Whinge.

I'm tired, I'm in a foul mood, I'm crying at everything, and I'm having hot flashes.

Follistim is way worse than Gonal-F.

We have a doctor's appointment at 9 am tomorrow, where they'll try to push IVF on us. I might have considered if I didn't already have $40k of student loans hanging around. $40k in student loans and $30k for three IVF cycles = $70k of debt before I even go and buy a house, or a car.

No.

What kind of quality of life could I possibly provide a child if I can't afford to move out of apartment living? That's not how I want to raise my kids. I'm sure there are perfectly wonderful kids being raised in this very complex who lead happy and fulfilled lives and who will undoubtedly grow up to be astronauts or President or something; I want to be able to have a house someday and if it needs to be mutually exclusive with having children, so be it.

My mental picture of how I wanted to raise my kids is already warped enough due to the fact that I'm going to be an old mother, I refuse to allow it to be warped beyond recognition because my doctor wants a new Mercedes. IVF is ridiculously overpriced in this country and I am not going to pay a fortune out of pocket just because some insurance company wanted more money to pay their middle managers. The health care system in this country is broken and I refuse to fund it any more than I already have to. I will go abroad and pay into a system that I feel works much better, if I must.

Of course, it'll be typical -- I'll wind up getting pregnant next week and all will go to hell so I can't cancel my insurance and have to continue paying more than my monthly income in premiums. It's only because I'm defensive, angry, and ready to look elsewhere that I feel positive about this kind of thing happening!

All right, rant over.

Plans.

The week is mapped out in my Day Planner. Ride, gym, ride, gym, ride, ride, gym. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday working at Rose's Gym -- a.k.a. barn chores.

After watching the Stoat's video of my riding lesson and seeing how badly I looked, there was no way I was not going to the gym today (unless it was closed of course). Of course the doctor would have a small cow, possibly even a full sized calf, if they knew my workout routine. Needless to say it's a lot more than their recommended "30 minutes of walking".

Because walking does fuck-all for a 14 stone monster like myself. If I want my weight back to normal, it isn't going to happen by meandering around on a treadmill for a few minutes a day.

First, I tried the elliptical. Now, in the last post where I praised my gym for being small, I forgot to add that they made one rather annoying change. I love the elliptical trainer, it's great for fat girls with bad knees. They had six great ellipticals, but the belts kept slipping, so they replaced them with shinier, newer models, of which my beloved ellipticals had supposedly been the prototypes.

Riiiiight.

I got on one, and nearly died at about 1.20s -- the resistance is ZOMGHOLYCRAP hard on level 1. So I gathered up my iPod, workout journal, and water and headed to the older, crappier ones, to discover that they have no place to put water, journal, or iPod. I tried, and probably could have made it except that I was trying to juggle my iPod and hold onto the swingy-arm bits at the same time.

I barely have the hand-eye coordination to use an elliptical in the first place. Trying to do it whilst juggling an iPod touch was a no-go.

I picked up water, journal, and slightly battered iPod touch and headed over to the treadmill. Stepped on, nearly slid off - apparently my trainers have no tread! I can't win! Gah! I did manage 30 minutes at a light jog, and then somehow managed to lose the rest of my workout...so I improvised. But I did it, and now I feel better.

I *MISS* Holmes Place!

I know I'm supposed to be restricted to walking only. I know I'm subject to OHSS and all of that dandy crap from the drugs. It can't be healthy for me to be gaining so much weight every cycle, though, and I think that in this case exercise is the lesser of two evils.

Besides, I put down that I'm 13st 9lb. on the form for the Assisted Fertility Unit at Guy's in London and now I have to *be* that weight in the next three weeks. Not that this should be difficult. Three weeks to lose five lbs...yeah, that I can do. I just need to avoid my mother, and chocolate.

In some ways I feel guilty about sneaking exercise, but in some ways, it's more desirable now that I'm not supposed to be doing it! How's that for messed up?

Keep Moving!

Stoat is noodling away on his bass over in the ManCave. It's a sign all is right with the world.

There was an early start to the day, despite the fact that since I've announced I am not doing IVF with this clinic (nice that I can trot out the "Pope says no" excuse when necessary) the high level of service and correspondence has gone to shit. I understand it's a holiday weekend and all, but I did my bit by calling in on cycle day 1, the least they could have done is put me on the list for my day 3 bloodwork. The clinic is crowded on these mornings when the other four offices are closed, but the wait wasn't too bad. I had bloodwork and an ultrasound, despite the fact that the Downstairs Dept. looks like an episode of CSI right now.

Afterward, it was time for a riding lesson. Stoat videoed it but none of the photos came out. He was surprised at the intense level of activity, said it was like "riding boot camp". She was going easy on me! While I was on horseback the clinic called to OK my start of the meds. It's the same dose of a slightly different drug, and the pen had to be assembled, which I did not like. They did give me a snazzy carrying case for the epipen thing, though.

On the whole I'm feeling very middle of the road about the whole thing. I should just give up and focus on becoming a better rider, and undoubtedly the day before the Olympic selection trials will be when I get the BFP! For a more serious goal, I've mapped out the week, four riding days and three gym days -- I have the membership, might as well use it. It's times like this when I really miss Holmes Place in London. Of course, it's a crap Virgin Active now and probably not as nice. It had a women-only weight and cardio room, pool, and all manner of classes. My gym now is unpretentious, which I like, but it's small and the classes are few. I could really use a yoga class, but in order to fit my schedule it would have to be at one of my multitude of destinations -- work, barn, gym, or my parents' house. I'd do it at home but I fail at home yoga badly. The class I took, though, now that was good. Wish I could do it again.

So far, though, my plan to get into better shape is going okay. We'll see how I feel after next week's busy schedule. All I need to do is watch that video of me riding, flopping around with all of my chins, and contrast it with the elegant picture some of my barn mates make...that should be motivation enough. This weight HAS to go -- it can only help things.

Mandell's Pharmacy -- Knowing How To Handle Your Patients

Oh, joy. My delivery of Follistim just showed up. Wahoo. I get to learn to use a whole new drug.

Well, shit, now it's just like Christmas.

The up side to this is Mandell's Pharmacy, the place where my new and about-to-be-discontinued insurance has sent me. Not only was their shipment packaged in a nice, tiny little polystyrene cooler as opposed to Freedom's enormous bag (eco points there) they've clearly got their customers in mind. Inside was my drugs and a small bag of Hershey's Kisses.

That's right, Mandell's. Send the menstruating and infertile chocolate, and you've got a friend and customer for life. Just keep it coming. ;)

Where to begin

The fertility journey began in August 2007. It has been a long and horrible road.

I have been told I was too fat, refused help, shuffled along, moved abroad, and subjected to every test in the book. Last month I thought there was a light at the end of the tunnel; unfortunately, it was a speeding lorry -- a miscarriage.

So here I am today, taking the first few steps from the new crossroads we've built. One of those steps is this blog, at a suggestion from Laura. I would consider myself to be a well-connected person, social media enlightened, with three other blogs, a Facebook page, and a Twitter feed which keeps me connected to everyone. Since October 24th, though, I feel isolated from everyone, with the exception of the Foxy Stoat, my husband, the only one who goes through this with me anyway.

Hence, this blog, where I can cry in isolation. I discovered that the hardest part of the miscarriage was the sympathy. I hated it. I just wanted to get on with my life. I did. I bought a horse, went in for bloodwork, did the next IUI cycle...

I still have the horse, the venipuncture bruises, and have just been gifted with another BFN from the cycle I didn't share with everyone else. It is looking increasingly unlikely that I will be going to England for Christmas as a pregnant woman, and all I can think is that I should be in my second trimester while I am there. Joy denied.

I was attempting to write a book about the humor of the journey and even got a chapter or so done. Right now, I'm not feeling much humor. I feel bleak, bitter, and defeated by my own body, which as a vehicle for my soul is roughly equivalent to a rusted out minivan with missing backseats and an engine that inexplicably goes "ping". I hated my body before starting the fertility thing. Now I despise it.

Today felt very bad. I had two panic attacks, bouts of inexplicable anxiety and a sense of impending doom. They were so bad I couldn't even cry out; like in a nightmare, I was frozen. I was not doing anything except enjoying Thanksgiving in the same way I have done for 29 of my 30 years. One attack happened at dinner, one before we left for home. I felt horrible. I think it has something to do with not being pregnant right now, and I don't know why.

We will begin the bloodwork for the final IUI cycle on Saturday morning. Technically, we are two cycles away from the six cycle "suggested serving size", this being only the fourth cycle. I made an executive decision shortly after receiving my Big Fucking Negative pregnancy test results over the phone yesterday. I am getting nowhere, paying $1,200 a month for insurance plus several hundred dollars a cycle for the procedure and drugs. At this point, I need a break. I wanted desperately to be pregnant before my 30th birthday. I wasn't. I wanted to be a mother before I turned 31. I won't be. I will have to deal with being an old mother regardless, so taking a few months off to regroup won't kill me. I need to lose about 2 stone, take care of myself, save money, and we're moving back to England for help. We're calling the private clinic tomorrow and I hope to start in the spring.

I don't feel like sharing. I feel bitter, and angry, and betrayed, and I don't want to talk to anyone about it, so I'll talk to myself, here. Maybe not the best way to start a baby blog, but at least it's honest.