I Wish

For the woman starting her fertility journey:  I wish that yours isn’t a long road.  I wish that you never experience month after month of highs and lows.  I wish you never get used to seeing a negative pregnancy test result.  I wish that you remain blissfully unaware of just how hard this journey can be.

For the woman moving on to yet another step in her fertility journey:  I wish that this is your last new treatment.  I wish that you can still get happy and hopeful in your treatments.  I wish that you still have enough fight in you to keep trying.

To the woman ending her fertility journey:  I wish that you didn’t have to say it was the end of the road.  I wish that you’re actually able to find peace with your decision.  I wish that you don’t regret anything in life.  I wish (and hope and pray) that you don’t blame your partner and that you still hug, kiss, and make love with them.  I wish you don’t blame yourself even more.

To the woman who struggled and succeeds:  I wish that you know we’re happy for you.  I wish that you won’t forget your struggles and that this helps you to be empathetic with those who are still struggling.  I wish that you carry successfully and that you love your little baby with all of the love you have.

To the woman who didn’t struggle at all:  I wish you could understand what it is like to want something so bad and not get it.  I DON’T wish infertility on you.  I wish that you know what a great gift you’ve been given and that you never, ever, take for granted what a miracle you’ have.

For all of you wishing to be mothers:  I wish you get your Big Fat F*cking Positive!

For all of the husbands, wives, and partners:  I wish you know what amazing people you are.  I wish you understand how appreciated and loved you are.  I wish that you feel supported as well.  I wish that you know we couldn’t do it without you. 

For all of the future babies:  I wish that you’re loved and cherished your whole lives.




Oh, What a Weekend!

On Friday, Cody and I trekked it all the way to the city (Toronto) for my CD 3 appointment.  The Doctor, once again, started with “Why aren’t we pregnant?”.  I almost tackled him.  He then went on and on about stuff that was annoying me (I don’t remember exactly what) and all I wanted to do was get home because we needed to leave to drive out of town for the weekend.  Then he mentioned IUI.

Now, I knew that this was coming eventually.  I, for some reason though, did not expect it on Friday.  He said he wanted to do at least one more round of Femara and timed intercourse, but that IUI was looking like more of a possibility.  I’m, once again, “LUCKY” though since I have PCOS and therefore have lots of follicles that would produce lots of eggs.  Get the f*** outta here.  Yeah, every woman should just hope for so many follicles.  Yeah, every woman should be so lucky as to develop diabetes and have fears of never having a baby because of this disease. Every woman should just wish, hope and pray for this.  “LUCKY”, my ass.

I digress.

Anyway, the Doctor handed over a bunch of papers with statistics on them.  I went to the front, got my Femara, and sat in the car.  Cody started driving and the meltdown commenced.  Long story short – I told Cody I wasn’t ready for an IUI; I wanted to be in our house and lose some weight before an IUI; I was pissed because in the clinics research, out of 88 people only 2 got pregnant with Femara and timed intercourse; I felt like I wasn’t allowed to put the breaks on about anything.  There was a lot.  A lot of venting.  A lot of crying.  A lot of snarky remarks.  It was a really, really bad drive.  At one point, after making Cody buy McDonalds for breakfast (eek.), I told him what steps I wanted to take.  I calmly and rationally told my very loving husband that I wanted to wait a couple of months before getting an IUI.  I told him that I needed to be settled into the house and working out, but that I didn’t want to break for that time period – I felt we should keep with what we’re doing.  He agreed and was happy that we weren’t talking about “giving up”.

Anyway, we get home.  Clean the house. Finish the quilt we were making for my friend’s 30th birthday gift.  Pack the car and leave for Ottawa.

I’m not going to get into the details of the weekend.  We had a good time though and I drank for the first time in months.  Like, so many months that I don’t even remember the last time I drank was.  And it was probably so stupid of me to even drink the way that I was drinking but fuck it.  It was fun, I was tipsy and with my best friends.  

And here’s where I do and don’t regret part of the weekend:

I’m drinking a good amount of vodka and cranberry juice in a loud bowling alley with girls I’ve known since I was 4 years old.  And I tell them all that I’m having real and serious problems having a baby.  I just told them like it was a normal conversation, like its something that I haven’t cried about every month.  Like it’s something that hasn’t made me feel ashamed and worried about for 3 years.  

It. Felt. So. Good.

My bestie was amazing.  She felt bad, but just the right amount of bad.  She even offered me her uterus.  She told me that she was sad I waited so long to tell her, but that she was happy I finally felt like I could.

My bestie’s sister was… well, how she usually is.  She told me that she and her husband are going to start trying soon.  But that she hoped we’d have babies at the same time.

My friend who shares the same name as me was sympathetic.  She then confessed a lot of her own fears about life (not having a career yet; not having a down payment on a house yet; not wanting marriage at all and being ok if she never has kids).  

And then we danced and drank more.  We got mad about our issues and then talked about the bitchy girls we went to high school with.  We kissed our husbands and boyfriends and had a good time.  Each time one of us brought up a problem, there was more alcohol and support from each other.

When I woke up, I regretted the alcohol first then was regretting talking so openly about my fertility struggles.  And then realized I didn’t really regret it.  They all now know what Cody and I are going through and genuinely care.  It feels nice.

Everything just might end up being alright.  Maybe not anytime soon, but eventually.  And if I never tell another person about our struggles, these 3 amazing women know and they’re going to be there for me when I need it.



Too Much?

“Thank you for calling the office of Dr. C and Dr. R.  Please leave a message at the sound of the tone and we’ll eventually give you a call.  Or you could call 911 if it’s a real emergency.  You pick.”


Me:  “Hi.  This is Beanie Mc-Pissed-off-and-Annoyed.  I’m just calling to let you know that my cycle started.  Again.  So I’ll be coming in on Friday.  Again.  My papers say to let you know so you can get my chart ready so we can start this whole process over.  Again.  Thanks.”



No, their message doesn’t really say that.  But it went on and on and I didn’t have any reason to sit there typing out what they said just so I could have it verbatim for you.  You see where I’m going with it.

But yes, that is the message I left for them.

To Tell or Not to Tell. THAT is the (current) Question.

I was trying to think of a creative way to tell you all that this cycle failed too.  Oh, big surprise, I know.  Does timed intercourse even work for fertility-challenged couples?  Sounds like a scam to me.  In fact, I’m getting more and more suspicious as the cycles roll past me.  

Don’t get me wrong.  I don’t want to move on to the next more invasive, expensive step.  But I am wondering why the hell this hasn’t worked already.  Apparently, we’re healthy.  Apparently the issue was me ovulating, and that’s been fixed.  Apparently, we are supposed to get pregnant using this method combined with patience.

If one more person tells me to be patient, I’m going to slap them stupid.  And then I’ll be blacklisted from all of the fertility clinics in Toronto.  

I was telling Cody that being hush-hush about this is starting to take a toll on me.  I feel like I need to talk to someone.  Writing this blog helps, but it does not help when my family and friends have no idea what’s going on and then an innocent baby comment is made.  Maybe I’ll need to do a grand reveal and send them the link to this blog to get them all caught up.  

I worry about telling them though.  First, I don’t want – or need – any “tips”.  I also don’t want pity.  Questions:  I’d love them to ask me questions.  Really see how much pain this is causing the two of us.  And then for them to see how determined we are as a couple.  How much love we have for each other.  

I want Cody’s family to see how great a man he really is.  He’s taken me to all of my appointments, held me while I cried, and picked me up when I’ve needed it.  I want them to see what kind of son they raised.  They should be so proud.

My family knows a little bit.  When I tried to talk about it with my dad, he got really uncomfortable, so it’s fine.  I get that.  But I wish they could tell me that I’m not disappointing them.  It’s hard for my family to understand.  No one has struggled with fertility openly in my family.  Getting pregnant and having a baby either happens or it doesn’t, according to my family members.  They couldn’t wrap their heads around the idea of spending so much money on science.  Science that isn’t paying off.  And I wish my aunts and uncles knew so that they wouldn’t ask around the gossip tree about when I will be bringing life into this world.  

I also wish my friends knew.  I wish that they wouldn’t tell me that they can’t wait for Cody and I to have babies.  I wish a particular friend of mine wouldn’t call and bluntly ask “Are you pregnant yet?  Why not?”.  I’ve danced around the issue, but it’s not something anyone seems to care much about.  My friends either have kids or don’t want them yet.  As far as I know, I’m the only one actively trying with every morsel of my being to get pregnant.  If I’m not, and if a friend is going through something similar, I wish I’m the kind of person they feel they could talk to if they wanted to.  

I was buying fabric for a badass quilt I’m making.  The person cutting the blue cotton asked me if I had kids.  I said no, not yet.  She asked me if I was trying.  I said yes.  She asked me when I would find out if I was pregnant.  I told her I had a negative result that morning.  She asked me how many negative results we’ve had – and for the first time ever, it was revealed to someone that this was number 5.  5 months of trying.  5 months of tests, blood work, ultra sounds.  5 months of hope and optimism.  5 months of failure.  

The woman was nice.  She was empathetic/sympathetic.  She told me that she’d had a miscarriage in January and had been trying again for a couple of months with no luck.  I felt for her too.

It’s strange.  I don’t know her name.  I may or may not ever see her again.  And still, being able to say it out loud to someone and have their honest reaction was something I needed.

I also realized that we (or I, specifically) don’t give people enough credit.  Maybe I could talk to my mother-in-law and she’d comfort me.  Maybe my aunt wouldn’t sit there and give me advice of what to do.  Maybe my best friend is still my best friend.  And even though she has no desire to have kids does not mean she won’t understand my dreams to be a mom.  I’m sure she’d take me out and get me drunk after a negative test result.  All of these people could still give me the love and support I really need during this roller coaster.  


Thinking of you all, 



Pain. Loss. Grief.

I am writing with a very heavy heart today, friends.

On Saturday I said a final goodbye to my very dear cat, MOO.  Last year, he had a tumour removed.  A few months later, it returned.  Cody and I made the decision to let him live his life the best he could until the cancer started to effect him.  He was doing amazingly well until last week.  He started to not eat as much; he had trouble going to the bathroom; I noticed a big weight loss.  And there’s the huge tumour on his back – a daily reminder of how limited his time with us was going to be.

MOO wasn’t effected by the rapidly growing tumour.  He was a happy, well-fed, affectionate cat.  He loved to chase his cat-brother around and wrestle.  He even started to enjoy playing with our roommates cat, Teddy.  He didn’t slow down once, until a week ago.

I am so grateful to have had a whole extra year with him.  If the tumour hadn’t been removed when it was, he would have passed away much sooner.  I have cherished every second, minute, hour, and day with him.

In 2007, I was looking to get a cat of my own.  I was living with my cousin, Cody and I had been dating for a few months.  I went to the Toronto Humane Society website and saw the picture of “Freckles”.  It was love at first sight.  I knew I loved him and I didn’t even meet him yet.  We brought him home from the shelter and he was comfortable with the apartment and Cody and I very fast.  We didn’t like his name, so we changed it to MOO.  He liked it better too – and was able to recognize his new name easily.

I quickly became very attached to MOO, and he to I.  It was a little weird – all pets I’d had were always bonded with another family member of mine.  MOO was so different.  When I’d get ready to go to bed, I’d call him and say “Bedtime!” and he’d come running.  He crawl under the covers and stay there till I fell asleep.  When I was sick, MOO didn’t leave the bed for very long.  When I was sad, he always laid down beside me and let me cry into his fur.  He was so much more than a pet to me – he was a friend, a companion, a confidant, and my fur baby.  Life without him is not going to be the same.

Though I loved this kitty more than I can convey, I feared that we’d be branded as bad pet owners for not having the tumour removed a second time.  However, as I sat crying in Exam Room 4 while the doctor got ready for MOO’s euthanasia, she put me at ease.  She told me MOO was a beautiful cat.  She told me that he was ready to go, and this was the best decision for him.  She told me that putting him through a second invasive surgery would not have been fair to him.  She confirmed that she would have let her cat live out his life the way Cody and I let MOO continue.

I told Cody that I wasn’t going to be able to have him put to sleep if he was scared.  MOO knew this, and he sat in the backseat of the car the entire way to the clinic – which was an hour away, purring and snuggling me.  This was well received by me, since the last week he’d been reclusive and hiding a lot.  He purred when we were in the exam room; he purred when my cousin carried him away to the back to put an IV cathetar in; he purred while I held him and pet him as the injection was given.  It was his last gift to me:  to let me know he was ready to sleep.

It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.  I didn’t think I was going to be able to go in the exam room while he was being euthanized. I was terrified to watch him pass.  I admit – I lost my shit a few times, but when MOO was there, I stayed strong.  I’m happy that I was the last face he saw and the last words he heard were “I love you, beebee.”

It’s been a couple of days and I still come into our room expecting to see him on the bed.  I get choked up when I see his brother looking around for him.  And when Cody is staring off into space, I feel so sad.  Cody had to make the appointment and watch this happen too.  He loved MOO just as much as I did.  He’s hurting like I am, but trying to stay strong for me.  I appreciate it and hate myself at the same time for somehow making him think he can’t grieve openly.

That’s my tale of the day, folks.  How does it relate to my pregnancy woes?  It doesn’t.  Not really, anyway.  I feel like I’ve lost a family member – someone who I cared for much like I’d care for a child, I guess.  All of this happened right in the middle of my 2WW as well, so I’m sure the stress will ensure I get to go for Round 6  next cycle.

I hope you’re all doing well and I’m thinking, hoping and wishing positive things for you all.