My morning poke

Big B reached into our dwindling supply of progesterone the other day and he declared that we were "out of needles." Whaaaaaa? Apparently our drug provider of choice failed to put enough in our last refill. So, calling our friendly 24-hour pharmaceutical provider hotline, I was able to get a prescription for needles called into our local pharmacy. Except not the pharmacy by our house, oh no, but the one 10 miles away. But hey, that's okay - we'll do anything for our daily dose of hive-inducing progesterone in sesame oil. LOVE the way that stuff feels goin' in. Mmmmm, mmmm. Can't get enough. Especially at five in the morning.

As we pick up the syringes and needles, I notice that they're completely different colors than our last ones. And the numbers on the packages were really small (meaning really BIG needles). I asked the pharmacy, "are these the right needles? they look really big!" She replied back, "they're the right needles if you're a horse. They are very big." Since I am not a horse, although my arse is so big that I may look like a horse from the rear, we got things kind of straightened out. However, the syringes are actually too small so the oil can't get sucked up into the syringe without a lot of conniving.

There's a few things I really look forward to at my morning poke:

• The bonding time with my husband. It really brings us close together as he searches my ever-expanding derriere for a spot that has less cottage cheese and more, ahem, muscle. Sometimes it takes awhile and we get to chat about all kinds of topics like politics, our bosses, the meaning of our lives (at five in the morning).
• Having a warm, wet washcloth applied to my bum. Especially when it isn't wrung out and it drips down my, err, great divide, and makes a big wet mess of my undies and pj's.
• The left side. For whatever reason, my left "bum" is a lot more sensitive. I can feel every drop of that wonderful concoction going in.
• The Deep Breathing that I get to practice. Especially on the left side.
• The exit. Every, and I mean every time BigB takes the needle out, it hurts like a mother. I dread the exit. Loathe the exit. It feels like he's grinding it around, but he swears he's pulling it straight out.

I'll really miss the morning poke. Really.

Moment of Truth

I was such a wreck today. But dang, I got a lot of work done. It's amazing what you can plow through when you're trying to stay busy to keep your mind occupied. By the time 3 o'clock rolled around, I could hardly walk - my knees were shaking so badly.

Big B met me at the Drs office. We had to wait in the exam room for 15 minutes before the doc came. It's pretty humbling sitting on an exam table, naked from the waist down, in front of your husband. "Dontcha think this look is sexy? Would you like me to wear one of these at home?"

The doc came in and she was in a black suit. The kind you wear for a job interview. Ummm...where was the white lab coat? It was totally disconcerting. I felt like I should be pontificating my weaks and strengths as she got busy with the magic wand. I made myself look at that looming screen. I needed it to be over with. And, wouldn't you know, there was a little blinking light. A heartbeat. I'd heard about it - but never seen it. It was truly unbelievable. I sat dumbfounded as she poked around and determined that everything to appeared to be in the right place, the right size, and the right rate. There were no tears, just disbelief. "b-b-b-but I haven't had any symptoms in five days!", I stammered. "Oh, I hear that all the time. Just wait a few days." She handed me a little printout of the tiny little bean and told me to go see an OB in three weeks. I think Big B had to put my pants back on for me and lead me out of the office. Praise God from whom ALL blessings flow. I just keep saying that, over and over.

Can we just skip tomorrow?

I have totally worked myself into a frenzy. My first ultrasound is Wednesday afternoon. I have convinced myself that we aren't going to see anything. My symptoms have diminished - hardly any nausea, less twinges and pings in my uterus. Boobs are still hurting - but not as horribly, either. And, yes, I know that not everyone has symptoms, and they change from day to day, blah blah blah. But I feel different than a week ago.

I pretty much laid on the couch all weekend and did nothing. Just slept and watched horrible movies. I'm totally depressed. Of course, my close friends and family have been through this with me before, so they aren't so ready to jump on the, "it's going to be just fine" bandwagon. I think they think the worst, too. And Big B doesn't want to even entertain the idea, let alone talk about it.

I am dreading tomorrow's appointment. I don't want to go. I've been bursting into tears at random, and can just imagine what tomorrow will bring. Big B says to imagine the best case scenario, not the worst. I wish I could.

Major Queen Itch

I got to spend the day with my mom today, which was super cool. I actually really like hanging out with her, and we rarely get to do it.  She agreed to assist me in the herculean task of finding a new butt cradle (i.e. couch).  Bless her heart. 

At one point, she cocks her head and says, "why do you keep scratching your ass?" She didn't really say ass. She said bottom. But lets face facts. Its not my bottom, its my ass, and she had caught me red-handed, hand down pants, scratching it. 

So I explained to her about my PIO-induced hives. I had thought my dogs had sprouted a new epidemic of invisible fleas, but after some google-oogleing, found out that it was probably hives from the PIO. Lovely. They are huge welts, and itch insanely. 

I have been caught by more than my mom. Co-workers, librarians, uncles, Thai-take-out-dude have all experienced my ass-grabbing. I now do it so often, that I don't even know that I'm doing it. It's a naturally occurring phenomenon. I will have a conversation with you, and my hand will gravitate toward my backside and just start a rubbin'. It feels sooooogooooooooood. I do try to keep my hands outside my pants, but sometimes,  in the privacy of my home or amongst family, I will admit that nothing will separate my hands from my bare hive-covered buttocks.

Let Me Introduce Myself

I'm borrowing this intro idea from Liddy over at The Unfair Struggle. I don't know if I've ever truly introduced myself on my blog, so, here goes nothin'!

My name is Kandi. Well, it's not really Kandi. That was my nickname until I went to college. At that point I deducted that Kandi would really only be a good name if I was choosing a profession in porn, stripping, or prostitution*. And, since my college offered none of those degrees, I would have to make a switch to the full name, Esmerelda. Just kidding. It's Kandace. My family and friends from high school still call me Kandi. No one else gets to. Except for blog readers. Because, heck, anyone who takes the time to listen to me bitch and complain about my struggles with life and infertility can call me whatever-the-hell-they-want (except Whiney Bitch, please). As long as they keep listening.

Which leads me to my story of struggling with infertility. Apparently, I never clued-in to the fact that as women get older, they produce less and less eggs, and the ones they produce aren't quite as "fresh" as might be required for baby making. I only thought my chances of having a baby with some sort of genetic problem would increase. So, I followed my dreams and chased that corporate ladder and glass ceiling - having a blast the whole time. I wasted most of my twenties with a guy who swore he would never get married or have kids (which both have happened in the past year for him), and moved from coast to coast (twice) by myself having fun as only a single girl can.

Finally, beginning to hear the faint rumblings of my internal Big Ben, I moved back to my home city when I was 33. Found Mr Right (or Big B as I like to call him) when I was 34, got married when I was 35 and started TTC when I was 36. Just in time, right? Naaaaaa. My eggs were already dusty and crusty.

After six months of stupid ovulation charts and temperates (and NEVER seeing an ovulation), we went through every imaginable test and straight to IUIs - 5 of them. 4 failing, and one sticking only to miscarry in my 10th week. After that, on to a second mortgage and IVF. The first one apparently worked as we got our betas back just two weeks ago. We're trying to remain calm until our first US next week.

As for me, I love to bake cakes for friends and co-workers. And cooking in gereral. And I love photography - I even have a somewhat ironic side biz taking baby, children and sr photos. I have strong faith in God and try to incorporate that into every area of my life (Jesus drank wine, right? And swore from time to time?). And, apparently, I like to write.

Whew. That was a lot. If you stuck through the whole post you get a Gold Star.

*please note that if your name is Kandi, Candy, Candi, or Kandy, don't get mad at me for my connotation of our shared name. It just wasn't for me. I couldn't pull it off. PLUS my maiden name happened to be a slang word for "puke." I got tired of hearing, "I ate so much Kandi I xxxxed !" Not a good way to spend your school days.

Are your ears burning?

So, yesterday morning, my co-worker walks into my office and shuts the door.

Uh - oh. Somethin' big must be going down for door-shuttin' time.

She whispers to me, "I was talking with vendorX, and she said that she was talking to another guy here at work who told her that you were pregnant."

Are you following? So, a vendor is told by someone else that works for my company (but in a different department) that I'm pregnant. She, in turn, passes along said intel to another person in my company (in my same department), who then comes to me.

The good news is the person who came to me already knew. She's the one person in my office I confided in. And whom I completely trust would never ever spill the beans to anyone.

The bad news is that after just two weeks of seeing the ever-elusive double pink line, my "secret" is somehow common knowledge being passed about by practical strangers! At the coffee stand: "Would you like non-fat or soy with your latte?" "Soy. Oh, and have you heard that the woman in marketing is pregnant?"

I mean, for a vendor, whom I hardly ever work with, to casually chat about it to one of my co-workers? This means the guy who told her must not think anything about spreading "the news"around willy-nilly - and that no "top secret" code was given to him when someone decide to bless him with gossip fodder.

I was so pissed. There was definitely some steam coming out of my ears.

How Did This Happen? We hardly know that we're pregnant...we haven't even seen/heard the heartbeat. Plus my FE said we didn't need a 3rd Beta. So, as exciting as the news is, its not something we're casually passing around as common knowledge until at least the second trimester which isn't until December.

I went directly to the source - the guy who spilled the beans.

Me: Hey, guess what I heard? I heard from Suzy that she heard from Sally that you told her I was pregnant!
Him: Oh, really? I said that? I don't remember saying that.
Me: She definitely said she heard it from you.
Him: I didn't even know you were pregnant!!
Me: Then why did she say she heard it from you?
Him: Well...I think I was speculating that you were.
Me: Speculating? I know I've gained some weight in the past six months...
Him: No! I never look at things like that. I just knew you and Big B were trying and I speculated that you were.
Me: Well...can you NOT speculate any more? This isn't information that we're sharing with people. We just found out ourselves and with everything that has happened over the years we need to wait until we're good and ready.
Him: Oh, yeah. I won't talk about it anymore. I won't even tell my wife.

Speculating? You speculate that your stocks are going to go up. You speculate that dinosaurs existed. You speculate that gossiping about your co-worker is going to get you into some hot poo poo.

Let's just take this little soap opera a little further. I happen to have another friend whom I've bragged about in other posts. She's awesome and I'm lucky to have her as a friend. I also work with her. And her husband. They know all about me and Big B. Probably more than they ever wanted to know. They swore up and down that they wouldn't share our news with anyone. Me thinks her dear hubby went over to said blabbermouths house (they happen to be friends), had a few brewskis while playing X.Box, and let the lips loose. So, I had to have a little chat with her, too. Talk about damage control.

The biggest thing I worry about, is that everyone at work finds out, including my boss. And if something does go wrong with the pregnancy, I have to face everyone, all day, every day.

Am I over reacting?

Show and Tell

I thought I'd bring my two-headed dog to Show & Tell this week. Whaaa? A Two-Headed Dog you say? Yes, my two headed dog:

This is Charlie, my 9 month old Boston Terrier and his second head, Lucy. We came across them one day and decided that Charlie had either eaten Lucy and was trying to "pass" her, or he was giving birth to a puppy, or perhaps they morphed into one, two-headed dog, that we now affectionately call, "Charlcy."

Apparently Lucy had no problem with her little brother (who is now bigger than she) completely covering her entire body. She continued snoring and seemed not concerned.

Let's go back to the beginning, shall we? I got Lucy four years ago - when I was still a swingin' single. I had the sweet condo downtown and all I needed was a cute puppy to attract all the hotties in the neighborhood. Lucy weighed 2 pounds when I brought her home. She fit in the palm of my hand.

She laughs when you tickle her tummy. It's awesome.

She saw this police horse in the neighborhood, recognized the familiar black and white markings as her own, and asked the horse, "are you my mother?"

We welcomed Charlie into the clan last March. He was a consolation prize after the miscarriage. I needed something small to love and mother.

We soon realized that Charlie was alpha dog. So did Lucy. Thus the two-headed "Charlcy."