There are the amusing Google searches (amusing, at least, to me) that lead to my blog: pee in my ass (as well as knowing that the next time someone conducts this search, they will find my blog at the top of the page).

There are the bizarre Google searches that leave me puzzled over their intended meaning: stirrups insert slowly speculum.

And then there are the Google searches that make me run onto Blogger to post some additional information and ask the rest of the Stirrup Queens to chime in some more with their own experience.

There has been a heavy run on Prometrium questions as of late, especially ones connected to Prometrium affecting betas and periods. This is my own understanding/experience: Prometrium does not affect a beta whatsoever or a pee stick. A beta is measuring the level of hcG in the blood and a home pregnancy test measures the amount of hcG in the urine. While a trigger shot of Novarel (hcG) would affect this test, Prometrium or any extra progesterone would not.

I’m not sure if Prometrium can delay a period. The first time I took Prometrium, I got pregnant and promptly miscarried, so yes, my period was late. But it was because I was pregnant. That one particular cycle, I was taking Prometrium with the directions to keep taking it until I got my period. I assume from these directions that if your period was meant to come, it will come and you will have break-through bleeding. At the same time, after that initial cycle, I started seeing an RE and he told me to come in for a beta, stop the Prometrium if I wasn’t pregnant, and I would get my period a few days later. Which sort of flies in the face of that whole idea that Prometrium wouldn’t affect your period. Why not just have a person keep taking it? Why do a blood test? So…in my humble opinion, Prometrium probably could delay a period.

I also believe this next fact is the fault of Prometrium (though my RE has said this isn’t possible). Almost every natural cycles (non-medicated) that I’ve had after taking Prometrium has been anovulatory. So I’d take Prometrium one cycle, not get pregnant, and then not ovulate the next cycle. Strange coincidence. This, obviously, wasn’t the case when I was doing a medicated cycle because the drugs overrode my body’s tendency towards anovulation.

Another problem with Prometrium is that the day after I went off of it each month, I had terrible mood swings. Terrible anger and deep sadness. Not that any day is a holiday with infertility, but I truly felt more out-of-control emotionally on that day after I went off of it. Be forewarned. And it wasn’t just because I had gotten a negative beta the day before or because my period was coming. I was just extremely emotional for a day or two and it felt hormonally-driven rather than circumstances.

Lastly, if you are pregnant, you will keep taking Prometrium through the first trimester. Around week 12, you stop taking it. I was a huge freak about my pregnancy and I asked my OB if there was any problem in taking it for a few more weeks. He said I didn’t need it anymore and I repeatedly asked if there was a problem if I took it for a few more weeks–any detriment to the babies. When he finally gave into the fact that I am a freak, he admitted that there was no problem in taking it if it made me comfortable. So I stayed on it for another three weeks. Just wanted to make sure those babies were in there–good and tight.

Anything else I’m leaving out, Stirrup Queens? And for anyone who is searching–check the side bar under Operation Heads Up. Kris wrote a great write-up about Prometrium with pictures and more how-to information.

A little while ago, Christy posted a link to a great article in the comments section of my post on people who ask loaded questions in regards to twins. The article first appeared on Literary Mama and it was called Covering by Robin Aronson. The section of the article that Christy posted also applies to this discussion of being in or out and the larger idea of coding that Royalyne broached in her response to this question last week…

“Covering, as defined in the brilliant article by Kenji Yoshino in the January 15 issue of The New York Times Magazine, is what you do when you’re not part of a dominant group but don’t want to stand out. You don’t hide the thing that makes you different –- say being black or gay -– you just keep it from being too obtrusive. If you’re one of the hundreds of thousands of women who’ve had trouble conceiving, you’re not alone but you’re not in the majority either. And if you’ve conceived because of fertility treatments, you have not conceived the real way. You have something to cover” (Aronson, “Covering”).

This connects to Royalyne’s comment about her husband: “He’s pretty much in the doorway and leans to whichever side the people he talks to expect him to be on.” And all of this is a form of coding.

Coding is something we naturally do in conversation. We adapt the way we speak depending on the situation. This is how I explained this concept to my 8th graders: without me ever telling them that they can’t say certain things in my classroom, they figured out immediately when they walked over the threshold into my room that certain words were banned from the conversation. They may use the word “fuck” over by their lockers, but when they get into my room, they drop that word from any conversations that are conducted within my earshot. The words we use when we speak to our partners are different from the words we use when we speak to our parents. I lovingly call my best friend “dirty whore” (because she is…well…a filthy prostitute), though I would never dream of using that affectionate nickname with my mother.

Because without ever calling my mother “dirty whore,” I can tell without trying it out that she wouldn’t find it amusing (and I’m sure my mother is dying a little bit right now thinking of her daughter calling anyone “dirty whore” so I’m sorry that I’m giving her this heart attack because she did raise me correctly and any filthiness is my own fault and not her doing). So I code. I use words that I’ve decided are appropriate with her when I speak with her, and I recognize that other people have different thresholds of appropriateness so I code to them. And then mad-cap chaos ensues when you have multiple people in the conversation that you code with differently.

And this is also what we do when we choose to tell or not to tell (aaah…that is the question!). We code. We somehow naturally know how deeply to answer the questions: when are you guys going to start trying or do you want another one? Either you answer vaguely or you answer boldly, outlining the last three RE appointments and your most recent day 3 blood work results. Or somewhere in between. I think most judgements are quickly made (almost reflexively).

Sometimes we make these decisions and use them immediately. Someone asks a question and you execute the decision on the spot (eg. Mom asks when you’re going to make her a grandmother and you answer with a knee-jerk, “we’re working on it!”). Sometimes we make a decision before the subject has ever been broached and you then spend the next five days wondering on and off why you feel uncomfortable speaking about IF with a certain friend. But I believe that the initial gut reaction you have to speaking openly with a person comes in an instant. And then we’re either comfortable with it and act on it, or we’re uncomfortable because our gut-reaction somehow flies in the face of how we thought we’d feel about speaking to a certain person. And we spend more time thinking about it and sometimes change our decision to fit a certain vision.

Infertility came up a few times this weekend and I can look back and see how I coded. When we saw my husband’s grandmother, she brought up an article her friend sent her that we were quoted in about infertility. We’re never sure how much she knows–including whether she knows the kids were conceived through A.R.T. So when she brought up the article, all three of us glossed over it and moved on. It’s not that I would ever be shy talking to his grandmother or answering her questions. But I just get the vibe not to rock her world too much, and putting it in her frame (80+ and finished conceiving long before IVF was ever imagined), I can understand how she wouldn’t want to ask too many questions. A lady doesn’t speak about her sex life, and infertility is somewhat about sex. So I code. I speak about it only as much as she seems to want to hear.

My brother brought up IF and I spoke to him as if he were a Sperm Palace Jester even though he’s not trying to conceive. He can make jokes about infertility like an insider and he even wears a pomegranate thread in support. So I code with him different than I do other family members of the same age/conception status.

My husband brought up my wonky cycles since T.C. (remember, I divorced Aunt Flo last month and now Truman Capote has taken on the task of bringing in the red tide) showed his chubby little face on Saturday night. Bringing this cycle to a glorious 23 days. I tried to show a brave face through most of the evening and finally broke down into hysterical sobs after we watched a truly terrible movie (warning him beforehand that I was in a space where I just needed to cry). It just sucks. It sucks to see your female factor infertility diagnosis played out in the fastest luteal phase in the west. So I coded with my husband and spoke openly about how scared I was–something I didn’t do when I spoke to my brother because…well…he’s not my SPJ. And while he may get many of the emotions because they’ve been relayed to him through us, I don’t think he would get the magnitude of seeing an 8 day luteal phase when you’re hoping for implantation one of these days.

So you code.

And I don’t think coding is always a bad thing (though in some senses in sociology, coding is used to divide us and keep us apart). I think it’s something that naturally occurs. You get a feeling about how much you should share and you share it. Or you don’t share it. And that always needs to be your choice. No matter how out you are to one person, that may not be the same level of “out” you feel like being with another person. And since infertility is complex and messy (is it sex? Is it medical? Is it private? Is it public?), I don’t think it’s hippocritical to make different choices in different situations. It’s not a matter of being entirely out to the world (even if you’re wearing a pomegranate-coloured string) or entirely in. You can be both. You can code.

An anonymous comment stated how sometimes things come right when you need them–the coincidences that jump out at you as if three angels just descended onto your breakfast table and started harmonizing personal hallelujahs. And I kid you not–I posted those thoughts yesterday morning, jumped into the car with my friend and kids, and this is what happened.

We’re innocently enjoying an early morning ice cream cone outside of Ben and Jerry’s and an elderly woman swoops down on us and starts gushing about my adorable children. And my twins are adorable but this woman literally hit the trifecta in offending me. Beyond asking me where I’m from (which is a thinly-veiled way of asking “what is your ethnicity” oh-somewhat-dark-skinned-girl-that-I-can’t-quite-place-is-just-Eastern-European-Jewish) and TRYING TO TOUCH MY CHILDREN (I am currently training them to lash out like a police dog and chomp off hands if one more stranger tries to rub their dirty little fingers through my childrens’ hair. Either that or I will begin fondling breasts of every woman who makes a move towards my children since these women seem to find it acceptable to affectionately touch strangers), this woman who I have never seen before launched into a one-woman monologue about her inconsiderate children who are not making her a grandmother.

Woman: Your children are so adorable! And I want to be a grandmother so badly. But will
my children give me a grandchild? No. And I will be dead–DEAD–before my
grandchildren are born. I tell them, you’re not getting younger. But they need to fly
here and there for their careers. They can’t put their careers on hold for one minute
to give me a grandchild.

Me: Maybe they don’t want children.

Woman: They say, “give me a few years.” But I will be dead before they finally get around to
having children. Dead!

Yes…you will be dead if you don’t stop telling me about your inconsiderate children. And I tried to broach the idea that they may be trying and not telling her, but she went back into telling me–a stranger–about their careers and how they’re too busy to have children. And what do you say to this because in my head I’m thinking: you are the reason why people stay in.

And this is not even a post about whether or not you have a right to expect grandparenthood (because that is a whole different messy topic to cover at a later time–parental pressure compounding your personal pressure towards parenthood. Say that ten times fast). It’s just commentary on the interesting things people posted yesterday about my initial thoughts on being in or out.

And the points I want to return to in later posts (and please comment more on this)…

1. No one posted their own outing story and I know they’re…out…there. Am I truly the only one who has had a family member announce it to the world?

2. Zee’s thoughts on how after a certain age, people stop asking and assume that you can’t possibly be trying to have children. She referred to it as being dead in the water. And the rudeness that not being asked brings as well.

3. Flmgodog talking about how she wishes she could be out. And the stigma that IF still holds. Because someone once commented ages ago on a different post that IF holds the same stigmas as mental illness and bariatric surgery. And this comment made me think about Julia Roberts and she refuses to answer how her twins were conceived. And is that just indicative of the stigma? How many people knew that Nicole Kidman had miscarriages? Other than Brooke Shields and Courtney Cox (along with others that I can’t think of at this time), it seems like most people in the public eye are in, in, in. And how is this a commentary on the trends of society?

4. I loved Mandolyn’s comment: “we can’t ignore it, so it sucks when people close to us can.” And the people that you do tell, but who won’t talk about it with you. We have that as well and the lack of questions/comforting hurts more sometimes than the insensitive comments of those who don’t know. Because you opened up to someone and their lack of connection can either signal discomfort or a true lack of interest in your life. And you don’t know.

5. The reasons why we’re out: to gain sympathy, to stop others from asking about whether you’re TTC (as Piccinigirl says: “I unlit the flame before they struck the match”), to get it out of your head and lighten your own burden of thought.” And the reasons we’re in: “I’d like to be a stronger person and be able to educate more people about it- emotionally I just don’t think I can right now” and “In part we keep quiet because we think that if people knew they would be more likely to think that our adopted children were second best”. Amongst many others.

6. Royalyne’s comment about her husband: “He’s pretty much in the doorway and leans to whichever side the people he talks to expect him to be on.” And thoughts on how we organically engage in “coding” when speaking about infertility.

7. Dee’s story about the lies we tell. And how they can bite you in the ass years later. And when white lies to protect emotions become huge knives later on that can cut deep.

And this is just the tip of the iceberg since I have a feeling that more stories will roll in during the weekend and when I explore these 7 ideas deeper in future posts. And I still have blogs to talk about! What a busy morning… Excuse any typo-s because I had to write this faster than a speeding bullet.

My heart is still pounding after writing that last post. I just wrote that so quickly that it feels like I ran a couple of miles. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

One more write-up this week on varicocelectomies (thank you, Serentity) for Operation Heads Up. Keep them coming. We need someone to write one for IM injections. Come on, y’all know how to do them–now tell the newbies.

And in Blogland…

Tara at Plan B has a post that ties into what I was discussing yesterday–in or out. She outed herself, but talks about the regrets she has in putting it out there. If her Plan B works–which is surrogacy–she has everyone together celebrating from point one. She has a huge support system for the cycle. Her fear is that if this doesn’t work, she will then be faced with a wave of people who all know her story. She writes: “Because then I am not sure I can bear what people will say. And it will make me want to hide all over again.” The catch-22. It’s a very interesting post that applies forward to other scenarios–to tell or not to tell once you become pregnant because of the chance that something could go wrong. You need the support, but you want to protect your heart. So what do you do?

Funnel your good wishes towards Solaris this month. She got the call and she’s starting IVF #2. She is currently on her second round with infertility–10 years of trying brought her twin boys and she’s now trying for a third (and perhaps I feel a kinship with her because we’re in that same secondary IF boat). She has a funny post about the dates for this cycle–“I got the call on the boys 13 month birthday (note the 3), I would start my meds on my Hubbies birthday and the estimated transfer date is my birthday, which also happens to be Thanksgiving in Canada. Too many weird date things going on there we had to accept the cycle!” Which made me laugh because I had just been looking back through a journal and I had read an entry about whether or not to test on 13dpo because it was my birthday. And a negative would obviously make it the crappiest birthday in the world (it was a negative), but a positive would rock. And how we look at dates as signs. I cried so hard once during a cancelled cycle because CD1 was Halloween and I thought that must mean something. Head over to her blog and wish her luck because all signs point towards good things.

Ella at Nothing But Lemons (who I think is actually quite sweet–but I’m just buttering her up because she’s going to do a write-up for me) had an interesting post about male vs. female reactions when you tell them about IF and asked essentially, “where’s the sisterhood?” She was talking about those “catch-up” conversations you do with friends and how when you bring up miscarriages, infertility, treatments, etc. you can often get a better reaction from men who don’t have a uterus that metaphorically aches than from women who should be able to put themselves into your shoes. I have to agree that the worst comments have often come from women. The lack of sympathy, the bad questions, or plain rudeness. Not that men have supplied more than a shoulder to cry against, but that is certainly preferable than the lack of reaction Ella received when she told a female friend. She asked if there could be a code of sisterhood that crosses between the Stirrup Queens and the non-infertiles so that we could be there for one another. I vote that we write this–the Uterine Manifesto. Anyone with fallopian tubes (or who had fallopian tubes) needs to adhere to this code of ethics that starts: first, do no harm. Oh…or that’s the hippocratic oath. Well, we’re borrowing it.

Sarah at Isn’t This Supposed to be Easy had a terrible anniversary this week (these types of anniversaries need a different name since the word “anniversary” conjures up images of romatic dinners and champagne)–the one year anniversary of a miscarriage. I’m so sorry, sweetie. She discusses the phenomenon that seems to plague everyone who has gone through a pregnancy loss (or really, any type of loss). After the initial well-wishes, people forget. Or they remember, but they don’t ask about it because they’re scared to reopen wounds that they believe are healing. And this is the reality–for most people, talking about it doesn’t reopen wounds. Their hearts are already bleeding even if it appears from the outside as if everything is fine. Talking about it does help the person grieve (even if it’s as simple as sending them an email just to let them know that you’re thinking about them) because they want to know that they don’t carry the entire burden of remembering this little person who almost was. It’s a huge responsibility to have, and we should help others shoulder that remembering. Let them talk about it. Ask them how they’re doing (even a year down the line). Because everyone needs to have someone remember. And a simple public service announcement: it is so easy ask someone how they want to remember in the future when you’re comforting them during the initial mourning process. And it’s so easy to put a terriversary into your palm pilot and send a quick email to someone who needs it. So do it. Put down those terriversaries and let’s help each other. Head over to her blog and remember with her even if you weren’t there for the intial loss.

As the Infertile Crusader (with my knee-high black boots and a micro-suede cape with a big letter “I” embroidered on it), I may seem like the most “out” Stirrup Queen in the world. But that was not always the case. Follow me back to a simplier time. When no one knew details about my cervical mucous or progesterone levels.

(Climbs into her way-back machine and pats the seat to indicate that you should join her. Everything gets fuzzy and when the world becomes clear again, you are sitting in a hospital waiting room watching a hysterical woman bawling as she waits to be seen.)

Early on in the trying-to-conceive process I told three people (four if you count my husband’s grandfather) that we were trying because I wanted moral support. A few months into the process and trying-to-conceive is all I thought about day and night. And I needed an outlet to talk about it or I would burst. And I needed to ask questions to make sure I was doing everything right because…you know…we’ve all had those doubts. The am-I-having-sex-correctly doubts. The how-long-does-the-semen-need-to-stay-in-there doubts.

Once we started thinking that there may be a problem, I told a few more people–those who I knew had already tried treatments or who had an RE to recommend. But I was still pretty discreet about who I told. It was on a need-to-know basis as in I need to talk about it so you need to know.

One weekend we were going up to see my husband’s grandfather. We were fairly certain that it was nearing the end of his life and my husband wanted to be there with him. Though I had gotten many negative pee sticks, I was currently 21dpo and it was my first time taking progesterone. I felt ill during the 3 hour drive up to see his grandfather–horrible rolling cramps. I took 4 alleve during the car ride. I think y’all see where this is heading.

When we got there, I passed clots and what looked like it may be tissue to the home health care worker who was there for his grandfather. We called my doctor who coldly told me that there was nothing to do about this because it was probably just (just!) a chemical pregnancy since I was only 5 weeks along. She said the only thing I could do would be to go to the hospital.

So we went to the hospital. And it was a chemical pregnancy. And I was heartbroken. My doctor had suspected that I had been having chemical pregnancies before this point–no positive pee sticks (and no betas yet because I rarely had a beta prior to seeing the RE) yet cycles that went past 18 dpo with an extremely heavy period at the end. But this was the first time that I had actually known what was happening. And since we had discovered my progesterone problems the month before, it felt like it was all my fault. Ha–little did I know that I would have crappy eggs and high FSH too! And here I was worried about a little luteal phase defect problem.

We had told my MIL before we left for the hospital what was happening. I mean, we needed to explain why we were turning around and heading right back out of the apartment during a time when we should have been staying with his grandfather (and believe me, I still feel guilty about this). But even though few other people were there at the time, she got on the phone and told some family and friends why we were at the hospital. And suddenly I was sharing our trying-to-conceive (or…more accurately…our trying-to-conceive-and-not-being-able) experience with many people. Some of whom were related to me and some of whom I didn’t know well at all. It was an extremely awkward funeral when people wanted to keep talking to me about it and it was the last thing I wanted to discuss with anyone who wasn’t either my husband or a close friend.

Which brings us to the question of in or out. And how we decide. And how sometimes it is decided for us. There are those who can say, “well, what’s the big deal. You were out to other people.” I certainly was out on the Resolve bulletin boards. And to a small circle of friends. And to selected family members. But those were all my choices. This was the first time that the choice was taken away from me.

And for someone who talks a good game right now about not being afraid to talk about my infertility, it is a very different story on the inside. This is the truth–I’m not shy to talk about it if I think that the information is going to either teach someone something about infertility or connect to another person in the community. But who wants to stand on a chair and scream out to people they have to see face-to-face, “hey, everyone, I’m completely defective. I have low progesterone and crappy eggs and high FSH and our infertility is entirely my fault.” It is very different to post something in a chat room vs. look at your brother-in-law and know that he knows that the reason you don’t have kids yet is your fault.

And my husband kicks my ass whenever I talk about fault. But that’s how I feel. It’s my body. It may be out of my control, but it still feels like my fault.

And maybe I was so upset by the outing because it was someone else taking liberties with my personal information without asking me. She may have felt like it was necessary to call her friends and tell them, but the reality is that many excuses for our absense could have been made–such as Mel’s in the hospital with food poisoning–without sharing what was at that point a very private thing. It was my baby. And it was my uterus. And it was my sucky low progesterone. And I didn’t want to share any of those things with anyone at that time. Because it was so raw and so terrible and so sad. And I felt a lot of guilt–the timing of it, the fault–and it became this blaring sign over my head–the infertile one. When she told people who didn’t know me very well about my infertility, that became my label. As opposed to the people I was choosing to tell who knew me quite well and infertility became one more aspect of my existance.

It’s such an interesting debate–being in or out or partially out–because everyone has a different threshold (and where are you?). I started thinking about this last week when I read someone else’s blog about how they had been outed and I started thinking about my outing (and after that outing, I was fairly open to speaking about it, but always somewhat bitter because it hadn’t been my choice to put that information out there. It was only my choice to continue or not continue the discussion). And how it changes a relationship. You can’t unring a bell. Once those words are out there, those words are out there. And what may not bother you for others to know may be a source of huge discomfort for another person.

It has made me become more careful. More circumspect. It’s not my place to spread along personal information such as health issues, infertility or mental illness to people who may need to interact with the person without them knowing (except in the context of marriage where I expect that if I tell Jane about my infertility, she will tell her husband, Dick, and I’m fine with that). It seems hypocritical to an Infertile Crusader who is trying to leap tall buildings in a single bound as she attempts to remove the stigma from infertility. But in that scenario, I’m doing the leaping over the building and in an “outing”, someone else is catapulting me.