me, eeyore.

I refuse to entertain fantasies that Femara will get me a healthy baby. I’ve seen it happen to others, but this is me, Eeyore, the eternally pessimist. I am hopeful tho, that having a new plan will snap me out of the depressive funk I’ve been mired in since my last miscarriage. 

So I woke up hypomanic, gabbing away at a million miles a minute and dropping the remainder of my birthday money on expensive cosmetics. I had meant to squirrel the money away for fertility treatments and being a slightly-in-remission schizoaffective bipolar, I failed utterly. These are red flags, and I made sure to alert my psych to this sudden emergence of symptoms. I cannot lose control right now; the future of Europe hangs in the balance (if you get that reference, let’s make friends). 

I picked up my letrozole this afternoon, along with my chill pills. It seemed an appropriate juxtaposition representative of my current role as a mentally ill infertile. I would say that the majority of women I’ve talked to facing infertility, loss, and the prospect of ending up childless deal with a considerable amount of anxiety. Perhaps they aren’t completely incapacitated by panic in the way I’ve always been but hey! Drink till it’s pink, pills until positive.

I am half-joking. Tranquilizers aren’t a risk most women should take while ttc (trying to conceive) but my reproductive psychiatrist has okayed low dosages until I’m pregnant (IF it ever happens again). If I get knocked up, I can take them occasionally but they do cause birth defects and I don’t want a baby born addicted. These are waters I’m treading <i>very</i> carefully and am extremely closely monitored.

I wind up Molly’s music box, a stuffed hippopotamus named Piggy. I’ve had Piggy since I was a toddler and he still sings You Are My Sunshine. The night before we stopped her heart, Geoff and I snuggled up with Piggy on my bump and played him for Molly. Because we loved her. Because we wanted her to know how sorry we were. And as loquacious as I am when on an upswing, I just didn’t have the words.

Even through my mood swings, the sorrow is always there. 


2 thoughts on “me, eeyore.

  1. My dad used to sing You are My Sunshine when I was little and my husband bought me a tiny crank-handle music box that plays it – especially love the Johnny Cash version…

    Femara just helps (hopefully) make extra eggs – did they tell you it did anything other than that? Not to be debbie downer, just I see so much stuff out there promised to women trying to conceive, it makes me cautious…


    1. I love Johnny Cash!
      My RE was really realistic with me and I’ve seen oral meds fail so many times. My unicorn is pretty much dead, so no, I’m not pinning hopes on this but it’s really my last ditch effort. I know my best shot would be donor eggs, but I’ll never be able to afford that and I don’t think I have a strong enough constitution to be able to handle that sort of stress either. I’m just an OFW girl, and anything else is off the table. Thanks for your concern…i appreciate your advice.


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