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My bread is leavened–again.

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Another couple of months….another yeast infection. I had a meltdown in bed yesterday and broke down sobbing about it, mainly because I’m just so damn sick of my body and everything that seems to go wrong with it, but also because with the dry, itching, burning I was feeling, I knew that there was no way that I could remotely attempt to have sex in the next week if I didn’t do something about it quickly. I was worried that Diflucan isn’t safe to take while TTC, but after doing a bit of poking around on the internet, Hubs read on multiple sites that it leaves your system in 3-4 days, which is fine timing wise for us right now. So I popped yet another Diflucan this month, and this morning my symptoms have magically disappeared. I should be happy, right? The truth is, I’m just pissed. I’m pissed at the whole situation. My body feels like the rusted 1988 Toyota Carolla hatchback I drove in in high school that would only go 45mph up hills on the freeway, and whose transmission was so shot that the car jerked every time it changed gears. I remember driving home on the freeway one day, and just seeing all of these cars whizz past me…this is what it feels like to be left behind.

To add insult to injury, I spoke to my mom on the phone yesterday, and gave her an update on where I’m at with all of the fertility meds and stuff. I should preface this by saying that my mom’s remarks are never done to be malicious, spiteful, or know-it-all. She feels incredibly bad and anxious for Hubs and I, and is genuinely concerned with how I’m coping with this. The problem is, my mom is fertile. At 53 years old, she gets her period like clockwork every month, and it’s still as heavy and crampy as it was when she was 20. She tries to put herself into my shoes, but it’s an impossibility. When I was first trying to figure out my PCOS and any sort of natural remedies for it, her advice was to “relax and eat whatever I wanted. Gain some weight, and you will ovulate.” Thanks, mom, but I’m well within the normal weight range, and have 25% body fat. I’m not some gymnast or Olympic sprinter or something.

Last night, after telling her about my second round of Clomid, the HSG, and how stressful this whole thing was, she tried to be helpful by saying that I should try not to put a lot of pressure on having sex at all the right times. I should just “relax and have sex when I feel in the mood, and see what happens.”

Advice for the two fertile people who read my blog simply because they are riveted about my cervical mucus: This is not. I repeat. Not. The advice you want to give an infertile who has just finished 100mg of Clomid–or any person struggling with infertility, to be precise.

Needless to say, I unleashed.

Me: Have sex only when I’m in the mood??? In the mood? Gee! I didn’t think of that! Maybe then,  a magical mood baby will appear in my uterus.

Mom: Ummm…

Me: So you’re telling me that after pumping my body full of ovulation inducing chemicals, getting my uterus scraped, and doing everything I can to figure out when I can actually catch an egg, because FYI–there’s about a 36 hour window that this can happen, I should scrap all of that, and cross my fingers that these magical 36 hours my egg is viable match up with my mood?

Mom: Hmm. I guess that wasn’t a good idea….

Me: No. No, it wasn’t. I can’t expect you to understand about this. You didn’t even know what a two week wait was. (she didn’t, by the way. Did you know that many fertiles don’t know about the TWW? They just miss a period and then take a pregnancy test.)

Mom: I’m sorry. You’re right…that was a bad idea.

I know she’s sorry. I know she doesn’t know what the fuck to say to me that will make it better, and she’s grasping at straws here to try to connect with me, but it just makes me so damn sad. If she had one iota of a clue about how much I miss having sex with my husband when we’re relaxed and in the mood, she would never have said that. Hubs and I are struggling right now to keep that spark alive, but it’s so hard. He had to jizz in a cup in a cold jizz room at my RE’s office a couple of days ago to get his sperm checked. This is not the kind of association he wants to have with sex, but there it is, staring at him from the bottom of a plastic cup and a chair diaper (did you know they make the guys jerk off on a big chair diaper in case of spillage?) I miss my marriage the way it was, and I want it back. I want my sexy husband back, too.

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