Thus far, I've used my blog primarily as a place to bitch and moan about various items of minimal interest to anyone aside from myself. I'm cutting myself a little slack, since it's brand spanking new, but I do feel the need to clarify its purpose a little.
When E and I decided to go the "let's split this baby down the middle, shall we" route, I poked around the net for others who've done the same, but didn't find much. I did, however, find loads of people blogging about their IVF experiences, which was enormously helpful, and especially consoling after our first go didn't work and we were struggling.
So I thought I'd try it out - to talk about the experience of IVF, in particular the experience of sharing the IVF-related responsibilities with my partner E. Initially I had lofty goals of creating a resource for other lesbian couples going this route, but it quickly became clear that I would instead be regularly abusing my readers with verbal diarreah of the bitter variety.
And that's okay too.
Because what other bloggers have taught me is that infertility (whether due to troublesome reproductive organs or the general sameness of your partner's sex) sucks a whole lot and so does IVF.
Infertility kicks the shit out of you and leaves you doubled over on the sidewalk, crying like a ninny. Then IVF steps over you, walks over to your car and takes a dump on the hood.
E and I have been married for four years tomorrow. Which is astonishing, since I feel sometimes like I am just beginning to know her, a feeling this ordeal has intensified. We laugh a ridiculous proportion of our time together, hysterically; we are mirrors of eachother's twisted and juvenile sense of humor. We cannot ever seem to get enough of the other, despite being tired, overworked people.
And o, our love for eachother. It's fierce. That our love is incapable of creating our family is profoundly unfair. Just as it is for so many infertile people.
So there's stuff to bitch about, in other words. Reading others' stories of their experiences makes this whole bumpy-ass ride less desolate and the disappointments less devastating.
And frankly, it just feels good to know that we're not the only ones with busted lips and shitty hoods.
So the time has come. Today our second IVF cycle begins.
We met with our doctor today (wait time: 3 minutes - i heart him) for my day 2 ultrasound (time spent with dildocam: <1 minute - i heart him so much) and bloodwork (satanic phlebotomist scrubbed my arm with steel wool then poked my vein with her pitchfork: i will seek my revenge with holy water).
We next met with the Protocol Nurse who is also Adorable and who Loves Us Very Much, and she informed us that E would be on Lupron this time, not me, which I think is best for all involved (although I admit I am slightly evil because I hope E experiences a taste of the ferocious Lupron-induced crankiness).
So, I'm doing my best to be hopeful and positive in the face of the barrage of drugs and dildocam appointments and blood tests that lay ahead.
But ambivalence spreads its wings right in my chest when I remember all we put ourselves through last time, for nothing.
But what the fuck else are you going to do? You get to your feet, wipe the shit off your car with a bit of newspaper from the curb, and then you stab yourself in the gut with your Gonal F pen.