotton was not king in northern Virginia during the colonial period, rather tobacco was the cash crop. The above pictures show Atley next to a young tobacco plant (when mature the plant will be more than five feet tall) and the boys in front of the Tobacco house where the tobacco is dried.
This is a typical tenant farmer's home during the colonial period. This one room home housed seven family members. The yearly rent on the farm was 500 lbs. of tobacco. The family was quite concerned that with the unusually large amount of rain we have received this year that they would be unable to have a successful tobacco crop and therefore unable to make rent.
When the family sat down for their mid-day meal Atley began grilling them with questions. Question #1: Where are your neighbors? Reply: Our closest neighbors are about a two hour walk and we have to walk everywhere because we do not own a horse. Question #2: Where do you go to church? Reply: In Falls Church. One member of our family is required by law to attend church at least once per month, but it is a full days walk to attend, so we do not go often. Question #3: Well, if you don't have neighbors and you don't go to church how do you make friends or get married? Reply: HA, HA, HA!
Question #4: Don't you have any mosquito spray for all of these bugs? Reply: They don't bother us too much because we wear long clothes that cover most of our skin. Atley's Reply: Wow, I'm sure glad I have enough money to buy bug spray so I can wear shorts and not those crazy clothes you're wearing. By the way, Nash was out of commission for the interviewing process because he was whacked in the head by a cast iron skillet while chasing the chickens as the family members were bringing food to the table.
Growing up in such a rural area I never dreamed I would actually pay money for my own children to see a farm, but it was a learning experience for all of us and I am coming to terms with the fact that my children are city slickers. Even more importantly I gained much more gratitude for the blessing of living in modern times.
the freshman
Driving to Tepeyac today (there's another post I need to write - Gettysburg trip, and information from the RE consultation), I was listening to the local pop music radio station (I'm a country fan really, but I find pop music gives me more energy, so every few months I switch to that for a while). It's supposed to be "fresh" music, but a lot of what they play, while enjoyable, is hits from when I was in high school. Not sure what's up with that. The Verve Pipe's song "The Freshman" came on. I think this song came out after my freshman year in high school, and I haven't heard it since college. For those who'd like to share my trip down memory lane, I found the video.
I sat in the parking lot (I was early, for once) and listened to the whole song before I went in, remembering. What this song so strongly evokes for me isn't my story - it's someone else's. As a freshman in high school my best girlfriend was my next-door neighbor, who was one grade ahead of me. She and her sisters had lived a very hard life already - the victims of sexual abuse by their stepfather. I had only an inkling then of the kind of deep and lasting harm that could do, but looking back at their lives over the years has made it clearer. My best friend (we'll call her S) had a huge crush on a guy in her group of friends (I knew him less well). He was kind of a cutie, athletic, a nice guy, and a darling of the whole gang, so there was a bit of competition for him.
Her crush had an inseparable sidekick. This guy was younger, and entering his freshman year as I was entering my sophomore year. Everybody called him "Frosh" - not only then but for all of high school - maybe because he was so little. My friend was tall, and this fellow was diminutive. He didn't share his cooler friend's easygoing temperament; he was kind of obnoxious. He was also really funny-looking, not in the sense that high schoolers think everyone is funny-looking but three pre-designated people, but really - he had some odd physical characteristics, like bizarrely tiny eyes and crazy hair. Anyway, Frosh had a crush on my friend - he would pine after her and stare at her and whine at her occasionally. Not attractive. She was uninterested in him and made fun of him. I remember this happening a lot that summer - as this song would periodically come on the radio, and we would laugh at "the freshman." Some months after the school year started, my friend confessed that she had begun secretly dating Frosh - already then for a few months. We were all bewildered by her judgment, but moreso by the fact that she had lied about it. She made a show of elaborately apologizing to another friend, and told this girl that she would never keep anything from her again. She pointedly did not say so to me. I said nothing. I decided that I simply wouldn't talk to her until she was ready to tell me she was sorry for keeping a secret (and my friendship was just as important to her as that of her other friend). It didn't happen. Though we had many of the same friends, in the blink of an eye I hadn't spoken to her in six months.
Ultimately I spent less and less time with our erstwhile mutual friends. I became a loner and spent little time with anybody, but most was spent with my own classmates. I took every advanced class at my high school, skipped ahead, took college classes in the summer, and set a school record on the PSATs. I was an uncool kid socially, but I was well on my way to getting out of our backwater town, getting a great education and being able to decide what kind of life I wanted - although I didn't appreciate it at the time. S had once been a B+/A- student. She had stopped studying in her junior year (in my sophomore year, before we stopped speaking) and failed every math test spring semester. Another friend and I stayed up late with her before the final to teach her all the material, and she pulled off a C+ - a testament to the fact that she was pretty bright after all. But she didn't turn things around after that. In fact, she failed her senior year of high school - forcing her to repeat the year with my class. We still weren't speaking, but by this time it was my fault - she had made overtures to repair the friendship, but I would have none of it. I was irritated and, after several years, saw nothing to repair. I'm not sure what I was thinking - I was holding a grudge for the sake of holding a grudge.
She had continued dating Frosh throughout. In my senior year (his junior year, her repeat senior year), she got pregnant. A mutual friend of S's and mine (who was still speaking to both of us) went ring-shopping with Frosh toward the end of spring semester. Everyone involved was very excited about the prospect of a wedding. I thought he was a disaster for her, but they might as well get married under the circumstances. Who knows what I thought - I was 17. I went off to college. She stayed in our sleepy town and had the baby. Maybe a year or two later, I looked back and realized what I had done. I couldn't necessarily have changed the trajectory of her life, but while she was my friend she was college-bound. After I stopped speaking to her, she took up with a worse and worse group of people. I might not have been able to help, but I never tried. I let someone's life be ruined as I watched, because I didn't care. So I tried to get back in touch with her. Mutual friends gave me some guesses at her email, but my messages went unanswered. Every year or two I tried again. She and Frosh would have been married for years, but he wouldn't know why we stopped speaking and presumably wouldn't get involved. She never responded, and I finally decided that it was her prerogative to decide to drop me, after all this time. She never got out of our town, or went to college. By now, I was in law school. I wouldn't have wanted to talk to me, either.
A year ago, my husband got a facebook account (I don't have one) and used a shot of the two of us as his picture. She friended him immediately, apparently thinking he was me (oddly). She gave him her number and, trepidatiously, I gave her a call. I then learned she had never married Frosh. I don't know whether he ever bought the ring. I did know that he had cheated on her repeatedly over the years, though she didn't mention that. Maybe she didn't know. However, she has three children with him (and none with anybody else). I don't understand how he could have cheated; I don't understand how that kid found one girlfriend. But apparently he did.
Her eldest was already nine. In fact, her younger sister (several years younger than I) had married his younger brother and was then expecting their second! When I talked to her last year, they were planning to get married as soon as his job transferred him back to her area. She sounded so excited, and said how much she loved him. I decided it was too long gone to ask why she trusted him to marry her after all this time, or to be faithful - or why she wanted him in the first place. I never had asked. I guess I'll never know. She did say she couldn't imagine raising her kids anywhere else than the town where we grew up. I thought that was touching. She was right; it wasn't all bad, although I don't remember it fondly. From the pictures, her kids look well cared-for, even though she has to do it all by herself. I can't imagine how hard her life is, or how many lies she's had to tell herself about this guy.
I haven't talked to her in a year. I should probably call her. I would guess they're still not married, and may never be. I imagine they probably won't have any more kids after the three, although she's not even thirty. For a long time, I thought hers was a ruined life. As I get older, I think it may not be that simple. There may be more good there than I see. And she might never have had any path in front of her that was much different from this one. I could never have imagined this story when I was a sophomore in high school - although I bet my parents would have called it pretty close to the mark.
But every time I hear that song, I remember Frosh, and my one-time best friend, and the lives they've lived since I was there.
I sat in the parking lot (I was early, for once) and listened to the whole song before I went in, remembering. What this song so strongly evokes for me isn't my story - it's someone else's. As a freshman in high school my best girlfriend was my next-door neighbor, who was one grade ahead of me. She and her sisters had lived a very hard life already - the victims of sexual abuse by their stepfather. I had only an inkling then of the kind of deep and lasting harm that could do, but looking back at their lives over the years has made it clearer. My best friend (we'll call her S) had a huge crush on a guy in her group of friends (I knew him less well). He was kind of a cutie, athletic, a nice guy, and a darling of the whole gang, so there was a bit of competition for him.
Her crush had an inseparable sidekick. This guy was younger, and entering his freshman year as I was entering my sophomore year. Everybody called him "Frosh" - not only then but for all of high school - maybe because he was so little. My friend was tall, and this fellow was diminutive. He didn't share his cooler friend's easygoing temperament; he was kind of obnoxious. He was also really funny-looking, not in the sense that high schoolers think everyone is funny-looking but three pre-designated people, but really - he had some odd physical characteristics, like bizarrely tiny eyes and crazy hair. Anyway, Frosh had a crush on my friend - he would pine after her and stare at her and whine at her occasionally. Not attractive. She was uninterested in him and made fun of him. I remember this happening a lot that summer - as this song would periodically come on the radio, and we would laugh at "the freshman." Some months after the school year started, my friend confessed that she had begun secretly dating Frosh - already then for a few months. We were all bewildered by her judgment, but moreso by the fact that she had lied about it. She made a show of elaborately apologizing to another friend, and told this girl that she would never keep anything from her again. She pointedly did not say so to me. I said nothing. I decided that I simply wouldn't talk to her until she was ready to tell me she was sorry for keeping a secret (and my friendship was just as important to her as that of her other friend). It didn't happen. Though we had many of the same friends, in the blink of an eye I hadn't spoken to her in six months.
Ultimately I spent less and less time with our erstwhile mutual friends. I became a loner and spent little time with anybody, but most was spent with my own classmates. I took every advanced class at my high school, skipped ahead, took college classes in the summer, and set a school record on the PSATs. I was an uncool kid socially, but I was well on my way to getting out of our backwater town, getting a great education and being able to decide what kind of life I wanted - although I didn't appreciate it at the time. S had once been a B+/A- student. She had stopped studying in her junior year (in my sophomore year, before we stopped speaking) and failed every math test spring semester. Another friend and I stayed up late with her before the final to teach her all the material, and she pulled off a C+ - a testament to the fact that she was pretty bright after all. But she didn't turn things around after that. In fact, she failed her senior year of high school - forcing her to repeat the year with my class. We still weren't speaking, but by this time it was my fault - she had made overtures to repair the friendship, but I would have none of it. I was irritated and, after several years, saw nothing to repair. I'm not sure what I was thinking - I was holding a grudge for the sake of holding a grudge.
She had continued dating Frosh throughout. In my senior year (his junior year, her repeat senior year), she got pregnant. A mutual friend of S's and mine (who was still speaking to both of us) went ring-shopping with Frosh toward the end of spring semester. Everyone involved was very excited about the prospect of a wedding. I thought he was a disaster for her, but they might as well get married under the circumstances. Who knows what I thought - I was 17. I went off to college. She stayed in our sleepy town and had the baby. Maybe a year or two later, I looked back and realized what I had done. I couldn't necessarily have changed the trajectory of her life, but while she was my friend she was college-bound. After I stopped speaking to her, she took up with a worse and worse group of people. I might not have been able to help, but I never tried. I let someone's life be ruined as I watched, because I didn't care. So I tried to get back in touch with her. Mutual friends gave me some guesses at her email, but my messages went unanswered. Every year or two I tried again. She and Frosh would have been married for years, but he wouldn't know why we stopped speaking and presumably wouldn't get involved. She never responded, and I finally decided that it was her prerogative to decide to drop me, after all this time. She never got out of our town, or went to college. By now, I was in law school. I wouldn't have wanted to talk to me, either.
A year ago, my husband got a facebook account (I don't have one) and used a shot of the two of us as his picture. She friended him immediately, apparently thinking he was me (oddly). She gave him her number and, trepidatiously, I gave her a call. I then learned she had never married Frosh. I don't know whether he ever bought the ring. I did know that he had cheated on her repeatedly over the years, though she didn't mention that. Maybe she didn't know. However, she has three children with him (and none with anybody else). I don't understand how he could have cheated; I don't understand how that kid found one girlfriend. But apparently he did.
Her eldest was already nine. In fact, her younger sister (several years younger than I) had married his younger brother and was then expecting their second! When I talked to her last year, they were planning to get married as soon as his job transferred him back to her area. She sounded so excited, and said how much she loved him. I decided it was too long gone to ask why she trusted him to marry her after all this time, or to be faithful - or why she wanted him in the first place. I never had asked. I guess I'll never know. She did say she couldn't imagine raising her kids anywhere else than the town where we grew up. I thought that was touching. She was right; it wasn't all bad, although I don't remember it fondly. From the pictures, her kids look well cared-for, even though she has to do it all by herself. I can't imagine how hard her life is, or how many lies she's had to tell herself about this guy.
I haven't talked to her in a year. I should probably call her. I would guess they're still not married, and may never be. I imagine they probably won't have any more kids after the three, although she's not even thirty. For a long time, I thought hers was a ruined life. As I get older, I think it may not be that simple. There may be more good there than I see. And she might never have had any path in front of her that was much different from this one. I could never have imagined this story when I was a sophomore in high school - although I bet my parents would have called it pretty close to the mark.
But every time I hear that song, I remember Frosh, and my one-time best friend, and the lives they've lived since I was there.
thoughts
I meant to post today about our fun Saturday with our friends who are also IFers. I have pretty pictures of our trip to Gettysburg together, which was fun. But, it takes SO long for my pictures to upload (I know, my life with its enormous difficulties), and after we were up way too late last night (people took over our house!), I slept away the day and feel kind of lethargic. So I am not doing that now.
Also, I had a smallish notion that I wanted to share...
What I really want now is to get in shape and buy a house I love (neither of those things is going to happen this month, of course). And as I often do, I was thinking, well, what will I do with myself after I accomplish those things, if I don't have kids?
I have no good answers for this ever (they're either totally unrealistic and not things I want anyway, or woefully inadequate and would make me always sad), and it occurred to me that I might be interested in being a foster parent. Not foster-to-adopt - my concerns about adoption might well be exacerbated by that particular process (not that I would ever discourage anyone else from pursuing that route if they're comfortable with it), and one of the things IF has made me hate far more than I ever did is the idea of being needy and desperate, of there being something someone else (or life itself) could hold over my head. I don't want to want anything that I can't make absolutely sure I can have by my own efforts. My tolerance for failure and disappointment is pretty much gone (theoretically this is one of those places I should be looking for greater humility, but even when I behave better with my suffering, this doesn't abate. I think it's just become part of who I am - perhaps an indelible spiritual defect, to match the defects in my reproductive system), and if I had to deal with a social worker who wanted me to grovel to get her to approve me despite incorrectly-placed smoke detectors or non-ideal square footage, I would probably stab her in the eye. A homicide conviction is not what I want out of the IF journey.
But usually, no matter what option it is, I draw a nice, sensible, attractive picture in my mind, and take a deep breath and tell myself to give it a chance, and I feel this rising tide of anxiety and resistance in my gut somewhere, that I can't overcome. I think I could point to where it is physically. Oddly, I don't feel that about the foster care notion. It seems like a decent idea. Being a foster parent to school-aged kids would mean that (if I tweaked my schedule only slightly) I could work just as I am now, and be home when they were home. We could pay our bills and pay for our house and save money, because we'd have two incomes. They wouldn't be a substitute for our own kids because they would be temporary, but I see that as a good thing - I don't want a substitute for my own kids. I don't want to settle. I want a substitute for what to do with my life.
I went to law school thinking I could be a legal advocate for abused children and those in custody battles. That hasn't worked out career-wise. But I think this would provide a maybe even more concrete opportunity to help abused and neglected children, something that has always been very close to my heart. And instead of feeling like somebody gave me a consolation prize for my barren womb, I would feel like I'd accepted infertility, lived my life anyway, but then taken my free time and extra space as an opportunity to give something to people who needed it. I haven't felt like I've been in a position to give anything to anyone in a long time. I think that's part of the erosion of my personality - I like to be able to help people, and I feel like my career has made me cold and hard and my infertility has made me bitter and defensive. I'm not the person I want to be. Part of this is my own bad decisions about how to spend my time - I guess I could be volunteering - but nothing really leaps out at me. Good decisions should be more straightforward, and I'm tired of beating myself up over my screwed-up life, as if, had I merely signed up for some extracurricular activity, my life would be bliss. It's not that simple.
The foster parenting idea does have some drawbacks. Obviously, it's not the sort of thing I would try to implement immediately - you know, it would be a few years. And, I could be forty or fifty and the foster kids gone and still have no kids of my own. I don't know how I would feel about that. I might be OK; I don't know. I know older foster kids can be very difficult. I feel as though I could handle that emotionally, but heaven knows it would disrupt my social schedule. Having foster kids would carry all the impediments time-wise of having my own kids, except that they would also probably be very demanding emotionally and I might not just be able to bring them over for play-dates with my friends' kids. (Depending on the particular kids.) If I worked full-time and then came home to clean my house and take care of kids, I might just drop from exhaustion. I feel tired now.
And, my DH is looking at a job that would involve a lot of travel. I am very resistant to this (which has already led to several fights, and I have no intention of backing down any time soon) - I want a home more than anything, and intend to find one and stay anchored there; we need two incomes (or at minimum mine - my income potential is higher), and my job doesn't lend itself to traipsing around the globe; and I'm just not interested in living a nomadic life. I would categorically refuse if we had children - I think that's a terrible thing to do to a child, and most of the military and otherwise traveling kids I know have had a really hard time. I was shy and made friends slowly, and I would have been perpetually miserable. With foster kids, I assume, it would be totally forbidden.
I know he has something of the wandering bug, but I think he needs to understand that that is inconsistent with being married and an adult. The man has $120,000 in student loan debt (I have some too, though less), and he signed all those promissory notes. Adulthood carries with it some responsibilities, and that includes giving up daydreams that are inconsistent with a responsible life. I asked him once what he would want to do if we never had kids at all, and he said he would want to travel. Not go on a nice vacation every year (I would be fine with that), but live abroad, and hop from country to country. I would be acutely miserable. I just want to be home somewhere - that's all I've ever wanted. Part of the reason I wanted children so much is because they would be a governing reason for me to build the stable and happy home I never had as a child. I know the kids wouldn't give me stability - I am an adult and responsible to supply it for them. But they would be the organizing principle, a source of order and logic in my world. I was going to win all these arguments with him by default when we had the kids. Because I was right. Now we don't have the kids and probably won't ever. I guess he deserves credit for moving on and finding a new dream. But I refuse to consider that my vocation as a wife might be to wander after him on his travels and smile pretty. I'm not that kind of girl, we could never pay our bills, and I refuse to live with no home or identity or stability. If it comes down to that, he can travel by himself, and I will buy a house and take in foster kids. So much for my bright idea.
Also, I had a smallish notion that I wanted to share...
What I really want now is to get in shape and buy a house I love (neither of those things is going to happen this month, of course). And as I often do, I was thinking, well, what will I do with myself after I accomplish those things, if I don't have kids?
I have no good answers for this ever (they're either totally unrealistic and not things I want anyway, or woefully inadequate and would make me always sad), and it occurred to me that I might be interested in being a foster parent. Not foster-to-adopt - my concerns about adoption might well be exacerbated by that particular process (not that I would ever discourage anyone else from pursuing that route if they're comfortable with it), and one of the things IF has made me hate far more than I ever did is the idea of being needy and desperate, of there being something someone else (or life itself) could hold over my head. I don't want to want anything that I can't make absolutely sure I can have by my own efforts. My tolerance for failure and disappointment is pretty much gone (theoretically this is one of those places I should be looking for greater humility, but even when I behave better with my suffering, this doesn't abate. I think it's just become part of who I am - perhaps an indelible spiritual defect, to match the defects in my reproductive system), and if I had to deal with a social worker who wanted me to grovel to get her to approve me despite incorrectly-placed smoke detectors or non-ideal square footage, I would probably stab her in the eye. A homicide conviction is not what I want out of the IF journey.
But usually, no matter what option it is, I draw a nice, sensible, attractive picture in my mind, and take a deep breath and tell myself to give it a chance, and I feel this rising tide of anxiety and resistance in my gut somewhere, that I can't overcome. I think I could point to where it is physically. Oddly, I don't feel that about the foster care notion. It seems like a decent idea. Being a foster parent to school-aged kids would mean that (if I tweaked my schedule only slightly) I could work just as I am now, and be home when they were home. We could pay our bills and pay for our house and save money, because we'd have two incomes. They wouldn't be a substitute for our own kids because they would be temporary, but I see that as a good thing - I don't want a substitute for my own kids. I don't want to settle. I want a substitute for what to do with my life.
I went to law school thinking I could be a legal advocate for abused children and those in custody battles. That hasn't worked out career-wise. But I think this would provide a maybe even more concrete opportunity to help abused and neglected children, something that has always been very close to my heart. And instead of feeling like somebody gave me a consolation prize for my barren womb, I would feel like I'd accepted infertility, lived my life anyway, but then taken my free time and extra space as an opportunity to give something to people who needed it. I haven't felt like I've been in a position to give anything to anyone in a long time. I think that's part of the erosion of my personality - I like to be able to help people, and I feel like my career has made me cold and hard and my infertility has made me bitter and defensive. I'm not the person I want to be. Part of this is my own bad decisions about how to spend my time - I guess I could be volunteering - but nothing really leaps out at me. Good decisions should be more straightforward, and I'm tired of beating myself up over my screwed-up life, as if, had I merely signed up for some extracurricular activity, my life would be bliss. It's not that simple.
The foster parenting idea does have some drawbacks. Obviously, it's not the sort of thing I would try to implement immediately - you know, it would be a few years. And, I could be forty or fifty and the foster kids gone and still have no kids of my own. I don't know how I would feel about that. I might be OK; I don't know. I know older foster kids can be very difficult. I feel as though I could handle that emotionally, but heaven knows it would disrupt my social schedule. Having foster kids would carry all the impediments time-wise of having my own kids, except that they would also probably be very demanding emotionally and I might not just be able to bring them over for play-dates with my friends' kids. (Depending on the particular kids.) If I worked full-time and then came home to clean my house and take care of kids, I might just drop from exhaustion. I feel tired now.
And, my DH is looking at a job that would involve a lot of travel. I am very resistant to this (which has already led to several fights, and I have no intention of backing down any time soon) - I want a home more than anything, and intend to find one and stay anchored there; we need two incomes (or at minimum mine - my income potential is higher), and my job doesn't lend itself to traipsing around the globe; and I'm just not interested in living a nomadic life. I would categorically refuse if we had children - I think that's a terrible thing to do to a child, and most of the military and otherwise traveling kids I know have had a really hard time. I was shy and made friends slowly, and I would have been perpetually miserable. With foster kids, I assume, it would be totally forbidden.
I know he has something of the wandering bug, but I think he needs to understand that that is inconsistent with being married and an adult. The man has $120,000 in student loan debt (I have some too, though less), and he signed all those promissory notes. Adulthood carries with it some responsibilities, and that includes giving up daydreams that are inconsistent with a responsible life. I asked him once what he would want to do if we never had kids at all, and he said he would want to travel. Not go on a nice vacation every year (I would be fine with that), but live abroad, and hop from country to country. I would be acutely miserable. I just want to be home somewhere - that's all I've ever wanted. Part of the reason I wanted children so much is because they would be a governing reason for me to build the stable and happy home I never had as a child. I know the kids wouldn't give me stability - I am an adult and responsible to supply it for them. But they would be the organizing principle, a source of order and logic in my world. I was going to win all these arguments with him by default when we had the kids. Because I was right. Now we don't have the kids and probably won't ever. I guess he deserves credit for moving on and finding a new dream. But I refuse to consider that my vocation as a wife might be to wander after him on his travels and smile pretty. I'm not that kind of girl, we could never pay our bills, and I refuse to live with no home or identity or stability. If it comes down to that, he can travel by himself, and I will buy a house and take in foster kids. So much for my bright idea.
yeah, it came back
And yes, I did wonder - totally against my better judgment that said it was clear that this was the wrong time for implantation pain and could be easily and obviously explained by the tamoxifen - whether the funny cramps might not be something else. But when I woke up this morning, my stomach felt just faintly painful, and it was the old familiar - I knew. I had predicted today would be CD1 (for which I'm reasonably pleased with myself - peak day was a total guess because of the screwy CM and missing temps, and I'm on a new medication, but I was still dead on!).
Frankly, I wouldn't have known what to make of a pregnancy this month. I neither deserve nor want to be rewarded for being hopeless and bitter. So while the removal of a possible fun surprise was a mild disappointment, really, it's just as it should be, and life goes on. I'm even in a good mood, which is a bit unusual for CD1. (We shall see whether it lasts.)
And maybe some of you expert-type people will agree with me that (other than the CM disaster) there are mild improvements. Though apparently not to my image-posting skills [IT'S UNREASONABLY TINY AGAIN - ARGGHHH!]. I would say "check it out," but you really can't see this and it doesn't appear to have linked to a larger version of itself (!!!):
Frankly, I wouldn't have known what to make of a pregnancy this month. I neither deserve nor want to be rewarded for being hopeless and bitter. So while the removal of a possible fun surprise was a mild disappointment, really, it's just as it should be, and life goes on. I'm even in a good mood, which is a bit unusual for CD1. (We shall see whether it lasts.)
And maybe some of you expert-type people will agree with me that (other than the CM disaster) there are mild improvements. Though apparently not to my image-posting skills [IT'S UNREASONABLY TINY AGAIN - ARGGHHH!]. I would say "check it out," but you really can't see this and it doesn't appear to have linked to a larger version of itself (!!!):
bits and pieces
I ADORED this commercial when it originally aired. The "centerpieces...mantelpieces..." was the most fun part by far.
A selection of small things have been wandering through my mind...
As of today, I can finally tell that my cold is really pretty much recovered and I only have a few symptoms that are hangers-on. But MY SNOT stretches four inches. (I found this out by accident, obviously.) This enrages me slightly.
Last night, I woke up in the middle of the night with cramps. Maybe 4AM. That never happens - they go after me about when I normally wake up, sometimes, but never wake me up at night. They were definitely menstrual cramps, but maybe only at 60% strength - I could actually have worked a whole day (if very unhappily) without medicine. But I assumed they would get worse, so I immediately took two Aleve. Then I went back to bed. Aleve usually takes half an hour to kick in - but I laid down for five minutes, and they went away. I didn't take any more Aleve, and they didn't come back all day. And my period didn't show up either. This tamoxifen business is weird...
I was really good and called my previous-previous OB/GYN to make sure they'd sent in my records, yesterday. They hadn't, and today I faxed in the consent, and they faxed the records to Tepeyac today! So Dr. L will have them on Monday. That's the last of my outstanding medical records!
Today, I was even better - I set an appointment with an endocrinologist. A nurse friend recommended a good one at the super-close-by hospital, but this woman is apparently in such high demand the first opening was in September. Ordinarily, I would have given up, but I made the appointment anyway and figured I could shop around for someone else if Dr. L thinks I should. But the scheduler said I should send in my lab results and if the deficiency is serious enough, they might fit me in earlier. So maybe that will work out!
I can't buy this house, but somebody ought to! It's not a 1910 Victorian that just makes my acceptable architecture cutoff, people. It was built in 1830. And it's gorgeous. And it has 15 acres. It's just too far away. Well, and I also couldn't afford it.
Yesterday, I got home early and decided to go to Mass, it being the feast of St. John the Baptist. But when I got to my neighborhood ethnic parish (where Mass is entirely in a language I don't speak), the church was PACKED. No room even in the back. I stood across the hall from the church itself, where I could still see everything. A wizened little grandmother - well over seventy and about 4'9" - who is always trying to get me to do things (get in line to put a rose in front of our Lady, for example - she'll see me, and gesture vehemently for me to put myself forward. I'm kind of an obvious ethnic outsider there), saw me and gestured I should go into the packed church. I smiled and shook my head. Obviously, she didn't speak any English. She went in. Phew. I already felt annoyed and uncomfortable, and decided I would probably go home in a few minutes. But a minute later, she was back. "I have a chair for you," she said in perfectly intelligible English. That just plain wasn't possible - there was barely standing room. I smiled and said, "That's all right, thanks," but she ignored me, and reached out and took me by the hand. I have to give her credit - the only form of persuasion I wasn't prepared to politely rebuff. She marched me down a tiny aisle; I had to hold my handbag to prevent it smacking the wall on one side and people on the other. She got me to "my chair" - in the middle of an aisle of people, packed in so tightly I couldn't see the empty chair at first. She didn't let go of my hand until she had actually gotten me into the aisle. It was so narrow I tripped twice on chairs and stepped on people. I don't know whether they were amused at me being led around by this doyenne of the group, or felt sorry for me, or were annoyed at being stepped on, or paid me no attention at all. But packed into the middle like a very white sardine, I couldn't go anywhere, and I stayed for the whole Mass.
Maybe somebody up there is looking out for me, after all.
A selection of small things have been wandering through my mind...
As of today, I can finally tell that my cold is really pretty much recovered and I only have a few symptoms that are hangers-on. But MY SNOT stretches four inches. (I found this out by accident, obviously.) This enrages me slightly.
*****
Last night, I woke up in the middle of the night with cramps. Maybe 4AM. That never happens - they go after me about when I normally wake up, sometimes, but never wake me up at night. They were definitely menstrual cramps, but maybe only at 60% strength - I could actually have worked a whole day (if very unhappily) without medicine. But I assumed they would get worse, so I immediately took two Aleve. Then I went back to bed. Aleve usually takes half an hour to kick in - but I laid down for five minutes, and they went away. I didn't take any more Aleve, and they didn't come back all day. And my period didn't show up either. This tamoxifen business is weird...
*****
I was really good and called my previous-previous OB/GYN to make sure they'd sent in my records, yesterday. They hadn't, and today I faxed in the consent, and they faxed the records to Tepeyac today! So Dr. L will have them on Monday. That's the last of my outstanding medical records!
*****
Today, I was even better - I set an appointment with an endocrinologist. A nurse friend recommended a good one at the super-close-by hospital, but this woman is apparently in such high demand the first opening was in September. Ordinarily, I would have given up, but I made the appointment anyway and figured I could shop around for someone else if Dr. L thinks I should. But the scheduler said I should send in my lab results and if the deficiency is serious enough, they might fit me in earlier. So maybe that will work out!
*****
I can't buy this house, but somebody ought to! It's not a 1910 Victorian that just makes my acceptable architecture cutoff, people. It was built in 1830. And it's gorgeous. And it has 15 acres. It's just too far away. Well, and I also couldn't afford it.
*****
Yesterday, I got home early and decided to go to Mass, it being the feast of St. John the Baptist. But when I got to my neighborhood ethnic parish (where Mass is entirely in a language I don't speak), the church was PACKED. No room even in the back. I stood across the hall from the church itself, where I could still see everything. A wizened little grandmother - well over seventy and about 4'9" - who is always trying to get me to do things (get in line to put a rose in front of our Lady, for example - she'll see me, and gesture vehemently for me to put myself forward. I'm kind of an obvious ethnic outsider there), saw me and gestured I should go into the packed church. I smiled and shook my head. Obviously, she didn't speak any English. She went in. Phew. I already felt annoyed and uncomfortable, and decided I would probably go home in a few minutes. But a minute later, she was back. "I have a chair for you," she said in perfectly intelligible English. That just plain wasn't possible - there was barely standing room. I smiled and said, "That's all right, thanks," but she ignored me, and reached out and took me by the hand. I have to give her credit - the only form of persuasion I wasn't prepared to politely rebuff. She marched me down a tiny aisle; I had to hold my handbag to prevent it smacking the wall on one side and people on the other. She got me to "my chair" - in the middle of an aisle of people, packed in so tightly I couldn't see the empty chair at first. She didn't let go of my hand until she had actually gotten me into the aisle. It was so narrow I tripped twice on chairs and stepped on people. I don't know whether they were amused at me being led around by this doyenne of the group, or felt sorry for me, or were annoyed at being stepped on, or paid me no attention at all. But packed into the middle like a very white sardine, I couldn't go anywhere, and I stayed for the whole Mass.
Maybe somebody up there is looking out for me, after all.
hara-kiri
My eggplant are eccentric.
After the first two rounds completely died off, I bought another packet of seeds ("black beauty" this time, rather than the unnecessary artisan mix I started with), used real potting soil and deeper starter pots, and started again. My results really did improve; they sprouted earlier, more numerously, and taller. Disturbingly tall, in fact. Their itty-bitty scrawny stems grew almost four inches tall, with the two original sprout leaves perched at the top, slowly growing larger.
Unfortunately, all they ever did was grow taller - and then, at some mysterious point, something awful happened, and each of them, in sequence, would keel over; and slowly, in that position, they would wither completely and die. When the first few started doing this, I researched the source of eggplant blight, and discovered that they need to be really warm. I promptly put all the pots on the windowsill, and sure enough, substantially more sprouted within just two days. Unfortunately, however numerous they are, their ultimate end is in no real doubt.
My goal this whole time has been to see just one eggplant sprout move on to the next stage of development, and manifest some growth other than just those two initial leaves. Then, I figure, it will be reasonable to plant outside. I had my highest hopes for the oldest, largest, and tallest (surely it would move on first?). The day before yesterday, I saw a tiny notch-looking thing at the bottom of its stem. Yesterday, it flopped itself over, and its stem went from opaque green to whitish transluscent. I propped it up with dirt, but I recognize the beginning of its slow suicide ritual. It will never recover.
So, yesterday, at the Home Depot, I bought their very last potted eggplant. The pot is broken and the plant even looks a bit the worse for wear, and it cost as much as four or five eggplant fruits. But it is at least alive. (Why didn't they have these when I was there weeks ago?!) I also bought another basil plant (I killed the last two in a single week) and a rosemary plant (since my last round never sprouted at all) - they didn't have rosemary when I was there last, either. Hopefully, all three of these plants will grow majestically.
The misbehavior of my produce is evocative of other of life's mysteries. For several days this week already, I've had teaser cramps - faint twinges, there and gone, which I'm used to experiencing only a few hours before the real thing sets in, bringing with it CD1. It has concerned me mildly each time, because based on my previous luteal phases, CD1 should be Friday or Saturday (and I've scheduled my CD1-3 consult appointment on that assumption). The tamoxifen shortening my luteal phase would be something of an annoyance. But all other evidence indicates that CD1 would not be that day - today, yesterday, or the day before. No pink tinges, and my temperature is still high.
Of course, the first incidence of this tease phenomenon was within hours of an idiotic thought, one of those that one thinks in spite of oneself: I could go for my consult on Monday and my OB/GYN could laugh at me, because I could be pregnant after all. Sure I could. With octuplets. Kittens. No normal CM, and the tamoxifen was intended to treat low progesterone, which I turn out not to have (does it treat low estrogen? Does hypothyroidism mean that once I take thyroid medication, my FSH will go righ through the roof?). Sure, this is the cycle. So the teaser cramps wander in and out, mocking me, deriding my stupidity, heartlessly scoffing at my pregnancy pipe dream.
It's not happy to admit, but since the dismal SA episode, for reasons that I can't entirely explain, whatever habit of prayer I had has fallen off a cliff. I practically never read my daily prayers in my once-treasured Magnificat, and going to daily Mass seems pointless. I missed an entire week of daily Masses (went only on consecutive Sundays) for the first time in almost nine years. Lots of different things have happened in that time, but that's always been important to me.
And it would be hard for me to say why this has made the difference. Or why, given that I have so unbelievably little hope of getting pregnant, given that (although I am, albeit forgetfully, praying along with GIMH's St. Anne novena) I feel it's wrong to ask God for a child when I feel I am just flouting His will (why would I want a child if it isn't foreordained that I have one? What if I get a three-headed baby for my troubles, or a serial killer, or get to be pregnant just long enough to watch the child die, when I was intended to be spared that? What do I think I will accomplish? I can't phrase the intention strictly enough to get a happy, healthy family of seven or twelve with no hideous disaster sufficient to make it better they had never lived), why my interest in prayer would change with some minor if grotesque IF treatment setback. What does any of that change? God was ignoring my prayers and He still is; I was responsible to work out the morality and prudence of treatment on my own with no heavenly guidance, and I still am; I was angry with God over my barrenness, rather than embracing whatever His plan is, and that is still true.
I don't know. I don't. But today, I forgot the Blackberry en route to work, so I forced myself to dig the Magnificat out of the handbag. The words of the prayers seemed as dead as I had been expecting, though the hymn was to the tune of On Jordan's Bank, an Advent song I love, and that made me smile; and today is the feast of the Nativity of St. John the Baptist. Not a bad day for an infertile girl to return to her prayers, if in fact I stay returned. I thought for a moment about whether I see that as a sign that I, like Elizabeth, she who was called barren, will see the joy of the birth of a child. In a more innocent day, I used to see feast days and prayers and scripture as portentous for all the significant things in my life. They made me hopeful, and more prayerful, and a deeper thinker, I think.
Without any effort to convince myself either way, I don't see that now. There are feast days for martyrs and nuns and bishops and kings, and I'm not those things; and today is the feast of someone's birth, and that won't happen to me either. It's just a day, not a sign. But I did, at least, feel like smiling with St. Elizabeth, considered a failure as a wife and mother by her generation, giving birth in her advanced age (unbeknownst to her skeptical neighbors) to one of the greatest saints who has ever lived.
After the first two rounds completely died off, I bought another packet of seeds ("black beauty" this time, rather than the unnecessary artisan mix I started with), used real potting soil and deeper starter pots, and started again. My results really did improve; they sprouted earlier, more numerously, and taller. Disturbingly tall, in fact. Their itty-bitty scrawny stems grew almost four inches tall, with the two original sprout leaves perched at the top, slowly growing larger.
Unfortunately, all they ever did was grow taller - and then, at some mysterious point, something awful happened, and each of them, in sequence, would keel over; and slowly, in that position, they would wither completely and die. When the first few started doing this, I researched the source of eggplant blight, and discovered that they need to be really warm. I promptly put all the pots on the windowsill, and sure enough, substantially more sprouted within just two days. Unfortunately, however numerous they are, their ultimate end is in no real doubt.
My goal this whole time has been to see just one eggplant sprout move on to the next stage of development, and manifest some growth other than just those two initial leaves. Then, I figure, it will be reasonable to plant outside. I had my highest hopes for the oldest, largest, and tallest (surely it would move on first?). The day before yesterday, I saw a tiny notch-looking thing at the bottom of its stem. Yesterday, it flopped itself over, and its stem went from opaque green to whitish transluscent. I propped it up with dirt, but I recognize the beginning of its slow suicide ritual. It will never recover.
So, yesterday, at the Home Depot, I bought their very last potted eggplant. The pot is broken and the plant even looks a bit the worse for wear, and it cost as much as four or five eggplant fruits. But it is at least alive. (Why didn't they have these when I was there weeks ago?!) I also bought another basil plant (I killed the last two in a single week) and a rosemary plant (since my last round never sprouted at all) - they didn't have rosemary when I was there last, either. Hopefully, all three of these plants will grow majestically.
The misbehavior of my produce is evocative of other of life's mysteries. For several days this week already, I've had teaser cramps - faint twinges, there and gone, which I'm used to experiencing only a few hours before the real thing sets in, bringing with it CD1. It has concerned me mildly each time, because based on my previous luteal phases, CD1 should be Friday or Saturday (and I've scheduled my CD1-3 consult appointment on that assumption). The tamoxifen shortening my luteal phase would be something of an annoyance. But all other evidence indicates that CD1 would not be that day - today, yesterday, or the day before. No pink tinges, and my temperature is still high.
Of course, the first incidence of this tease phenomenon was within hours of an idiotic thought, one of those that one thinks in spite of oneself: I could go for my consult on Monday and my OB/GYN could laugh at me, because I could be pregnant after all. Sure I could. With octuplets. Kittens. No normal CM, and the tamoxifen was intended to treat low progesterone, which I turn out not to have (does it treat low estrogen? Does hypothyroidism mean that once I take thyroid medication, my FSH will go righ through the roof?). Sure, this is the cycle. So the teaser cramps wander in and out, mocking me, deriding my stupidity, heartlessly scoffing at my pregnancy pipe dream.
It's not happy to admit, but since the dismal SA episode, for reasons that I can't entirely explain, whatever habit of prayer I had has fallen off a cliff. I practically never read my daily prayers in my once-treasured Magnificat, and going to daily Mass seems pointless. I missed an entire week of daily Masses (went only on consecutive Sundays) for the first time in almost nine years. Lots of different things have happened in that time, but that's always been important to me.
And it would be hard for me to say why this has made the difference. Or why, given that I have so unbelievably little hope of getting pregnant, given that (although I am, albeit forgetfully, praying along with GIMH's St. Anne novena) I feel it's wrong to ask God for a child when I feel I am just flouting His will (why would I want a child if it isn't foreordained that I have one? What if I get a three-headed baby for my troubles, or a serial killer, or get to be pregnant just long enough to watch the child die, when I was intended to be spared that? What do I think I will accomplish? I can't phrase the intention strictly enough to get a happy, healthy family of seven or twelve with no hideous disaster sufficient to make it better they had never lived), why my interest in prayer would change with some minor if grotesque IF treatment setback. What does any of that change? God was ignoring my prayers and He still is; I was responsible to work out the morality and prudence of treatment on my own with no heavenly guidance, and I still am; I was angry with God over my barrenness, rather than embracing whatever His plan is, and that is still true.
I don't know. I don't. But today, I forgot the Blackberry en route to work, so I forced myself to dig the Magnificat out of the handbag. The words of the prayers seemed as dead as I had been expecting, though the hymn was to the tune of On Jordan's Bank, an Advent song I love, and that made me smile; and today is the feast of the Nativity of St. John the Baptist. Not a bad day for an infertile girl to return to her prayers, if in fact I stay returned. I thought for a moment about whether I see that as a sign that I, like Elizabeth, she who was called barren, will see the joy of the birth of a child. In a more innocent day, I used to see feast days and prayers and scripture as portentous for all the significant things in my life. They made me hopeful, and more prayerful, and a deeper thinker, I think.
Without any effort to convince myself either way, I don't see that now. There are feast days for martyrs and nuns and bishops and kings, and I'm not those things; and today is the feast of someone's birth, and that won't happen to me either. It's just a day, not a sign. But I did, at least, feel like smiling with St. Elizabeth, considered a failure as a wife and mother by her generation, giving birth in her advanced age (unbeknownst to her skeptical neighbors) to one of the greatest saints who has ever lived.
FLORIDA
We just got back from four fun days in Florida (say that three times fast). Here are some pictures of our adventures.
After we arrived we went to Downtown Disney and had dinner with Scott's brother Todd and his family at the Rainforest Cafe. After dinner we explored Downtown Disney for awhile and discovered a Dinosaur themed restaurant. The boys had a great time checking out all of the dinos. Notice Atley's expression in the picture. He is a little nervous about taking his eyes off the looming dinosaurs to smile for the camera.
The following day we took the boys to Disney World. Amazingly, but not surprising their favorite part was the Monorail. I guess we should have saved our money and just rode the monorail outside the park.
There were only two rides that Nash wasn't able to ride, Splash Mountain and Thunder Mountain Railroad. I took Atley on Splash Mountain and when we received our photo at the end of the ride he says, "Wow, mom you look really happy and I look really scared." Atley got to drive the Jungle Cruise which was really exciting, especially when he tried to turn it around because he was afraid of the crumbling Chinese temple in front of us. The longest wait was for DUMBO 40 minutes for a 45 second ride. The race cars were also a big hit,as were the spouts of water at Ariel's Grotto. Considering that it was 97 degrees outside with a heat index of 110, Atley laid on the spouts and let them shoot into his armpits.
We never intended or imagined that the boys would make it an entire day but here we are 12 hours after arriving waiting for the Electric Light Parade and they were still happy and excited to be there.
After another night in Orlando we drove to Daytona Beach to meet the rest of the Butler's. We spent the remainder of our time at the Beach or in the pool at the resort.
it's the small victories
I just knew there would be an answer to my TV dilemma, and I was ever-so-chagrined at myself when I realized I had completely neglected my old stand-by, Craig's List. The thought finally occurred to me yesterday, and sure enough, as soon as I took a look, I found a few dozen TVs for sale in NoVA, including several that were right near me, $50 or less, decent-sized, in good condition, and in fact a step up from our old model. I emailed a fellow yesterday and my darling heroic husband nipped out to get the (very heavy) item this afternoon. When I got home it was already comfortably installed on its perch. Behold, our new addition:
It's 27" (but looks bigger because of those speakers on the sides - good thing the guy with the 32" model didn't email back, it wouldn't have fit on our stand!), it's a step up in brand names from what we had, it's silver instead of black, which I like, it has a flat screen (not a flat panel, mind you - just the glass in front is flat, so a wee bit more modern), and it even has its own remote! Believe it or not, its two predecessors didn't have remotes. It didn't even occur to me to ask this guy whether his had one - I'd just grown to accept that changing the volume is a hands-and-feet process. No more!
Of course, I would rather not have spent $50, since we already had a TV that was fine (until its electrical outburst, obviously), but I'm very pleased with the new addition. For whatever reason (because my mental age is five, obviously), this is making my evening - though if I had not exercised discipline during my grocery shopping and had bought the hummus on the BOGO sale this week, that would really make my evening. But, I've had brief interludes of cramps anyway (hopefully not to become full-blown for a few more days), so clearly, what I really need is CHOCOLATE. And, a TV.
OH AND ALSO: this makes perfect sense to me because we have internet but not cable (cable is bad news - we watch TV by ourselves for hours and never speak to each other), but THIS IS FABULOUS. They have Spice Up My Kitchen! And Design Star! And Designed to Sell! And Color Splash (David Bromstead's totally gratuitous shirtlessness is admittedly a bit much, but his designs are tons of fun)! And you can watch them all, for free, whenever you want, on your computer!
Life is, indeed, replete with small joys.
It's 27" (but looks bigger because of those speakers on the sides - good thing the guy with the 32" model didn't email back, it wouldn't have fit on our stand!), it's a step up in brand names from what we had, it's silver instead of black, which I like, it has a flat screen (not a flat panel, mind you - just the glass in front is flat, so a wee bit more modern), and it even has its own remote! Believe it or not, its two predecessors didn't have remotes. It didn't even occur to me to ask this guy whether his had one - I'd just grown to accept that changing the volume is a hands-and-feet process. No more!
Of course, I would rather not have spent $50, since we already had a TV that was fine (until its electrical outburst, obviously), but I'm very pleased with the new addition. For whatever reason (because my mental age is five, obviously), this is making my evening - though if I had not exercised discipline during my grocery shopping and had bought the hummus on the BOGO sale this week, that would really make my evening. But, I've had brief interludes of cramps anyway (hopefully not to become full-blown for a few more days), so clearly, what I really need is CHOCOLATE. And, a TV.
OH AND ALSO: this makes perfect sense to me because we have internet but not cable (cable is bad news - we watch TV by ourselves for hours and never speak to each other), but THIS IS FABULOUS. They have Spice Up My Kitchen! And Design Star! And Designed to Sell! And Color Splash (David Bromstead's totally gratuitous shirtlessness is admittedly a bit much, but his designs are tons of fun)! And you can watch them all, for free, whenever you want, on your computer!
Life is, indeed, replete with small joys.
I feel pretty - and a TV?
We went to meet my in-laws for a few sessions of a conference this afternoon. We figured it was somewhere around business casual, so I decided I would get spiffied up - but not in a suit, 'cause it's not a weekday and I don't have to. This is a preposterously self-glorifying post, but even if I like what I'm wearing (rarely unreservedly), I never feel like I've pulled off a solidly good job. But I looked like a million dollars. Sure, the black dress pants were loose when I got them and they're good and snug now, but they fit, and the shirt I got from a thrift store recently (it's so pretty! It's a silk sleeveless cowlneck, in this nice taupe color...) and paisley cashmere scarf from my sister were an elegant pair. Plus said baby sister recently divested herself of extra makeup, and I am the lucky beneficiary. (Now I'll be able to spend $10 on makeup for the next ten years, like the last ten!) Last night I dug out the whole collection to play with, and so today I found a perfect neutral lip and accurately created a gold-toned "smoky eye." I am not usually good with makeup, so this was quite the coup. And for whatever reason the rainy weather was perfect for my rather pathetic hair - it was neither flat NOR frizzy. Even my toes were elegantly trimmed and painted wine-red under the cute flats I just bought (at a thrift store for $6.99. I'm a rag doll; I guess it sticks with you for life. Even when you have a salary). Even other people said I looked great, and I felt glamorous all day! My husband looked particularly handsome as well (he's been on a kick to lose a few pounds since he quit the cigaretts - ALMOST TWO WEEKS!!! - and he's doing quite well), so we were quite pleased with ourselves.
On an unrelated note, apparently I know nothing about televisions. This is a rare item that I see the point of owning (sort of) but have never purchased myself. I can give a good primer on buying a car, laptop, crock pot, dresser, suit, wedding present, box of resume paper, cookbook, and five pounds of chicken, for a good price and at good quality (and I'm pretty good with intangible goods too, like rental houses and insurance - terrible at dentists, though), but I cannot tell you how to buy a decent TV. I figured it would just be instinct, since I have the talent in general, but apparently not.
I decided that I wanted one from a thrift store (this worked like a charm with my microwave, when I destroyed the old one with the power hose attachment - still not going to tell that story), and that I would spend $50 (less if possible, of course. For a USED TV!). I got my DH to agree it didn't have to be replaced instantly, but now that we're sick, he's whiny about it, so I need to step it up. I figured for $50 I could have a decent-sized (not huge) one from a thrift store that was in decent condition and looked of reasonably recent origin. I'm not that picky. The ones I thought were acceptable were over $70, and a bit more abused-looking than I thought necessary. (Of course, thrift stores in NoVa are ridiculous and they have all raised their prices recently. This strikes me as very odd, since in a recession, what a place with a pretty flat overhead needs is a high sales volume, not a high profit margin, and I fail to see how increasing their prices will increase the volume of sales. Unless donations are down, and margin is all they have to work with? Hmm.)
So I figured I'd take a look at a deal mentioned by a colleague, a 19" flat-screen at B.estbuy for $99. I think he meant $249, now that I've looked. Also, 19" is kind of small for that money, right? I know, flat-screens were $1000 or more when they came out, but I was patient and waited precisely so I wouldn't have to pay that. I looked at the "tube" models, too, but those aren't really much cheaper, so I might as well stick with the thrift store, where I can have basically the same thing for less.
Now, I know that with any purchase, there is at least one secret lode of discount: either a place to look, or a thing to look for (already heard of vizio), or a technique to use. I don't know what it is with TVs. But I know somebody knows. If you are that somebody, please share! I will trade my bargain-finding knowledge on any topic you request (if I have said knowledge, of course).
On an unrelated note, apparently I know nothing about televisions. This is a rare item that I see the point of owning (sort of) but have never purchased myself. I can give a good primer on buying a car, laptop, crock pot, dresser, suit, wedding present, box of resume paper, cookbook, and five pounds of chicken, for a good price and at good quality (and I'm pretty good with intangible goods too, like rental houses and insurance - terrible at dentists, though), but I cannot tell you how to buy a decent TV. I figured it would just be instinct, since I have the talent in general, but apparently not.
I decided that I wanted one from a thrift store (this worked like a charm with my microwave, when I destroyed the old one with the power hose attachment - still not going to tell that story), and that I would spend $50 (less if possible, of course. For a USED TV!). I got my DH to agree it didn't have to be replaced instantly, but now that we're sick, he's whiny about it, so I need to step it up. I figured for $50 I could have a decent-sized (not huge) one from a thrift store that was in decent condition and looked of reasonably recent origin. I'm not that picky. The ones I thought were acceptable were over $70, and a bit more abused-looking than I thought necessary. (Of course, thrift stores in NoVa are ridiculous and they have all raised their prices recently. This strikes me as very odd, since in a recession, what a place with a pretty flat overhead needs is a high sales volume, not a high profit margin, and I fail to see how increasing their prices will increase the volume of sales. Unless donations are down, and margin is all they have to work with? Hmm.)
So I figured I'd take a look at a deal mentioned by a colleague, a 19" flat-screen at B.estbuy for $99. I think he meant $249, now that I've looked. Also, 19" is kind of small for that money, right? I know, flat-screens were $1000 or more when they came out, but I was patient and waited precisely so I wouldn't have to pay that. I looked at the "tube" models, too, but those aren't really much cheaper, so I might as well stick with the thrift store, where I can have basically the same thing for less.
Now, I know that with any purchase, there is at least one secret lode of discount: either a place to look, or a thing to look for (already heard of vizio), or a technique to use. I don't know what it is with TVs. But I know somebody knows. If you are that somebody, please share! I will trade my bargain-finding knowledge on any topic you request (if I have said knowledge, of course).
sickly
Last Saturday, we went to dinner at the home of some friends who have two small ones and one on the way. They scheduled dinner to start at 5. I've never heard of dinner around here starting earlier than 7, and sometimes 8 or 9. In retrospect, it would have been easier for everyone if they had had people arrive after bedtime, rather than before. Among other issues, their 3yo spend the evening coughing, each time reminded "Cover your mouth!" It didn't take.
Fast-forward to Monday afternoon...at work I can tell my throat feels funny but neglect to start swilling tea. By evening I am clearly sick. I rustled up enough medication to attend a two-day conference without sneezing or coughing on anyone, barely. Of course by Tuesday my husband is sick. We now live in the quarantine residence, and I don't believe it's flu season. Of course, DH is melodramatic: he has decided we have the swine flu. Sigh.
You know what else is unfortunate? While I hauled myself out of bed last Saturday to take my temperature at 7:30 (my usual time - and it was still low, 97.8), I forgot to do so Sunday, and then Monday I brought the thermometer with me into the bathroom but then forgot to use it until I got out of the shower! At that point I didn't even bother - that's not a waking temp. Of course Tuesday morning it was 99.6 - not exactly an ovulation-related spike!
So not only did I have no reliable or even remotely sane CM (admittedly, all even faintest signs of slippery eventually vanished, which is sort of reassuring, I guess), I didn't have any temperatures to go on for when peak day was, because it was due somewhere in the five-day period during which I either forgot to test or had a fever. And I had a requisition for a p+7 draw. I finally decided that I would just assume that ovulation day was peak day and ovulation day was seven days after I stopped taking the tamoxifen. So this morning I went in and had my blood drawn. I waited until I got a waking temp that looked post-ovulatory (98.3 - check), and then a non-feverish daytime temp (98.7 - check).
So I did indeed ovulate, and somewhere in the vicinity of on time. I tell you what, my body is stubborn. It takes abuse, and bits of it disintegrate totally at the edges. But it continues to slog along on its little menstrual hamster wheel, essential systems and organs all the while falling to the left and right. It's going to march itself right into oblivion. Maybe it would enjoy a break from regular menstruation, while it got its spiritual, er, corporal house in order and prepared itself to have, well, whatever normal hormone levels would be for me. (I still don't understand how I could have normal progesterone levels! There must be some mistake.)
Despite feeling like a total dud today (my day off), I did drag myself around to accomplish some things - a load of laundry, mostly weeded my garden, the grocery shopping, bought needed accoutrements for my car, went to two thrift stores to look for used TVs (ours went nuts the other day), the post office, the bank, and bleached the shower curtains and the shower itself. That leaves the rest of the bathroom, all the sweeping, and straightening a room or two tomorrow before I feel as though humans may view my home, which I consider a pretty big achievement for an invalid. Next frontier: I may actually get some exercise again for the first time in, approximately, eternity.
The good news, sort of, is that I have spent the entire first week of what would I suppose have been a 2ww mad, unclear where I am in my cycle, or distracted by illness. This next week, I am just waiting for my period (and my consult on the 29th to find out what the heck is up with my reproductive system), so there's really no w-ing. If I somehow wind up with a BFP, you watch, I am going to name that child Irony.
Fast-forward to Monday afternoon...at work I can tell my throat feels funny but neglect to start swilling tea. By evening I am clearly sick. I rustled up enough medication to attend a two-day conference without sneezing or coughing on anyone, barely. Of course by Tuesday my husband is sick. We now live in the quarantine residence, and I don't believe it's flu season. Of course, DH is melodramatic: he has decided we have the swine flu. Sigh.
You know what else is unfortunate? While I hauled myself out of bed last Saturday to take my temperature at 7:30 (my usual time - and it was still low, 97.8), I forgot to do so Sunday, and then Monday I brought the thermometer with me into the bathroom but then forgot to use it until I got out of the shower! At that point I didn't even bother - that's not a waking temp. Of course Tuesday morning it was 99.6 - not exactly an ovulation-related spike!
So not only did I have no reliable or even remotely sane CM (admittedly, all even faintest signs of slippery eventually vanished, which is sort of reassuring, I guess), I didn't have any temperatures to go on for when peak day was, because it was due somewhere in the five-day period during which I either forgot to test or had a fever. And I had a requisition for a p+7 draw. I finally decided that I would just assume that ovulation day was peak day and ovulation day was seven days after I stopped taking the tamoxifen. So this morning I went in and had my blood drawn. I waited until I got a waking temp that looked post-ovulatory (98.3 - check), and then a non-feverish daytime temp (98.7 - check).
So I did indeed ovulate, and somewhere in the vicinity of on time. I tell you what, my body is stubborn. It takes abuse, and bits of it disintegrate totally at the edges. But it continues to slog along on its little menstrual hamster wheel, essential systems and organs all the while falling to the left and right. It's going to march itself right into oblivion. Maybe it would enjoy a break from regular menstruation, while it got its spiritual, er, corporal house in order and prepared itself to have, well, whatever normal hormone levels would be for me. (I still don't understand how I could have normal progesterone levels! There must be some mistake.)
Despite feeling like a total dud today (my day off), I did drag myself around to accomplish some things - a load of laundry, mostly weeded my garden, the grocery shopping, bought needed accoutrements for my car, went to two thrift stores to look for used TVs (ours went nuts the other day), the post office, the bank, and bleached the shower curtains and the shower itself. That leaves the rest of the bathroom, all the sweeping, and straightening a room or two tomorrow before I feel as though humans may view my home, which I consider a pretty big achievement for an invalid. Next frontier: I may actually get some exercise again for the first time in, approximately, eternity.
The good news, sort of, is that I have spent the entire first week of what would I suppose have been a 2ww mad, unclear where I am in my cycle, or distracted by illness. This next week, I am just waiting for my period (and my consult on the 29th to find out what the heck is up with my reproductive system), so there's really no w-ing. If I somehow wind up with a BFP, you watch, I am going to name that child Irony.
family
I may have mentioned, just in passing, you know, that my family is crazy. My mother is actually schizophrenic, and my dad...decided that he would rather throw a tantrum at the audacity of his oldest going nuts and getting married than have a relationship with her (although I do try), so there's that. My nuclear family grew up far away from extended family on either side, so I think of my family as just parents and siblings. As a matter of strict accuracy, however, this is not so.
For one thing, I have four maternal aunts (I just didn't see them much growing up). When I predicted that I would have hypothyroidism (which is before I found out I was hyperthyroid, before I realized that the result really meant hypothyroid after all), I called my mom, who, I remember, told me she was diagnosed in her late twenties, after she started feeling tired and sluggish all the time. (Hello - my life. Though not nearly as dramatic as Sew!) She told me that she didn't remember a thing about it (she used to repeat the story like a mantra) and couldn't help me. So I called two of my aunts. Turns out that not only my mother and her mother are hypothyroid (I knew that), but all of my aunts, with the possible exception of one who just might not be telling. Pretty conclusive, eh? (You know, in addition to the TSH test.)
Anyway, the aunt I got, as it turns out, also had trouble conceiving (I had heard rumors of this but certainly not from her). She spent ninety minutes talking to me about her experience and asking all about how I was doing and saying over and over she was convinced my chances were good and that my DH and I would make wonderful parents. Words I'll never hear from my parents...not because they don't believe it, necessarily, but they'd never say that. We'd never even have that converstaion.
My aunt was the only one of her sisters with fertility problems, and she said she'd never heard of anybody in the family having endometriosis (that means I'm just special). But almost thirty years ago, she was taking clomid (and later, perganol - sp?) daily for two weeks a cycle - for four years for one kid and three years for another. And being ultrasounded every day. Before they did transvaginal ultrasounds, so she had to drink 32 oz. of water before 6AM and wait in line to be ultrasounded. She has three beautiful, healthy girls, and she said it was all worth it. Which is nice to hear (I mean, I've never heard anyone who graduated from IF say it was not worth it, but still).
But I can't imagine cycle after cycle of clomid for years. I've been ttc for almost four years, but mostly unmedicated, and even now that I'm being treated, I'll switch protocols every few months or so until I run out of them, and then move on with my life. I don't have the patience to medicate every month, and cry every month, when it didn't work last month or last year or three years ago. I literally do not know how she did it.
Last tidbit: she referred to the crying over your period every month (is it reassuring to hear that these experiences are not merely universal to all us IFers, but timeless as well?), and said that she decided that every month when it came she would buy herself something - not something huge, but something she would not otherwise have bought. She developed a list. So although she was sad every month, if she got negatives for x many more months, she could have all these things on her list...I thought that was hilarious. It's just how my brain works also.
For one thing, I have four maternal aunts (I just didn't see them much growing up). When I predicted that I would have hypothyroidism (which is before I found out I was hyperthyroid, before I realized that the result really meant hypothyroid after all), I called my mom, who, I remember, told me she was diagnosed in her late twenties, after she started feeling tired and sluggish all the time. (Hello - my life. Though not nearly as dramatic as Sew!) She told me that she didn't remember a thing about it (she used to repeat the story like a mantra) and couldn't help me. So I called two of my aunts. Turns out that not only my mother and her mother are hypothyroid (I knew that), but all of my aunts, with the possible exception of one who just might not be telling. Pretty conclusive, eh? (You know, in addition to the TSH test.)
Anyway, the aunt I got, as it turns out, also had trouble conceiving (I had heard rumors of this but certainly not from her). She spent ninety minutes talking to me about her experience and asking all about how I was doing and saying over and over she was convinced my chances were good and that my DH and I would make wonderful parents. Words I'll never hear from my parents...not because they don't believe it, necessarily, but they'd never say that. We'd never even have that converstaion.
My aunt was the only one of her sisters with fertility problems, and she said she'd never heard of anybody in the family having endometriosis (that means I'm just special). But almost thirty years ago, she was taking clomid (and later, perganol - sp?) daily for two weeks a cycle - for four years for one kid and three years for another. And being ultrasounded every day. Before they did transvaginal ultrasounds, so she had to drink 32 oz. of water before 6AM and wait in line to be ultrasounded. She has three beautiful, healthy girls, and she said it was all worth it. Which is nice to hear (I mean, I've never heard anyone who graduated from IF say it was not worth it, but still).
But I can't imagine cycle after cycle of clomid for years. I've been ttc for almost four years, but mostly unmedicated, and even now that I'm being treated, I'll switch protocols every few months or so until I run out of them, and then move on with my life. I don't have the patience to medicate every month, and cry every month, when it didn't work last month or last year or three years ago. I literally do not know how she did it.
Last tidbit: she referred to the crying over your period every month (is it reassuring to hear that these experiences are not merely universal to all us IFers, but timeless as well?), and said that she decided that every month when it came she would buy herself something - not something huge, but something she would not otherwise have bought. She developed a list. So although she was sad every month, if she got negatives for x many more months, she could have all these things on her list...I thought that was hilarious. It's just how my brain works also.
weirdness
So despite a mild case of the Errand Lethargy recently (you know how you have five phone calls to make during lunch hour, and you should really make them all Monday but then it's Friday at 5:15 and you've made one of them and you realize you need to wait till the next Monday again? I get that pretty badly, a lot), I've actually been pretty good. I got most of the way to getting the car title reissued for my baby brother (lot of good most does him, but then we found the original), and I cancelled the SA and I called the RE and the rotten lab that wouldn't pass on my p+7 blood test results from two cycles ago.
Sparing y'all the really mundane parts of the story, my RE's nurse is awesome. She stayed on the phone with me last week for almost half an hour answering questions (I'm pretty sure she answered some of them wrong, but some of them were unfairly technical), and agreed to call in the new tamoxifen prescription so I can get it filled before my next consult. Because she's awesome. She also called the blood lab (sic 'em on each other - works every time), and they finally coughed up the results - from a blood draw on April 27. Typically (I think), they drew progesterone, estradiol, and TSH.
The misfit's prediction: progsterone will be low. This is kind of a gimme, because I have endo (which is linked to low progesterone), I have two days of normal flow and then five days of spotting every period, my luteal phases are short-ish (12 days?), my temperature increase in the luteal phase is noticeable but not large, and sometimes the temp drops back below the cover line. Also, I've never been pregnant. In other words, I have all the symptoms of low progesterone. Estradiol will be high - because that runs in my family, and it seems to me to make sense with high FSH (we know that's the case) and low progesterone, doesn't it? Also, if it were usually high and the tamoxifen moderated it, maybe that would explain the lack of CM? Finally, although this just occurred to me last week, TSH will be low. My mother, grandmother, and some of my aunts are hypothyroid and have been since their twenties, and the constant mild depression and mild lethargy I've felt for months that I chalked up to just being old are probably something simpler.
Actual results: progesterone is normal (and I was tested on p+8, actually, because p+7 was a Sunday. I have noooooo idea what to make of this - now what?); estradiol is low (what??? And what does this cause?); and TSH is high. So, I should have no CM (in that cycle - this cycle is something else again, OK?), never spot, and be hyper all the time, skinny, and constantly hungry. Hmm, not so much.
Anyone have any wisdom to share on this anomaly? I need to visit Dr. Google, but I'm totally thrown for a loop here. (I wonder whether it makes the tamoxifen completely pointless.)
UPDATE: Apparently high TSH is diagnostic of low thyroid, so I may be hypothyroid, after all. (This makes more sense to me.) Apparently, fatigue is a symptom of both hypo- and hyper-thyroidism, so I guess that's a wash.
Sparing y'all the really mundane parts of the story, my RE's nurse is awesome. She stayed on the phone with me last week for almost half an hour answering questions (I'm pretty sure she answered some of them wrong, but some of them were unfairly technical), and agreed to call in the new tamoxifen prescription so I can get it filled before my next consult. Because she's awesome. She also called the blood lab (sic 'em on each other - works every time), and they finally coughed up the results - from a blood draw on April 27. Typically (I think), they drew progesterone, estradiol, and TSH.
The misfit's prediction: progsterone will be low. This is kind of a gimme, because I have endo (which is linked to low progesterone), I have two days of normal flow and then five days of spotting every period, my luteal phases are short-ish (12 days?), my temperature increase in the luteal phase is noticeable but not large, and sometimes the temp drops back below the cover line. Also, I've never been pregnant. In other words, I have all the symptoms of low progesterone. Estradiol will be high - because that runs in my family, and it seems to me to make sense with high FSH (we know that's the case) and low progesterone, doesn't it? Also, if it were usually high and the tamoxifen moderated it, maybe that would explain the lack of CM? Finally, although this just occurred to me last week, TSH will be low. My mother, grandmother, and some of my aunts are hypothyroid and have been since their twenties, and the constant mild depression and mild lethargy I've felt for months that I chalked up to just being old are probably something simpler.
Actual results: progesterone is normal (and I was tested on p+8, actually, because p+7 was a Sunday. I have noooooo idea what to make of this - now what?); estradiol is low (what??? And what does this cause?); and TSH is high. So, I should have no CM (in that cycle - this cycle is something else again, OK?), never spot, and be hyper all the time, skinny, and constantly hungry. Hmm, not so much.
Anyone have any wisdom to share on this anomaly? I need to visit Dr. Google, but I'm totally thrown for a loop here. (I wonder whether it makes the tamoxifen completely pointless.)
UPDATE: Apparently high TSH is diagnostic of low thyroid, so I may be hypothyroid, after all. (This makes more sense to me.) Apparently, fatigue is a symptom of both hypo- and hyper-thyroidism, so I guess that's a wash.
couldn't ask for more
So I may have mentioned I was taking my first-ever hike in the Shenandoah today. I had been whining about how we had to go for months and finally the DH and I and another couple we're friends with settled on this weekend. I was a little slow getting the information together and sending out the email, so I wasn't sure anyone was really coming, but ten minutes after we pulled into our McDonald's rendezvous point (and despite the fact that google betrayed me on its location and I had to call everyone and reroute them before they arrived), there were nine people there, plus a doggy!
We started high up and hiked down (don't recommend this, but more on that later). The views were spectacular:
We got to hike around a number of waterfalls (and some members of the party, who shall remain nameless, even hopped in):
Doggy particularly enjoyed all the water diversions.
Look at that view!
We got all the way down to the swimming hole at the bottom - but unfortunately, not being forewarned about a swimming hole, we didn't bring swimming gear. (Next time - plus we'll bring a priest so we can have Mass on the mountain, instead of everyone scrambling to find an evening Mass that's late enough! My DH and I went to Vigil on Saturday, but admittedly I only let people know we were going about noon on Saturday, so it wasn't easy for everyone to do that...)
I also tried to snap a shot of the local wildlife, but unfortunately the doe was not waiting around for her close-up.
Some funky mushrooms I found were more obliging:
Unfortunately, by the time we got to the bottom, we realized the trail didn't loop back around to our cars. We had already been hiking for hours (and gone about three-plus miles), but we had to go back - uphill. I jog and I'm really not totally out of shape, and it wasn't hideously steep, but the hike back took over two hours and it almost killed me. I lagged behind everyone else, after I realized that I just couldn't avoid stopping all the time unless I went at my own unimpressive pace.
All told, we were out there over five hours. It was a fabulous day - perfect weather and great people to go with. A smashing success! So we're planning our next ventures. (Possibilities: camping trip in the park with our married couple friends - we have a tent that never gets used!; a hike on the Billy Goat Trail some time soon; another hike where we go uphill when we get there and downhill after we're tired; tubing down the Shenandoah all day when the summer gets really hot (this sounds so fun).) We're already talking about going to Gettysburg with our buddies in two weeks (next weekend we're headed back to MI for a visit).
I felt so good about the massive amount of exercise I got - almost eight miles of hiking, half uphill! - but then we ended up going to this Italian place to eat. All I wanted was a chicken sandwich and an ice cream cone...but even though I passed up the pasta dishes with the heavy cream sauce, I left with my tummy in hideous pain from putting too much into it. What is wrong with me? No room at all for an ice cream cone. But, I have decided that I'm going to start using the gym at work and at least doing some stuff with weights - maybe the discipline with jogging will somehow follow. I want to look in the mirror and see fabulous, and I'm not there. Maybe I'll start doing step aerobics at home? OK, that's not likely. But I may try that fruit-veggies-and-protein diet (as long as dairy is allowed! Is it?).
I didn't think about being infertile once (although the endo I thought about - a five-hour hike is a challenge for the digestive system). I did briefly think about all our friends who would have loved to come but couldn't leave the kids home...
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