…and I continue to not give a fuck

It’s been one week since I first took the Femara. The sense of futility about this step I willingly chose to take overwhelms me and I sit here on my dusty couch wondering if I’ll do it again next month. I don’t want to facilitate the fertilization and implantation of yet another bad egg…is that what I’m doing? And the uncertainty feels like a joke so I yell at my neighbors as they pass by my window as I sit here in my underwear at 2.30 on a Friday afternoon. I sort of feel drunk, and I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol in 13 years and 4 months and 4 days…

Scruffy belches in my ear. You’ve never been in THIS place before. Maybe that’s a little strand of hope…but really, fuck hope. I was hopeful when my perinatologist told me Molly’s 10mm cystic hygroma “could resolve itself” (for those of you just tuning in, it didn’t and she died–with 10mm, she didn’t have a prayer). I was hopeful when they told me her diagnosis was a fluke (it wasn’t, my eggs were shit when I conceived her and now they’re close to three years older than they were then). So, here I am in all my hostile glory and Scruffy just passed out from pills and a couple 40 ouncers and I’m here alone crying. When he comes to, he won’t remember a thing.

Oh, Geoff, I am so so sorry and I love you so so much. 

Weight has been dropping off of me. My face looks gaunt, my mother tells me in her usual hypercritical fashion. Maybe this Femara shit should be contraindicated for schizoaffective patients? Still, mentally ill woman can make their own choices…can I be trusted? All signs point right to zero but as the title suggests, idgaf.

strangest moods i’ve ever lived…

Fuck aneuploidy. Really, truly, my eggs are a mess and apparently my uterus is all too happy to implant chromosomally abnormal embryos, or not. I don’t expect the Femara to get around this one very dire problem and perhaps I’ll suffer another devastating loss. My RE shrugged off IVF with PGS testing and went straight to donor eggs. Which I’d do in a second if my finances allowed. Eh, strike that. If I had they money and emotional stamina, I’d choose adoption because pregnancy after loss is a fucking nightmare. I think that since I am myself adopted, I don’t have as much attachment to my own genetics as other couples might.

My unicorn is named Scruffy and he’s currently taking a smoke break and has been for months. Occasionally I hear him wheezing in my ear: your golden egg is in there. Here, Scruffy, I brought you some malt liquor and we can lay in bed watching Raising Arizona and laughing our cynical asses off at the absurdity of my life. Cheers, mate.

I see my psychiatrist next week. My experience on Femara has been uncharted territory and I’m unable to ascertain the status of my mental illness when I’ve yet to have experienced the hormonal upheaval it wrought upon me. I’ve been sobbing all day but I don’t feel particularly sad other than the sudden bursts of despair that wash over me from time to time. My eyes are just crying. Eh, whatever. I have zero fucks left to give.

and i live in a place where there are no fucking limits

I’m waiting for the universe to decide when I’ve endured enough heartbreak. Or maybe I’m waiting for my own personal breaking point, for the bottom to finally fall out of my mind. One way or the other, I feel it’s just around the corner. We are on the cusp of something, my unicorn of a husband told me last night. I think he may genuinely believe that our suffering will be rewarded in this lifetime, in this fucked up cruel world that has not given me a single break in decades. I would be forced to say that I vehemently disagree.

Where have I been to? Where am I going? My apartment walls once held so much promise but today they fold in upon me and I cannot draw a breath. My fingers trace the scars of my past, gnarly and authentic lines I once carved in my own skin. Since then I’ve achieved a dull stasis, wrapped my pain like a chrysalis that sheds layers as it incubates my slow decline. I want to roll the dice again, start anew with a heftier character. And it will strike like lightening, burst forth with new life. I’m hungry for the cure.

Femara is not giving me an easy ride right now. I sat with my psychotherapist this morning and cryptically made reference to the precise instant I was derailed, oh, the drama of it, a psychotic depression and the long years of recovery. Now I lay on my back boiling and taste salt from the split in my lip–and my babies are maybe angels and I can’t process the laughter from their ghosts. CD 7, last dose tonight. Dear sweet God, if you’re out there, please let my soul find rest.


the eternal terror of living

Once I was young and brave. I remember myself as a young girl, fearlessly hopping the commuter rail to North Station in Boston, catching the subway and travelling to whatever hospital my sister had been admitted to last, sitting in her room and playing Uno as she grew weaker and weaker. This is unfathomable to the trembling woman I have become, the woman that flinches when the telephone rings because she’s convinced it’s more devastating news. Now, I walk only on very familiar streets and the only thing that terrifies me more than driving is the city bus. What happened to make you like this? 

…and some days, I’m too scared to even step outside my back door and onto the patio, choosing to stay safe in my chrysalis of a bedroom with shades drawn, cat on my lap and old songs flitting through my head. There are clothes I don’t remember buying on the floor and cobwebs drift across the ceiling and all I want to do is wrap the bed sheet tight around me as I shake and shake. But today, I promise myself I’ll be courageous. Today, I will open my eyes.

It’s Friday and I’ll start Femara this evening. I’m as stable as could possibly be expected, and armed with my usual arsenal of heavy duty psychiatric medications, all carefully reviewed for safety and efficacy during any potential pregnancy by a specialist. It’s the weekend and Geoff will be home to keep close watch on me. The rest is up to the universe.

when you open your eyes and it hits before your first breath…

I am irritable and nervous. The sun is already shining hot, I am home alone wishing for a friend. And my ears ring with the sound of my unicorn galloping full speed into disappointment and grief. I cannot visualize winning this full-scale war I’ve waged against my broken ovaries for years.

My mind races; perhaps I need to bump my mood stabilizer. My reflection in the window shows a skinny girl with a head too large for her frame, stretched out on an unmade bed with greasy bangs sticking to a long and narrow face. I feel a pang of sadness–years ago I was an unconventional beauty with flashing dark eyes and the rounded hips of excessive fertility. I waited too long. Unable to place a finger on which physical attributes now combine to make me look old and weary, I let a tear slide down my cheek. Letrozole, 2.5 mg. Take 1 tablet by oral route daily for 5 days days 3-7 of cycle. Can these stupid, possibly impotent, little pills bring redemption? 

I’m 9 days past my ovulation, wondering if I’ll randomly experience a pre-fertility treatment miracle. Laughter echoes in my ear. I could kill ALL of this by taking one of the 50 home pregnancy tests I keep stashed in the bathroom but I won’t. The cat curls up under my chin, as always, desperate for affection. 

And I hate hate hate this, I’ve been doing this for years and it wears me down and from now on I’ll go it alone with only Geoff by my side if I can somehow not drive him away with my vitriolic heart…

God laughs, the same God that took Molly and cursed my body to cling to her so she had to be ripped brutally from the comfort of my womb when I loved her so very much. The same God that took my sister when we were both only children. I’m so so sorry, Molly. I’m so so sorry, Meg. I would have done anything to save you. The stray sunbeam that dances over me makes me think of fire and I close my eyes, knowing sleep will come soon. Please visit my dreams, all my loved ones; I’m still trapped here. Here on Earth, I’ll move forward alone.


Maybe I’m supposed to stay in this town where there is so much suffering. Each time I emerge bleary-eyed from my apartment, I wrap my cloak of loneliness around my shoulders. I straighten my spine until it is stiff and haughtily shake out my dark hair waiting to challenge the patrons of the streets of Olympia to comment on the grief I emit from every single pore in my once unmarked skin. I project hostility to potential friends, I see empathy as pity and retaliate with wrath. As a child I had temper tantrums; my mom would say someday you’ll have no one but yourself and she was right. My words cut like daggers, and my eyes glitter with hate. 

So I try not to go out when I’m like this. I hole up with my cracked smartphone, my shitty WiFi connection, and my books and records and I try to be invisible but I get in trouble anyway: firing off nasty emails, snarky posts on message boards, blistering comments on Facebook in response to innocently posted videos of a stand up comic doing a routine called, “What People that Don’t Have Kids Will Never Understand” posted by one of the very few women in town that is still kind to me after I announced my tfmr… She doesn’t know we’ve been trying for the two years since, about the miscarriages and PTSD. She doesn’t have to.

And I think to myself, if I get pregnant again will ALL of this just go away? Not when a positive pregnancy test means nothing, certainly not that I will carry past nine weeks or eighteen weeks or any time at all. With infertility and repeat loss, the gentle irritability of My hypomania blossoms into unchecked rage, a palpable red energy that burns and stings. I swallow my pills and close my eyes and I wait and I wait and I wait…

sad, sadder

I can show you sadder poetry 

Than you ever dreamed there could be.

I know all the saddest people

Most of them are dead now.

 – The Magnetic Fields, Save a Secret for the Moon

This town is full of horrible pain. The dying junkies sit with their dogs and line the sidewalks, offering nothing in exchange for the spare change and cigarettes they desire. Wild-eyed tweakers scream at passing cars and are run off by the sudden and inevitable appearance of sleek black cop cars. My kin, my fellows in schizo, mumble and duck their heads as they board the city buses…they don’t have phones so they can only hope for chance meetings with their friends as they travel with no destination in mind. And here I sit, privileged but knowing.

My friends are hurting now too. I know their problems, their official diagnoses and addictions and horrible family-of-origin stories. I get frantic emails, the random guy from Tinder doesn’t want to see them again, their cat’s died, their kid is violent and got expelled from school. I sat on the patio last night, trying to get fresh air while my panic attack subsided and this skinny teenage girl approached me. She was apologetic.

“I live in D7,” she said to me, “I got locked out, is there anyway I could plug this in for a moment?” She had one of those portable asthma machine things, I don’t know what it’s called.

She was red-faced, gasping for breath. She had no shoes, just a pair of wooly legwarmers in the 80 degree heat. Her legs were a mess of self-mutilation wounds, slashes of angry red lines everywhere, all up and down from ankle to hip. I plugged in her machine in the outlet beside the door, she loaded it up with a tube with a prescription label on it and sat quietly, sucking on the mouthpiece.

“Do you need me to call someone for you?” I asked. She shook her head, reaching into the pocket of her shorts and pulling out her phone. She held it up to show me. “I can go to the office,” I said, “They might be able to bring a key.”

“My mom’s on her way. She went to get me more medication,” she told me. I sat next to her. “You promise you’ll be all right?”

She nodded. Geoff came home; we soothed the cat as the girl headed home.

I got an email from a friend who said she thought she was dying, that she had aneurysms in her heart and they might explode and that’s why she’s been behaving so erratically lately.

And I sighed, swallowed my Serax and lay down on the bed. I stared at the little bottle of letrozole on my nightstand. Is this what I’m meant for? I’ve been plagued with deep philosophical thoughts: maybe the reason I’ve been through so much is that I’m here on Earth to help these sick and hurting people. Maybe that’s my job, and why I’ll never have a baby.

“Leave this town. Just gtfo,” my therapist had said to me, before leaving for her annual August vacation.

I close my eyes, feeling Geoff’s presence next to me. I’m not completely alone, and for that I’m grateful. With thoughts of existentialism swimming through my head, I fell asleep.

down in a hole

When the sun is shining, I forget about the cloudy days. I’ve spent the week sparkling and hopeful but here today it is gloomy and quiet. I feel utterly alone, sad about saying goodbye to my only close friend in this godforsaken town. Life’s gotta go on though. I’ll start up BBT temping again tomorrow, just to get back in the habit and I will forward to better chances ahead.

My Internet friends are a lifeline for me, and as pathetic as that might sound I wouldn’t have it any other way right now. No one I know IRL would understand; pouring my heart out to a trusted friend while hearing her loving child fussing in the background gets old real fast. I still long for a solid connection sometimes, from someone other than my therapist, who, awesome as she is, still charges $150 a 45 minute hour for her commiseration. I received a kind email from my oldest friend, a girl I’ve known since before I could remember. She has two beautiful boys, and, incidentally, recently won $15 million on a scratch ticket. I did the email equivalent of shrugging her off, “oh, my life’s not like yours,” and it was heartbreaking. Leave me alone with my schizoaffective and diminished ovarian reserve. How does one get around that?

I can’t help feeling that I’ve lived a lifetime of bad decisions, all leading up to today’s significant depression. And yes, I’ve done foolish things but not EVERYTHING is my fault…is it?

I know I’d feel better if I went for a walk, but the shoes I ordered should be here today…

 scrambled egg musings

The ups and downs of bipolar disorder are definitely amplified by a little case of infertility. Here I am, 39 and struggling to get through my days, to navigate cherished relationships that are suddenly mind-bogglingly complicated. I feel like a child, raw and incomplete. And I go through my days bumfuzzled, so full of manic energy that nothing in the whole wide world makes the slightest bit of sense.

I try to keep my emotions and behavior in check. I’m worried something awful about the bridge I lit aflame last night. I’m pretty sure things would be recoverable had I not informed my now-former best friend that I found her wife “insufferable”. I think that’ll be the deal breaker…granted, she IS insufferable but prudence and respect should have guided my fingers so that they did not tap out that one, unretractable word.

But to be honest, despite all of my attempts to slug my unicorn into submission, my mind is primarily focused on the little orange bottle of letrozole hanging out on my nightstand. The sliver of hope it represents, the kind words of my refreshingly middle-aged RE reverberating in my stuffy ears. Three months of meds + timed intercourse, then perhaps a switch to Clomid. Seasoned infertiles, answer me this: should I request a trigger shot for TI? My husband and I get busy at least every other day throughout my cycle so I’m not worried about timing, and I’m afraid triggering would ratchet up his delicate nerves and cause irreversible stage fright, but I don’t want cysts. Is this more of a concern with Clomid?

My psychiatrist was somewhat dismissive of my concerns about mood & mental changes on Femara, but did say she could prescibe Serax for any potential problems. Reassuring enough, I suppose. She did make the ever irritating, “stay out of the chat rooms,” comment, as if I don’t peruse peer-reviewed studies and yes, I do pick up knowledge from my trusted friends who have been right here before me. So, as far as I’m concerned she can fuck right off.  

I cannot wait for this cycle to be over. CD 19, fertile window slammed shut. The tww is nothing to me these days…just hanging on until I bleed again. I can’t help this sudden rainbow of hope bursting forth from my dormant heart. I’m asking you, Universe, just one take-home baby…

fuck old times

My post-RE-consult euphoria left like a thief in the night. I awaken with fat tears coming from my dark eyes, dribbling a path towards my pillows. I’ve had this dream before: me, a prodigal daughter returning to Boston, calling old friends but no one wants to see me. I remember all of their phone numbers but we haven’t spoken for years. Behind my closed eyes, I see my smartphone screen registering gibberish as I try to reach out after years of absence.

I think it was the photo I saw on Facebook last night, my childhood friends reunited and posing on the beach with their gleaming-eyed children. That sense of missing out on the life that was promised me. I want to be part of that so badly that it must have drilled itself into my subconscious, leaving a path for the loneliness to come streaming out in the images and sounds that echo through my dreams.

I haven’t really spoken to anyone since I admitted to my friend that sometimes I hear voices. She hung up on me. This isn’t my fault! I want to scream. It’s like having diabetes or high blood pressure, I need to take meds. But it isn’t, not really. Once you take a breath, spit out a word that starts with “schizo-“…I guess after that, you can never go home again.

I wonder if Molly were in my arms, her black hair shining blue in the sun the way mine once did, my freckles darkening on her pudgy cheeks–I wonder if I’d be redeemed.

I heard from a couple girls when I brazenly announced my tfmr on the Facebook. We grew up good Democrats, and they praised me for sharing my story in support of Planned Parenthood. But they didn’t say they were sorry. That they thought I may be hurting to lose a sick child. Everything was strictly political and I kept my chin from trembling but in my gut the anger grew into the fierce bitterness that makes it so hard to have friends today. How dare they, with their perfect little lives? Fuck the past, fuck Massachusetts. I carried on with my head held high, tossing my long hair insouciantly with middle finger extended to the cloudy grey skies. 

Today I am broken. No one is gonna fuck with me again.