My Birthday Present

December birthdays suck. Overshadowed by the holidays, December birthdays are tossed aside like unwanted presents and ignored like the extra tug it takes to button your favorite jeans.

Growing up, my December 30th birthday was the worst. Stuck like a speed-bump between Christmas and New Year's, my birthday could never be celebrated with a classroom of squealing children (we were all on Christmas break), and time after time my American Girl-themed birthday parties had to be canceled due to Nor'easters.

This year, however, someone is finally making up for all of my Christmas-wrapped birthday presents and snowed-in parties. Because somehow, somehow, during a month that wasn't supposed to count, during a month off before I started with the RE, I was just given the most unbelievable birthday present ....


Happy 29 to me. I think it's gonna be a good year.

Talismans

In second grade, it was a blue rabbit's foot. I remember it was feathery soft, with a tarnished gold chain dangling from one end. It simply meant "luck," because back then, things were that simple.

In high school, it was a silver ring with a turquoise stone set in the middle of an eagle. My mom had bought it on an Indian reservation out West when she and my father drove across the country in a Volkswagen bus. I wore it on my pinky. It meant "boundless opportunities." It radiated heat.

In college, it was a dried rose. It was left in my dorm room by BumpMister on our first Valentine's Day. We were 19. It meant "promise." I have always kept it.

Today, it has multiplied to many. It is a tiny gold elephant that traveled from India in the pocket of a friend who hoped to bring us luck. It is a wooden string of Rosary beads purchased on a sweltering day at the Vatican by parents with a grandchild in their prayers. It is an unlabeled CD that buoyed a sister-in-law as she drifted through her own hard time.

Trinkets. Objects. Things. Items. Yet so much more.

Life. Friendship. Family.

Hope.

What is your talisman?

Black Clouds

The holiday season: It's supposed to be a time of slender candy canes and heaps of granulated sugar and mountains of Godiva chocolate. Santa is coming, champagne is chilling and presents are ready for unwrapping.

But above all the bustle you hear ... a rumbling. A storm. Black clouds forming on the horizon. Lightning flickering over your work party's holiday buffet. Why?

Because between Christmas and New Year's, a pivotal precipice is being mounted. A spiny peak of pain is jutting forward and cannot be ignored.

I am turning 29 in 19 days.

When I was younger, I thought my mom was so young for having me at 27. I would at least wait until 28 - I mean, come on. Let's be sensible. Fast forward to today, when the decision is totally out of my hands. 29 seems ancient.

Maybe it's not old to you. If it's not, I apologize. But let me tell you what IS old: This process. This endless guessing and waiting and hoping. This exploring and yearning and watching as others get what you've wanted for so long. This unfair, unfair, unfairness.

Friends, you know me. I don't normally get so down. But I'm tired. And the cloud is looming. And it's NOT fair. And that's all I can say tonight.

Oh Shhhicle.

Shi•cle [shy-kuhl] noun, verb, -cled, -cling.

-noun
1. any shitty round or series of occurrences that repeats or is repeated.
2. a recurring period of time in which certain shitty events or phenomena repeat themselves in the same order and at the same intervals.

Use shicle in a sentence>

My period came on the 45th day of my shicle this month.
Last week, I shicled all the way to the fertility clinic.
They told me to come back at the end of this shicle.
I feel like I'm shicling in circles and not getting anywhere.

Origin:
Middle English: shite
Latin: cyclus
BumpMister: CD 45: "wow, what a shitty cycle. it's a shicle. haha."

Yeah. Haha.

Cold Hearted Snake

The best part about waking up to a 96.5 temperature for 28 days in a row? I get to sing "Cold Hearted Snake" to myself each morning as I brush my teeth (Hey Paula!). That, or "Cold As Ice." I alternate. You know, keep it exciting.

Because otherwise, I would be tempted to try to smash my cute little basal thermometer with my alarm clock. (Ok, I admit it. I did try this. It didn't work. It just beeped at me spitefully.) Or cry. Which I actually almost did on the spinning bike this morning.

How could my temperature be SO low? How could I have not ovulated this month when I DEFINITELY ovulated last month and FINALLY got a real period, on my own, without Provera?

I called the all-knowing Dr. Obigeewyan today to get to the bottom of the matter. "Oh. Hmm," she said wisely. "Well." Thank you, my sage. Finally: "Well, do you have really long cycles as well?"

Oh yes, as a matter of fact, I do! I must have forgotten to mention that to you the last 100 times I've spoken to you over the past 13 months.

But then Dr. Obigeewyan said the first thing I agreed with in a long time: "I think it's time for me to refer you to a specialist."

Right on, Obi. Bring it. Whaddaya say, Paula?

Who Chose THIS Adventure?

When I was 10, my favorite books were "Choose Your Own Adventure" (after Anne of Green Gables and Babysitters Club, duh). I could sit enthralled for hours helping Princess Peony navigate her way through the fiend-filled forest in order to be reunited with Prince Perfection.

At the end of each chapter, I would contemplate my next step thoughtfully, trying to make the story last as long as possible. "If Princess Peony follows the mysterious gypsy into the cave, turn to page 2. If she follows her heart and stays on the straight path, turn to page 7." Follow your heart, Princess! Follow your heart! Page 7 it was.

Sometimes, however, I would accidentally lead Princess Peony astray ... and would quickly backtrack when I turned to the next page only to see THE END printed neatly at the bottom of the paragraph. It can't just END like that!, I'd think. It didn't end with Perfection!

I recently had a nostalgic conversation about "Choose Your Own Adventure" books with Said Friend Stacie (you know, the one who got pregnant when her husband sneezed near her). After I gushed about making each book last until the pages were worn and the ink was rubbed away, Stacie laughed.

"Omigod," she said. "I'm so the opposite. I would always pick those books for book reports and then choose the shortest way to the end possible."

I was shocked. Who would want to just skip to the end? Who wouldn't want the journey to last?

Now, as I enter my 13th month of my Infertility Adventure, I've started wondering the same thing. Would the pathway to pregnancy be as life-altering and rewarding if I had simply skipped this story and gone straight to the end? Would I have been this completely ready to be a mother? Would I have recognized this much about myself?

Right now I'm still navigating my way through my own story ... but I have faith that when it's right, I will reach the end. And when I do, I'll be satisfied with how I got there. I'll be ready to begin the next chapter. It'll be Perfection.

Here We Clo Again

As I've shared, I went on birth control when I was 15 because of my horrendously horrendous cramps. When I think back to the dramatic scene I would cause once a month - rolling around on the floor, crying, throwing up - I cringe with embarrassment. Because they couldn't have been THAT bad.

Oh yes. They could.

Know why I know? Because they came back last night after a nearly 14-year hiatus.

When I last left you on Saturday, I was all goody-goody-gumdrops over my progesterone level of 24. I went to a wedding on Saturday night and didn't drink a drop (ok, maybe a drop, but not even half a glass). I began calculating my due date. I Googled baby boy names (because of course I already have my girl name picked out).

And then. The cramps.

They hit me like a punch in the gut. For one good hour last night, I screamed and cried in pain, dry-heaved and basically had a huge meltdown. At first BumpMister looked at me like my head was spinning. Then he panicked and wanted to take me to the ER.

Then he called my mom. Yes, my mom, who assured him that this was normal (well, normal for the 15-year-old version of me) and to simply wait it out.

BumpMommy was right, and after an hour I was snuggled on the couch eating pistachio ice cream and wiping mascara streams off my cheeks. But when the cramps stopped, something even more horrenously horrendous started. My period.

Which brings me to today...

...and my third round of Clomid.

...and the message from Dr. Obigeewyan that ominously said, "I'm going to give you one more prescription, and if you don't get pregnant this month, I'm referring you to a reproductive specialist."

So here we Clo again.