I found video tape in the closet

It seems that more often than not, I run across some random piece of paraphinalia from my fertility treatment days. It has something to do with me not cleaning out Usually, it's an old ovulation detection test or an expired box of icky progesterone cream. However, I got quite the eyeful when cleaning out a closet which hadn't been touched in years.

I found several video tapes (yes, for a video cassette recorder, so you know it was years ago). No, these weren't those kind of videos, though I think I may have preferred that to what I found. In addition to some old tapes of me playing volleyball in college ('cause you know that those are going to be viewed again), I found one that listed my fertility doctor's name, my name, and the date 06/05/04. Yep, it was a video of my surgery when I had some tumors and adhesions removed from my uterus, that for some bizarre reason, we kept.

Why the heck did we keep that of all things? And, why did I leave the hospital with this odd momento? Was it to remind myself that I had a kickass laproscopy? To add to a future child's baby book as the beginning of our conception process? To be completely grossed out at will?

Perhaps it was the residual effect of my anethesia that led me to put it in my purse to bring home?

Whatever the reason, it was quite a flashback to the days when "trying" was still fun, when I didn't know I would have issues conceiving, and when I still had hope. On June 5, 2004, I was completely clueless about the seven-year hellish journey that we've been on to bring a child into our family.

I'm sure now they give you a DVD or jump drive with video of your insides.

Frequent flier miles junkie

Sorry that I've been a bit MIA lately, but the adoption stuff continues to be an emotional nightmare that I can't even coherently explain. Anyway, back to regular programming...

I used to fly for work pretty often and I even worked for an airline for a while, and that's when it began -- a subtle, but definite desire to accumulate as many frequent flier miles as possible. Jack Bauer and I love, love, love to travel, so acquiring kilometer after kilometer only fed into our "fix." I still know my FF#s for two different airlines by heart (those along with the phone # of my fertility clinic, which I haven't dialed in more than two years, but I often can't remember how old I am).

When we were going through our fertility treatments, the only and I mean only, redeeming factor was that we put most of the expenses on my credit card which turned points into miles in my frequent filer account. I got at least one "free" round-trip out of it, too.

Once a junkie, always a junkie, I guess. You'd think if I was going to crave something, it would be horse urine and estrogen after the years of being on the stuff. But, no, my frequent flier addiction hasn't gone away. I recently signed up to be a participant in on-line market research - I get emails and go through a series of questions and get rewarded with miles. It's a pretty easy way to rack them up.

So, I'm running through a number of questions the other day asking about health issues - narcolepsy - nope; diabetes - negative; cancer, sinusitis, epilepsy, foot fungus - no, no, no and no. Three pages of various conditions and I'm just running down the "no" column when I came to a screeching halt: INFERTILITY. Guess I didn't think of infertility as a "health issue" (although I am well aware that it is the inability for my body to do something that should be natural); Rather I look at it as something that plays emotional havoc with me on a daily basis.

If I have to answer a "yes" about having infertility, and I do that proud and standing tall, at least I can get a little closer to a ticket to Hawaii for it.

Nauseated, but not 'cause I'm pregnant

Seriously, if one more Facebook friend posts a "so excited about school starting"; "I can't believe little Suzy is in the third grade"; "saw my baby off on the bus" or "I'm going to miss the lazy summer days," I may just puke.

My lil' ol' barren uterus and bitter lil' brain just can't take one more status update like that. I think I need to retaliate, but with what kind of comment? Something subtly snarky would be good. Perhaps I should mention that instead of buying school supplies, I bought a sweet pair of red patent-leather wedges; that instead of going to meet my kid's teacher, I went to the hot new restaurant in town; that instead of prying my kid out of bed in the morning, I got a few more minutes in at the gym.

Yep, you got it. Really I'm just a wee bit jealous. Damn fertiles. If only I could pry my way from Facebook for the next week or so, I could probably put myself out of my misery. Yeah, like that will happen.

Me vs. Octomom....Yeah, I think I could take her

So, although most of yesterday's news was drowned out by some small, insignificant debt ceiling so-called resolution (I kid), there was one bit of information that I ran across that made me forget about the fact that the U.S. almost defaulted on loans and cratered into an even worse economic outlook (yes, I am Debbie Downer):

The Octomom is going to get in a boxing ring. And they're looking for another woman to face off with her.

Seriously, where can I sign up to fight? I'd pay some pretty big bucks to get a good swing at that pouty-lipped mug. And, no I'm really not a violent person, it's just people like her bring out the meanie in me. I probably have a good 40 pounds on her. I guess it really wouldn't be much of a fight. But, I think I'd have fun.

After all that I and all other infertiles have done to responsibly have a child, and her idiot fertility "doc" knocks her up with eight embryos. Now, she's using this pseudo-celebrity status, which is totally undeserved, to get her 15-minutes of fame back, and make some money.

Actually, I think an infertile vs. super-fertile would be a fight a lot of pregnancy virgins would like to see, especially since her hyper-productive uterus was used in an irresponsible way. Imagine all of the angst that we could get out. I think it could be a money-making venture - just like a kissing booth. Pay a buck and get a free swing.

I'm really starting to like this idea.

My three-year gestation period

I kept procrastinating writing this post because I keep thinking that if I don’t write it, it won’t be true. Well, it is. Last week, marked the third anniversary of the day that we were matched with our precious little boy who is still stuck in a hellhole of an orphanage in Southern Vietnam. He was 7 months old when we first learned about him and saw the picture of him with his shock of black hair and full cheeks, and it was the second time in life I experienced love at first sight. He's now 42 months old, and he's still not home with us.

So, instead of just morning sickness, I have a never-ending nausea in the pit of my stomach with worry about how he's doing - if he's hungry, thirsty or in need of the comfort of a parent's arms. I would trade this never-ending paper pregnancy for swollen ankles that would rival a rhinosaurus, stretch marks that never disappeared and hemorroids hanging down to my knees if it meant my son would be home tomorrow.

This time last year when I wrote a similar post, I likened the wait to the time frame it takes for the elephant to gestate (the longest pregnancy for a mammal: two years); however, it seems that not only could I have given birth to a pachyderm, but also a manatee. Thirty-six months -- in which time I could've also given birth to 2.8 children.

I have felt the nesting urges big time lately - had the carpets cleaned and painted two doors and floor boards, and I'm so itching to go buy 3T clothes, toddler toys and sippy cups. But, I won't because I don't dare jinx getting him home before he grows out of more PJs and T-shirts that I've bought him.

Although I have never conceived, I can only imagine that my wait is something like the last four weeks of pregnancy, when you're so eager to meet your child you can barely stand it and every day that passes feels like a month.

I just hope my water is about to break.