Risk versus Sacrifice

Finals are finally done. And while I still have 3 papers to write by the end of January, the end of exams for the semester still relieves a significant amount of stress. I made a fairly successful attempt to focus on studying for finals and not obsess over all things fetus related. So now with the completion of finals, I have totally resumed by previous obsession.

Firstly, at 15 weeks, I am neither "showing" nor do I feel any movement. I know this is perfectly normal for a "first" timer, but I worry nonetheless. Maybe the baby is already dead, maybe I am not growing on target and the baby is about to die, maybe there is something seriously wrong that means death will occur shortly after birth. I think you get the picture. When it comes to potential baby death scenarios, I can be pretty creative.

Then there's my meds. For the most part, I feel confident in my psychiatrist's decision to keep me on 100mg of Ser0que1 and 100mg of Z010ft during the pregnancy. Ser0que1 is a schedule C drug that is contraindicated for pregnant or nursing women, but we opted to take the risk. And when I say "we", I mean I opted that the baby take that risk. Right now, that sounds pretty fucking lame. Sometimes, the alternatives sound quite a bit less selfish. For instance, let's assume that without the Ser0que1, I launch into a full blown depressive episode where owing to the lack of Ser0que1 sleep is downright impossible for at least a month or so. The impending self injury and real live insanity would require hospitalization or simply tying my arms and legs down to our bed. Let's be honest, that's the kind a sacrifice a real mother would make. Not this pansy sacrifice claim that I am taking a risk by ingesting Ser0que1. Taking Ser0que1 is not a sacrifice made on the behalf of the baby, it's made on the behalf of me.

Perhaps this little discussion is driven by the fact that while I took my Ser0que1 last night, I was up by 3:30 this morning unable to sleep. That's just insult to injury, my friends.

They're back.

At the beginning of my journey in trying to conceive, I confronted a nasty little bug called bacterial vaginosis (BV). The little guys had taken up residence in my cooter and were breeding much faster that I was. It was pretty easy to fix though. A good dose of antibiotics and the bad guys had been flushed from their home.

Last week, I got a cryptic message on voicemail from my OB saying that he needed to talk to me about my test results. The week before that, my OB had happily left a message on my voicemail telling me that my progesterone was at the right level and don't worry. This time, though, there was no voicemail of happiness and no "all is well" messages. So, of course, I assumed the worst. Within about 2 hours of hearing the cryptic message, I had successfully diagnosed myself with HIV, syphilis, gonorrhea, and almost-dead-baby sydrome (you know, just for good measure). More amazingly, I had driven my husband into the same sort of frenzy.

Within those two short hours, I had left 3 messages with my OB's office staff. I am pretty sure there is a note in my file now saying something like, "JUST CRAZY" in 24 point bold red font. Nevertheless, the doctor did finally call me back and said that I have BV again. Nice. He will treat me with antibiotics once I am "safely" at the 12 week mark. In the meantime, Husband did some research regarding BV. While the damn BV is labelled as an STD, they don't actually know how women contract it. In fact, there was some suggestion that women don't get it from sexual contact with men, but instead catch it from sexual contact with other women.

That gave us both something to think about.

What a difference a med makes

Thanks so much for all the well wishes, hugs, and good thoughts of reason. Much appreciated.

I have since had my meds picked up from the pharmacy and everything looks so much better now. Clearly, I still have a bit of denial going on regarding how much I need my meds and how really mentally ill I am.

To get ready for my new OB visit tomorrow, I picked up my medical records from my last OB. And against my better judgment, I started reading through them. While scanning through my ultrasound reports, two works struck me quite fiercely. BICORNUATE UTERUS! How in the world was I not informed of this seemingly important detail? I promptly called Husband and asked him to start doing some research on the abnormal anatomy and its affects on pregnancy.

What we've read on various medical and pregnancy sites has been a mix of neutral and bad news. Any thoughts from my well edguhmucated buddies out there? Words of wisdom and humor always welcome.

And the walls came crumbling down

Perhaps from my last entry, you have deduced that I am on a downward slide. If so, you would be entirely correct. I ran out of Z0l0ft over the weekend and am on day 2 of complete withdrawal. I am quickly losing the ability to function at all and the world is looking surprisingly bleak. Let's hit the low points:

1. I am not at all nauseous today. Not at all. Moderately crampy too. Convinced that this pregnancy is over.
2. Nothing I do will ever change my current circumstances. I will always be a failure. And, despite my track record, I will always work really hard only to cause cataclysmic destruction and failure.
3. I am stupid no matter how many degrees I have.
4. I can't pay my rent, no matter how many jobs I have, because see above.
5. No matter how much I know about my mental illness and the importance of maintaining my meds, I will always allow myself to run out of meds and then consider myself a total failure in everything with any importance.
6. I will take everything personally, blame everything on myself, realize that I am depressed and then still slice open my arms in attempt at healing. Now that makes so much sense doesn't it?

I could just keep going, but I think we get the point.

Fuck my classes, my committments, and my clients. I'm going home.

The Plan

Fear not, my friendly bloggies. Even though there are so many times when I don't want to live a long life, as exampled in my last post regarding my alarming cholesterol values, I have a plan for those rare times when a long life sounds kind of nice. After I recovered from the shock and reality of my genetics and health, I devised a new life plan with the help of my doctor.

All of the drugs are out. Firstly, for my relatives, the cholesterol fighting meds aren't very effective unfortunately and so they are unlikely to help me. Secondly, the relevant drugs are teratogenic. So that just won't work for someone who is trying to conceive, like me. Finally, the drugs are not compatible with my mood stabilizers while not trying to conceive. Because they both tweak liver function, I can't take them together. And, in my last post, some bloggie friends commented that the results may be a bit askew because I was pregnant not that long ago. I wish I could blame my former condition for the high numbers, but my own blood lipid history tells me that it isn't likely. Plus, my blood draw was carefully planned 8 weeks post-D&C. And, because the miscarriage was so early on, the mammaries and associated physiology were not at full tilt yet so they would not yet have a significant impact on my levels still 8 weeks later. So I think all the doctors (3 have been involved on this one) are right in thinking that these results indicate a serious threat to my life.

I have but one option, diet and exercise. And, since I don't do anything half-ass, I am going all out on this one. No more meat, except fish, and no more dairy. The next to go is white sugar and white breads. Let's just say that my refrigerator looks pretty bare now that I have done a full cleanse. Finally, I have to add 30 minutes of exercise a day. Let's just say that I am glad this is coming on the eve of summer. Fresh fruits and vegetables will soon flood the markets, and the sun should provide some good outdoor treks. And, so I march on. Hup, two, three, four...

Two down, one to go.

After finals, my brain has the mental capacity of a turnip. It's not pretty. In fact, it's so bad that I am a little afraid of writing this post. I have trouble escaping the feeling that everything I write is being graded. On the upside, I am officially two-thirds of my way through this educational hell that they call l@w school. Two years down, one to go.

Dear Aunt Flo is busy packing her bags. While I am absolutely thrilled that AF finally paid me a visit after the D&C, I am anxious about this cycle. Going virtually unmedicated for bipolar in order to try to conceive is not fun. And, I am sure Husband would say the same. He misses those meds even more than I do. Although, he really is a mighty good sport about it all. So, I have the usual anxiety that you are all familiar with when staring at the potential of this cycle. But, I also have the anxiety of wanting to be off my meds for as little time as possible. I am constantly doing calculations to determine "how much longer if". How much longer will I have to be off my meds if I conceive this cycle? How much longer will I have to be off my meds if I don't conceive? And then there's the really sad one. How much longer will I have to be off my meds if I conceive and then miscarry again?

Before I sign off so that I can go comment on all the blogs I have missed for the last week or so, I would like to give a mention to Amy at "A somewhat ordinary life." She has an article published in her newspaper that I think deserves a good look. It's a courageous writing called "Dear Everyone: What to say to a childless couple." Thanks for writing it Amy!

To be continued...

To be continued once I am able to screw my head back on...

...hmmm, now where did I put my drugs?

P.S. Thank you for your comments on my last post,"WWBD". You may notice that I have removed it, but I promise to repost it in due time. I am just feeling very vulnerable at this point. But, I greatly appreciate everyone's candid and raw responses. Compassionate honesty is a sign of trust and friendship. For that, I am grateful.

Updated 4/26/07: I continue to be vulnerable, but I put the post back up. The last group of people I ever want to hide from is you all. Somewhere in this world, I need a spot to be genuine, and this is it.

Adventures in Medicine

So yesterday, Husband and I arrived at the hospital for my D&C at around 2:00pm. The very kind nurses got me situated in the same day surgery department and I was lounging on the gurney trying to appreciate the rare moment of watching cable TV. Plus, I was efficiently hydrating with my new IV line. Around 3:00pm, Mr. Doctor came in to brief me, and when he asked if I had any questions, I wondered aloud about the results of the last cervical smear Mrs. Doctor had done when she couldn't find the heartbeat. That day, she remarked that my cervix was looking rather raw. Concerned, she did a quick smear and sent it out. They got the results of that test late Thursday. No one had thought to look at the results before hand, so when I mentioned it to Mr. Doctor he ran out to call the office and find out if the results were indeed back and what they said.

Now before, I reveal what those results were, I need to remind everyone of something. Both Husband and I were married and divorced before this marriage. Both of us left our first spouses upon the discovery that his wife and my husband were in fact cheating on us. As I have previously mentioned, the first husband didn't just cheat once, he had actually been sleeping with other women the entire 10 years we had been together. Once I got a divorce and before I began my relationship with Husband, I went to Planned Parenthood and got a full work up concerning STDs, including HIV. It was scary, but the results all came back negative at that time. Little did I know that a few diseases can lay low and remain undetected for quite awhile.

The lab results came back as equivocal for chlamydia. Basically, the results were neither absolutely positive, nor necessarily negative. Nice, huh? I thought so. When Mr. and Mrs. Doctor consulted with me yesterday, they both agreed, and thus so did I, that they wanted me on 48 hours of the best antibiotic before doing this D&C. Too high of a risk of driving the bacteria further into my reproductive organs than it already might be. And while it doesn't currently appear that the bacteria has done any damage to the tubes, the bacteria may be responsible for the death of my fetus.

This is an incredibly painful time for me as it was. But now to know that my first marriage and all of the awful things that happened as a result of it continue to haunt me in the most important thing in my life right now. I am filled with rage, and anger, and revenge. I am going through life mostly in silence at this time. I just can hardly say anything at all. I fear that if I open my mouth, I won't be able to stop the explosion of hate that would come from within.

Hypomanic Fallout

It's no secret in this blogland of ours that I have bipolar. Specifically I have bipolar II, which mostly means for me that instead of all out mania, I tend to have lower manic phases, called hypomania. Now this can mean all different things for all different people, so what I am about to describe is just my own experience. I cannot emphasize enough that everyone's phases manifest in different ways.

For me hypomania is a time of taking on the world. While in one moment that means I am determined to do every task and opportunity that comes my way, in another moment taking on the world means being angry and irritable with absolutely everything and everyone. The problem, as most bipolar people will tell you, what goes up must come down.

Normally, in a proper medicated state, the highs are not too high and the lows and not too low. However, in my current insufficiently medicated state, the highs are as high as the sun and the lows go so low that I find myself in hell. So given that pregnancy hormones already make for a somewhat unusual mental/emotional state, in me, that's compounded by the absence of mood regulating medications. I am taking Z010ft, which has been deemed safe for pregnancy, but really it's not your safest bet for people with bipolar. This drug is an antidepressant and tend to send bipolar people into extended states of mania. And mania can be enhanced by life altering events.

Finding out that I was pregnant served as the perfect trigger for mania. However with the exhaustion, I was rapidly cycling in and out of mania. Some people experience mania as a fabulous high that enables their creativity and productivity to beyond human levels and expectations. On my end, mania is not a time for happiness. In fact with my racing thoughts, rage, irritability, and general do-it-all attitude, there is no time for happiness, or reason, or logic. And there is definitely no time for mistakes, especially my own.

After the BFP, I was off and running. Someone finally offered me a place on their mock trial team and I picked it right up even after strong warnings from Husband and therapist not to take on additional stress right now. Then, I took on a legal aid volunteer project located 2 hours away, in a county that has 10 feet of accumulated snow. I told all my mentees (first year lah stoodents) that I could help them anytime, and made successive appointments with them to do so. This is all in addition to my part time job as a rese@rch consultant for the usd@, my four classes, and my hunt for a summer job.

The down came sooner than expected. Suddenly, I discovered that I couldn't do any of this. I was stressed, anxious, and exhausted. Now depressed, it was harder for me to get even my normal load of work done. So after I committed myself to all of these projects, how the hell was I going to get out of them all? Certainly, I can't run around outing myself to everyone as a bipolar crazy person who was in a fit of mania when she took on the world and then some. The insanity defense isn't really where I wanted to go. The fallout from that admission could be even worse from the fallout of the manic episode itself.

So how did I do it? I didn't, other people did. Thus, I did some serious leaning on those who already loved me and already knew about my illness. My husband helped organize my thoughts and prioritize, not to mention keep a perspective. My bloggie friends, yup all of you whether you know it or not, talked me off the ledge and also helped to put both a positive and realistic spin on things. And, one of my best friend's A, who in fact has her own challenge of being a l@w stoodent and blind, helped me get through the mock trial event. She essentially held my hand through the whole thing. And all I could do was return the favor in the most minimal of ways. I cut up her french toast at brunch the other day, and did the driving. Pales in comparison to the way she helped me, but it was all I had to offer at the time. If you are reading this, A...THANK YOU!!!

There's a pooter in my cooter. (now with a photo, per your request)

I have been really really struggling for the last week on how to post my news. And since I haven't come up with a good way to say it, I'll just get it out there. There is a pooter in my cooter, and that's a good thing. Let me explain...

Monday, AF still hadn't shown her ugly head, so I thought, "What the hell, might as well waste a stick." And because I have no patience, I interpret the results as soon as I see the urine do the capillary crawl into the test area. I know, I know, this is a big no, no. Of course, there was a brilliant control line, and apparently nothing in the test area. So I sat there contemplating my extended stay in Crazyville and then finished up. Right before I was about to throw it away, I looked at it again, and what do you know? If I squinted, I could see the faintest of lines. "Is THAT a line? Is that really a line? Is that what positive lines look like? Holy crap, I think that's a line." So I ran upstairs and stuck the urine soaked stick in Husband's face, and asked if he saw a line. He saw the line too. Then I ran downstairs and pulled out Friday's BFN stick from the trash, there were two lines on that one too. (Yeah, I know, that's another big no, no. But hey, I am past rational at this point.) Holy cow, I think I am pregnant.

Then I took a picture of it and sent it to 2 women friends for a second and third opinion. They saw the line too. Husband was still skeptical and tried to remain cautiously optimistic. In the meantime, I couldn't stop rolling the word line over and over in my head, all day long. I am sure it's the only day of this pregnancy that someone could say that I glowed. Not from the hormones, but from the shear excitement of it all. By the next day, I was sure I had imagined the whole thing and tried another stick. Another line, a bit darker than before, but not by much. As I repeated the test every 24 hours, the line got increasingly darker. By Thursday, I was convinced that I was pregnant.

By the way, with the first positive test, I started to freak out about the Ser0que1 I am still taking for sleep and sanity maintenance. I had successfully gone down from 300mg to 100mg, but any lower and I couldn't sleep at all. After consulting every possible drug and pregnancy database, I remained concerned about the drug's affect on my blastocyst. So, I made the unwise decision to go down to 25 mg on Wednesday night. I didn't sleep but maybe 2 fitful hours. Plus, the stress of being snowed-in, caused a flare up of my supposed interstitial cystitis, and then the nausea set in. On Thursday, I was a puddle of tears. A bawling, mess, who eventually threw a magazine across the room out of frustration.

Thursday night, I succumbed to exhaustion and insanity, and ramped my Ser0que1 back up to 50mg. That did the trick. I slept soundly and dreamed like crazy. I will skip the details of the main dream to get to the good part. In the dream, I am riding my bicycle while nursing my newborn. Oh, and my nipples were 4 inches long. My mother, on another bike, asks me what we named the baby boy. My response: Pooter. I named our child Pooter. I have no idea where in the world I came up with that name, but there it was. When I woke up, I thought, hey, there's a Pooter in my cooter. Husband does not find this nearly as funny as I do.





Ask and you shall receive...










As a side note, I am going to try to comment on the last post right before I write another post now. This way, I can respond to your comments. So, now you know, in case you feel like checking it out. Otherwise, just ignore me.

Touching insanity, the conclusion

And now the conclusion to my hospital story from yesterday...

Not long after I overheard the conversation at the nurses' station, the nurses began issuing the medications to the patients for the evening. Still sobbing, I stood in a line waiting for the dispensary nurse to give me two paper cups. One with my pills and one with water. By the way they were the exact same pills I brought with me from home. Here I am, locked away, theoretically protected from myself, all so that I can have a safe place to be while they tweak my meds. I had been there about 6 hours, and was still on the same meds. It didn't occur to anyone to ask me if I would need a sleeping pill, and in my near catatonic state, it didn't occur to me to request it.

At lights out, I found myself in a little twin bed, in a room by myself, with about 4 other empty beds. Bars, placed on the inside, protected the small window which afforded a cheery view of a gray cinder block wall. Next to the door of the room (which I was told never to close), there was a one inch deep sink. So I guess drowning myself in the sink was out. My room had a single toilet, and I was intensely grateful for the full door that granted privacy to its user. Apparently, we were trusted not to drown ourselves in the toilet water. I guess even suicidal patients have their standards after all. We weren't so lucky in terms of a mirror. Now, you know why mental patients always have fucked up hair do's. It can't be helped.

They did allow me to have my blankie. I had gotten the then-husband to resurrect my childhood blankie from storage and pack it with my pajamas and clothes. They did not, however, give me the books he packed for me. Now, I'm a fairly creative person, but I don't think even I could make paper cuts an effective method of suicide.

In the absence of sleeping pills, there was no sleep in sight. There were no clocks in my room, so I am not exactly sure how long I laid there listening to the silence. At some point, I must have finally fallen asleep because of what happened next.

Even sleep brought no peace or rest. My real life nightmare followed me into slumberland. In the dream, I was locked in the psych ward of a public hospital (OK, so in my dreams, I'm not that creative). I was in bed and a large male orderly walked toward me. He lunged at me, clawing at my blankets and pajamas; I was convinced that I was about to be raped. I can still feel his fingers around my throat. The next thing I remember is trying to scream. Suddenly, my screams became real and so loud that I woke myself up. I continued to scream, at the top of my lungs, until I realized it was just a dream. No one came to check on me. What I am guessing was about a half hour later, a man who looked surprisingly like the man in my dream peaked into my room shining a flashlight on my face. Petrified, sobbing, and shaking, I decided right then, that this had gone on long enough.

Just before the nurses changed shifts, a female technician came into my room with a male orderly to draw blood. She had the kindest face, but the pity she exuded for me was palpable. I did my best to look like a "regular" patient though. I even attempted some light banter with her in my efforts to appear normal. In the early morning hours, I had decided that the only way out was to feign normalcy and sanity. Hard to tell whether my mood really did swing up at that point or if this was me in crisis mode. Suddenly, I felt smarter than everyone else within a 30 mile radius. I was convinced that I could outsmart the doctor, if one showed up, and anyone else who got in my way. The crying was over.

There was no way I was going to spend another night there, so I started analyzing my options. First, I examined all of the eating utensils and decided that if need be, I could kill myself with a straw. And since no one seemed to need their plastic sporks (you need to be more than crazy to eat that food), I was collecting those as well. Then, I coerced a nurse to let me have a pencil. I did a quick inventory of the vital arteries that could be skewered with a pencil, and felt comforted by the potential of my new tool. While the other patients busied themselves with their attempts to kill themselves slowly with tobacco, I was making big plans.

Around noon, the 7 or so patients assembled in a small room for a group session. Excellent. This is not the place for people who resort to being caregivers in place of taking care of themselves. Group session was where I completed my transformation from crazy grad school patient to knowledgeable, compassionate, empathetic caregiver. When I can't deal with my own problems, I like to work on other people's. I think the nurses may have figured out my plan of conversion from that, because about a half hour later I was whisked into another locked office. A psychiatrist appeared. Before I even had a chance to tell him that I would be signing myself out and how I knew my rights, he was trying to convince me why I couldn't be released to the public at large. Not for one moment would he concede that I could leave voluntarily. I knew better. One thing I did manage to do in the night was read, and reread over and over again, the patient's rights statement given to me upon admission.

Next, they hauled in my husband to let him know I was trying to leave. He later confessed that the doctor tried to get him to convince me to stay. Little did they know, this guy was spineless and rarely contradicted me to my face. In the meantime, I tootled around ministering to the other patients like I worked there. I should mention that my husband had a meeting with the doctor for over an hour. I saw the doctor for a grand total of 5 minutes.

I finally walked through those locked doors in the late evening. I walked away and vowed never to return. It was over, for now.

I would like only to reiterate one fact, this is MY story. Each experience of hospitalization, for whatever reason, is unique. Perhaps if I had stayed, I would have eventually met with a good doctor for a meaningful period of time. I will never know. What I do know is that I would have found a way to escape, whether they released me or not.

Touching insanity

This is the post I was writing last Thursday. It's a real downer, just to warn you. But I needed to share it, because I don't talk about this at all with anyone except Husband. It's too painful and shameful to share with anyone but you all.

I've been reading a lot of birth stories in the blogosphere lately. I don't have a birth story of my own, but I do have a hospital story that I need to tell.

In my depressed state, I have been doing a lot of thinking about hospitalization. As all of my doctors know, I am 100% against being hospitalized. I am sure that somewhere out there, someone has had a good experience with hospitalization for depression or mania, but I am certainly NOT one of those people. I would rather be tied down to my couch and force fed Vegemite, than be hospitalized, again. One sure way to convince me to kill myself would be to put me in a hospital's mental health ward.

DISCLAIMER: As a bipolar blogger, I have a reader or two who also suffers from a mental illness. I don't want to deter anyone from choosing to be hospitalized, it is a wise choice. But, this is the story of MY experience, and is NOT the experience of all.

So here's the story of my hospitalization...

In April during my 1st year of the 1st marriage, I was in the depths of depression, completely incapacitated. I only left the house to go to my therapists office. I had not yet been properly diagnosed with bipolar, so the docs were still trying standard antidepressants on me. I was on my 5th med, and nothing was working. (Coincidentally, it's the same antidepressant I am using right now, hmmm.) By then, I had already made one weak attempt. My then husband caught me in the act though, and I cried for hours from the embarrassment. Still in grad school, I couldn't bare the thought of not finishing my degree just because I couldn't drag myself out of bed. I felt trapped and saw no way out, just like so many others before me.

On my big outing to the therapists I revealed that I just couldn't hack it any longer. I had a plan and I was going to put it into action while my husband was at school, an hour away. My therapist refused to let me go home while she made arrangements for hospitalization. Her experience told her that our local hospital was not a good place for mental health, so she put me in a hospital about a half hour away.

In the meantime, I felt some misguided peace at being taken care of. Thus, I walked to a really nice restaurant, a tapas style dining establishment, to have lunch while she made the arrangements. I kept thinking of it as my last meal, and now that I look back at it, that meal was the first thing I had enjoyed in months. Sitting in the restaurant, I kept thinking about how all of the other diners had no idea that I was certifiable and about to go to a hospital ward where they lock the door behind you. There was something very amusing about this scenario and it was all I could do not to laugh hysterically while I ate my lunch. (That definitely would have clued them in to my situation.)

By late afternoon, Therapist got my husband to come get me and drive me to the hospital. I quietly wept as he drove, otherwise we were silent. Admission is through the ER and that's where you get to justify why you should be put away. It was the only time I would get to see a kind medical professional during my stay. The good doc questioned me for about 30 minutes before an orderly showed up to escort me to the proper ward. I clung to my husband for dear life. I wanted out of this whole plan, and yet, that no longer seemed to be a choice. All of my decisions were being made for me at that point.

After they took away everything I but the clothes I was wearing, showed me around, and issued my bed, they told my husband he had to leave. And that's where I lost it. I was intensely attached to my husband back then. So I watched him walk away that day and heard the door click behind him. I am sure he could hear my sobs from the other side of the hospital and in the parking lot. I was alone.

Now, perhaps you are thinking, that there were plenty of medical professionals to facilitate my transition. Nope, not a single one. No nurses, therapists, doctors, friends, technicians, or orderlies. No one. Another common misconception is that mental patients wear pajamas and robes all day. Nope, not even close. At this hospital, they require all of their mental patients to wear their day clothes and to be active. The other weird part was the other mental patients on the ward. They stared at me like I had two heads, like I was the only crazy person there.

Perhaps I was, but I was still terrified of the other patients. Two adult middle-aged males were trying to manage schizophrenia and addiction. The other 4 patients were female and either teenage or much much older than me. They were dealing with addiction, depression, and anorexia. Quite a mixed bag.

Until lights out, I just paced up and down the hall, sobbing into a wad of tissue. During one of my marches past the nurses' station, I overheard a conversation between two of the nurses. They were talking about me...

"Did you see the new girl in here?"
"Oh yeah, I hear she's even a graduate student from *** Uni.vers.ity! Interesting, huh?"
"She must be really, really messed up then."

I was mortified that they were talking about me like I was a specimen. And what the hell does being a graduate student have to do with anything? What the fuck? I was already painfully ashamed of where and who I was, and this little conversation didn't help matters.

I will continue this story in another post, as this has become too long as it is...

Just because you're paranoid...

"Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not watching you." -Kurt Cobain

Warning: lots of discussion about bacteria, vaginas, and various forms of bodily excretions.

Sometime ago, I blogged about bleeding in between periods all of a sudden. Well, actually, it's just during and after sex. Some of my blogger buddies as well as pretty much everyone else I told said "that's normal, no worries". I worried anyway. I had never had this problem before, and now that we were trying to conceive it became an issue.

Granted, I am hyper-paranoid. While off my meds, worrying has been taken on as a new art form for me. I really, really need my meds, so any thought of extending my stay here in Crazyville (due to an inability to conceive) is quite literally terrifying. It's not just an uncomfortable way of living, as so many seem to believe. It's a constant fight to stay alive. I wish I was exaggerating. Lately, I just want to curl up into the tightest ball and fade away into oblivion. I don't want to freak you all out with the "S" word though. That's not quite where I am at, and believe me I would know, as I have visited before. No, I just want everything to go away, especially me. Laziness keeps me from being proactive on this idea though. So please don't worry or send an ambulance. I will survive to post again, I promise.

Back to being paranoid. I finally landed an appointment with a new OB/GYN for yesterday. Initially, I thought I was being ridiculous for going to see the doctor for such a little thing; I was sure he would laugh me right out of his office when I told him that we had been trying for only a few months. He never laughed and took me quite seriously. Once I listed all of my symptoms, he was quick to confirm that I do in fact have a valid concern. I am sure that some of you know the result, but I will outline it anyway because who can resist writing about sex, cooters, and fishy odors.

Here's the run down... Bleeding with intercourse, Husband notices a funky smell coming from my nether reaches after a romp, no conception despite carefully timed frolicks. After a brief ride in the stirrups, I had my answer. I may be paranoid, but there was still something fishy in Cooterville. Bacterial vaginosis. Just rolls off the tongue doesn't it? Turns out the bad bacteria doesn't do so well in my acid bath of a vagina, but once semen enters the room, it's party time. The more basic semen neutralizes the acidity, and the bacteria multiply exponentially (at least somebody is reproducing in there). Those bacteria rage on and make a chemical that results in the same smell as the fish department in our low end grocery store. Not only does it turn my stomach, but that fishy chemical is killing our precious sperm. Bastards!!!!

As you can imagine, I was absolutely thrilled that the doc had an answer and a prescription for me. Husband looked mighty relieved as well. I think he's terrified that we will have to do a semen analysis. I don't blame him, if I had to come to orgasm at the doctor's office to check my fertility, it would never happen. Too much pressure.

Here's the drawback to my new med, no drinking. Crisis. Apparently, my med has that same sneaky little ingredient that they give to alcoholics to keep them from drinking. Just one sip of alcohol and I will be a regular visitor of the most valuable bowl in the house, the porcelain one. Oh how I love my wine with dinner too. Plus, no sex for me either until the infection is gone. Horny and sober, how will I survive?

More medication, please.

During the two week wait, I drive myself bonkers, more than usual in fact. I just can't seem to convince myself to relax and give it the full year I am supposed to give to the effort of trying to conceive. I am acutely aware of some of my blogosphere friends and reads that would likely laugh me out of the web for wallowing in sorrow in only the first few months of trying. Only a few people understand by personal experience, the incredible challenge of going off your meds. My mind feels a bit clearer in some aspects, as a result of dropping so many of my prescriptions in order to increase my chances of conceiving a fetus without neural tube defects. However, in so many other ways, my mind, including emotions, thoughts, organization, logic, is intensely disturbed and clouded. It's painful. Every failure each month guarantees an extra month of this same pain. My husband gave me in my stocking an awesome magnet to hang on the fridge. It's one of those Anne Taintor creations with the words, "More medication, please." Love this magnet, and the words have stuck with me. I would really really like some more medication, please.

And then a miracle occurred

Last night was very rough indeed. The sandman was apparently having an affair with someone else because I didn't catch a single wink last night. I finally fell asleep on the couch after dawn and after a double dose of Seroquel. Didn't wake up until after 1pm today. Groggy, but finally rested.

A few minutes ago, I was surfing my life away and then a miracle occurred. Husband stands up and says to me in a sincere tone, "Have fun blogging, bloghead." So I ask where he's off to and he replies, "I'm going to clean the kitchen." Long pause now for the breath of air I am trying to catch as he walks toward the kitchen. I am all a flutter. Goosebumps as well.

Happiness is a clean kitchen in the land of Crazyville. He's going to be able to milk this good deed for awhile and I really don't mind. Crazyville is on the red level of the terrorist alert scheme when the kitchen has been taken over by other kingdoms, families, and genus. Yuck. When feeling heinously hypomanic-- which is my least favorite section of Crazyville and where I currently hang out--I am in a state of heightened alert, a montage thought pattern bombarding me with organized mayhem. I become an impatient toddler with obsessive tendencies. The carpet really NEEDS to be vacuumed so that all of the vacuum lines in the rug are parallel and the individual fibers all tilt the same direction to make it look the same tint. The knick knacks, scattered across tables and other surfaces, always NEED to be rearranged. And yes, it all has to be done right now. "NOW!" I tell you. This is a really bad part of town.

But, I seem to be able to focus on at least one thing for any duration. I blog and blog and blog til my head transforms into a more amicable pattern. It really works. And so I am left alone to blog while Husband cleans the kitchen. Awesome.

Ahhhh, vacation

I am finally settling into vacation mode. It's a vacation without any money, but it doesn't cost me much to lay on the couch in my reindeer pajamas and blog in between naps. Good times. Husband is playing with his playstation while I nurse my headache. Headaches are guaranteed when I drink a glass a red wine too close to bed time. Oh well, it was worth it.

My new meds are wreaking havoc on my body. The reduction in Effexor with the addition of Zoloft has been a true assault on normalcy, not that I had a lot of normalcy left these days. The change in meds reminds me of the time when the doctors and I were desperately exploring all of the different mood regulating chemicals out there in an attempt to reduce the amplitude of my mood's sinus wave. During that time, I would nap in my car in the middle of the day, just to make it through. All of the med changes simply wiped me out and reduced me to a groggy fragment of myself. It's not nearly as bad this time around, but I am definitely spending extra time on the couch with the sandman. Hence, the two hour Christmas Day nap.

I made it through my weekend with the in-laws. My new approach of zero expectations works well. OK, I do have one expectation...I expect them to irritate me beyond control. Expectation achieved! My mother-in-law is aware of my bipolar disorder. I really don't know what possessed me to tell her, but I did. Ever since then, all of the gifts I get from her involve padding around in my pajamas. For Christmas I got four sets of pajamas, just from her. Apparently, mental illness for her involves a lot of well matched pajamas. Oh, and they come with color coordinated slippers. Message received... When you are crazy, don't leave the house, don't get dressed, don't get out of bed. No problem, that I can do.

Her second offense was equally subtle. This requires some background knowledge. For husband's birthday, his sister bought him the 6th season Simpson's DVD set. Husband and his sister have a thing going about the Simpson's that I think is cute. Whatever it takes to connect sounds good to me. Unfortunately, the Simpson's 6th season is in a different package than the rest of the other seasons that we own. Luckily, other fans must be as anal retentive as I am, because inside the box they give you instructions on how to send away for the normal non-Homer head box as a replacement. Yes, I am sick and thus I really need my DVD boxes to match. So, husband, not realizing that I didn't want to reveal ALL of my crazy tendencies to the in-laws, made the mistake of telling his mom about the replacement offer and how his crazy wife needs the boxes to be the same. Now it's important to note that the later seasons are offered in either the weird plastic box that drives me nuts or the normal version, unlike the 6th season which was only offered as one version, the weird unmatching one. For Christmas, husband received the 9th season from his mother and I will give you one guess as to which version she gifted to him. Yep, the fucking plastic Lisa head case. Since I was in the Christmas spirit, I figured I would give her the benefit of the doubt and said, "Oh, you couldn't find the other version, huh?" Her reply with a cackle, "Oh no, the other one was there, but I thought this one would be more funny because I knew it would bug you." Yes, she even admitted it, right to my face. Ugh. I will revenge this one, but it has to be equally subtle. The war is on now.

Christmas day was peaceful and restful, just what I needed. We enjoyed a made ahead breakfast casserole, yum. Then binged on pistachios, goldfish crackers, and a shameless Asiago dip. Good stuff. Dinner was cocktail shrimp followed by a dessert of homemade chocolate truffles. We didn't eat the special one though. The one that husband insisted I make. Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo. We are so proud of it that it is pictured here. Why have kids for your Christmas pictures when you can have a truffle shaped like a poo?

All THOSE people want for Christmas

Had a long discussion with my therapist today about how to talk about my lack of job offers when the in-laws ask about it this weekend. I have been avoiding them and anyone else who would potentially ask about my rather pathetic job situation. The thing is that if you have to ask then I haven't already told you about it. If I haven't already discussed it with you, then I don't want to or intend on discussing it with you. With the exception of a few people, I haven't talked to most of my so-called friends and family about it for a very good reason. THOSE people are the ones who get off on my misery and this includes the in-laws. I seem to have a lot of THOSE people in my life actually. In fact, I think that's all they want for Christmas this year is to hear about unfortunate events in my life. So because I am feeling a need to give, I think I will let them have what they want, my misery. It's a great year from THOSE people, Santa was generous this year. Here's a few fun time misery gifts the in-laws will get in their stocking on Christmas Eve...

1. Nope, no job offers. I am 0 for 6. Wow,school has a been great investment for me so far. So if you were angry that I got into the school of my choice, then revel in my $80,000 school loan load combined with no job.

2. Not enough for you? How about the fact that my dog died this year.

3. Still feeling deprived? My grandfather died too.

4. Back for more? Good thing I am well stocked... Not pregnant yet and bleeding in between periods. Sorry no confirmed diseases or cancers yet, but wait a month or two and I will see what I can do; my doctor couldn't get me in until mid-January.

5. Don't walk away yet, there's more... My bank account is $600 in the hole right now and counting.

6. Even our appliances hate me... Our microwave finally crapped out on us after repeatedly beeping at random intervals and then flashing the number 6:66 over and over again. I kid you not.

7. The new microwave we purchased blew up after one whole week.

8. No, we didn't purchase the extended warranty and no it cannot be fixed.

9. I have long curly black hairs growing out of my chin and out of the mole of my face! ON MY FACE DAMNIT!!!

10. And for the grande finale... the JRT ate all but one pair of my underwear. Why did she spare a single pair? Because I was still wearing them.

I could go on but I really don't want to spoil you. Let's leave some for your birthday. Merry Christmas!

Seroquel and Sisters

I am slogging through the day, studying for my last final of the semester, and comforting myself with cheesy poofs. Love that nuclear orange flavor. Good thing I have dogs or else I would never be able to keep that stuff off of the furniture. At least they help out around the house, more than I can say for myself. The sandman continues to elude me. Sneaky little bastard. Apparently, 25 mcg of Seroquel isn't quite enough to bribe the sandman to stay. I guess I've been spoiling him over the years. Well, the party's over buddy, I can't hook you up forever you know. Jones on my friend.

One of my sisters left a long voice mail last week and I am still steaming over it. I just don't have any patience left these days for her bull. Yep, I am in that good of a mood. I haven't called her back yet, because I really don't have anything nice to say to her at this moment, nor in the near future most likely. Sister Sensitive called to tell me she was planning a trip to New York City in March. Great, only 5 hours away, can't wait to hop, skip, and jump my way over for a visit. She wanted to give me the dates so that I will make sure to include it in my plans for that month. Sure no problem, my life comes to a full and complete halt for people who are kind enough to come through my state without consulting a freakin' map. Next, she hinted that if I really couldn't make it out to the city to see her while she was there, she may (note the word "may") be able to schedule a day trip to my town. Wow, that's super generous of her dontcha think? I was impressed with her thoughtfulness. Next time I am in San Francisco, I will make sure to let her know that she needs to schedule in a quick 350 mile drive up North to say hi. Since I'm in the area and all.

However, I am not sure why I think that if she looked at a map that it would make any difference. Sister Sensitive once called me to settle a debate between her and her then boyfriend. Now, normally, I am a true believer in the idea that there are no dumb questions, only dumb answers, but she really challenged this belief that day. Her question, you ask? Get ready...wait for it....

"Uh, like, Nicole, is Alaska, like, a state or a country?" I don't think I have to tell you which side of the debate she was on in this one. After my reply, which I swear I answered with a completely straight face, she said to me, "Are you, like, sure?"

Crazy conversations

So I am definitely on my way to crazyville, where there are no meds but plenty of unsolvable problems. I am up to two total and complete breakdowns a day. Good times to be had by all. Studying for finals has me wanting to either eat my casebooks or burn them for firewood. It's both cold in here and I am really hungry all of a sudden. Sleep is becoming elusive, but when I am able to visit slumberland I have plenty of nightmares. The big fertility calendar that I am using says I may be able to detect the pregnancy hormone with a test on Monday. It's everything I can do not to test beforehand. The pregnancy tests sit on my bathroom counter and call to me everytime I am in there. They sing to me and say "Stick me in a cup of that warm, sunny, sterile stuff only you can give us. Come on you know you want to." Oh, and I do. "Why not use all five of us to be doubly sure of the disappointment of knowing that you are in for an additional month off your meds and an extended stay in crazyville. Those casebooks are so tasty and good for the colon."..."You can always buy more of us, in a hurry, at the drug store, for the mere price of one arm and one leg for just one precious test." I need to start wearing earplugs in the bathroom. Great, what's that gonna cost me?

My husband and I have conversations with our imaginary children, they go something like this...

Little crazy child: Mommy, why do you drink so much?
Me: Because you're bad.

LCC (crying): I am so so sad that I make you drink, mommy.
Me: Tell it to your therapist.

LCC: But I don't have a therapist.
Me: You will.

I am going to make a great mother, aren't I? I try to keep therapists and psychiatrists in business, where would they be without me?

New do

Not a woman of wealth, I am constantly searching for a way to give without putting my husband out of house and home. One thing I have been blessed with is hair and lots of it. I seem to be able to grow hair quickly. So for the third time in my life, I cut off over twelve inches of hair to send off as a donation to Locks of Love. This amazing group takes donated hair to make real hair wigs for people who need them. Not only did the reduced load feel so good on my head, but the idea of giving someone else the chance to run their fingers through their own head of hair feels even better. I have put a link to their website on the side of this blog in case anyone is interested in finding out more about them. They take all colors, even gray, which is good because the percentage of brown on my head is reducing exponentially every year.

And now for something completely different...

I saw my psychiatrist today so that we could continue to adjust my meds for conception. We are decreasing the Effexor and Seroquel and replacing it with Zoloft. With so much more information and research available about the safety of Zoloft for pregnant women we both feel more comfortable with Zoloft than Effexor and Seroquel. I fought her long enough and hard enough about breastfeeding that she seems to be finally conceding to accepting my insistence that I be able to breastfeed. I didn't avoid breast reduction surgery just for looks. I am by all accounts, well endowed rack-wise. For years, I have wanted to lop about 50% off each one so that I can bounce without pain and get rid of the giant divots in my shoulders. Even my husband remarked about how heavy they were, asking how I was able to carry those things around all day. When I fretted about how much bigger they might get during pregnancy, his eyes lit up like I had just offered him a new car. Great rack for him, but not so much for me. Anyway, I always thought that messing with the mammaries may not be a good plan if I wanted to breastfeed so I opted to wait for breast reduction surgery until after I was done having children. So, I was none too pleased when my psychiatrist said it would be too risky to have to be off meds so that I can breastfeed. Her experience tells her that I am a prime candidate for psychosis and post-partum depression. Yippee. Sign me up. So as a compromise, she is switching me over to Zoloft as it appears safe for breastfeeding and gives me some level of protection against the great hormone slide.

Meds, madness, and motherhood, oh my.