...and no cigar.

Actual post date and time: 3/11/09 @ 7:06 PM (changed to order the two posts properly)

First beta WAS a point. A fraction. This one was 0.01. 3/11/09 at 3:19 pm, our journey ends.

"You don't pregnancy."

I,I,I called him, not him, me. Wanted to confirm I can quit these blasted hormones cold turkey.

Trying to get Dr. Li to tell me he was so sorry it didn't work out for us:

Me: (consciously attempting to manipulate it out of him as it wasn't among the first three sentences he uttered) "We'll, I guess we'll never be parents then."

Him: (pause... still no sorry) "Well, stop the hormones, you'll get your period in 2-3 days. Why don't you come by and pick up your records in case you want to try again later. Don't let the door hit you on the back side."*

Sorry to any docs out there, but docs ARE arrogant. And Chinese doctors, FORGETABOUTIT. Dr. Li, I trust you did everything and more an American doc would have done. But just as people see true colors of character upon break ups, oh boy. Your bedside manners need some brushing up there, doc.

I'm not a bawling wreck. (Anymore.) We've stretched this grieving process out long before we took this last ditch stab at getting pregnant here. I'm proud of our bravery in diving into the eye of the storm again. In ripping the scab off the old wound. What came out of the ART we attempted here was not a baby, but was a rearranging of our emotions involved in being infertile.

We reopened our hearts and rendered ourselves vulnerable and yearning once again. Felt the pain of the parental voids we were seeking to fulfill. By reexamining our infertile experience via blogging, then discussing what I blogged, by experiencing the ups and downs once again, we opened our overstuffed and disorganized infertile closet, basketballs springing out at our heads. We looked around the room at the strewn about mess. We pointed at the old mementos and reminisced about the good and the bad we saw splayed all around us. Then we threw away crap that we didn't want anymore. We saved the special things and put them away in a loving and organized fashion where we can retrieve them without the explosion happening.

Now we have more room in the closet for new mementos.

Like I said, I absolutely refuse to be bitter, beaten, and broken about being infertile. Not everyone can be that 1 in 4 for which IVF works. We're hoping we get that 25% chance as credit for something else down the road. Crushed Dream Karmic Credit.

My wish is for every woman** out there who unsuccessfully tried to conceive their own bio baby to make peace with it. To refuse to be bitter, beaten, and broken. To create new hopes and dreams. Or perhaps realize old ones we left behind long ago.

Tonight I have Häagen-Dazs® coffee ice cream to fill the void. (Nice forethought, Sweetie.)

Thank you again to everyone who has been pulling so hard for us. We felt and feel the love. Now that I've opened up the writing floodgates, don't expect me to quietly slink away from the blogosphere. We're going to march on following our path of least regrets. I'll have plenty to pontificate about.

Maybe the next job Dan gets will be in Paris. Onward and upward.


*Ok. He didn't really say the "door hitting my back side" part.

**I specify women vs. couples or men and women, because we are, in fact, designed to have that empty womb filled. We literally, feel the void on a visceral level. Don't mean to imply the men are beyond the pain.

Busily slamming tequila shots, pounding coffee, taking baths, downing soft cheese, putting away the sushi, + lapping up the codeine cough syrup.

Fuck. Damn. Shit. Kaka. Poopoo. Waaaah. And just plain, sad. But not defeated.

When Dr. Li has bad news to deliver, he's nice enough to telegraph--giving a heads up to prepare you for the blow to come. Dan could tell by watching my face the news wasn't good--my exaggerated scowl kept him filled in during the call. But I didn't ball like I thought I would. I was quite calm hearing the info (something about 1%ish HCG).

The most hubris I've had with this whole thing was optimistically adding the "Made in Taiwan"* part to my blog title. I don't expect it to work. Chances are, it won't. Like I said before, we're in Vegas, baby. At least I'm done brewing hordes of eggs in one fell swoop. It was extremely trying--esp. while also having acute bronchitis. We still have our 13 frozen embryos. So we'll roll the dice doing one or two IVF/FET cycles. The good news is by the time we can start the FET cycle, my OHSS will have simmered down, and we've shown ourselves we can weather the ever-tiresome BFN should the 100,000th come our way.

While struggling with being infertile is heartbreaking and by no means do I wish my "peace" with it to be misinterpreted as not feeling the pain of it, I continue to count my blessings in all the other areas of my life that are banging on all fours--keeping it all in perspective.

So tomorrow I shall go through the motions and have my blood drawn yet again to have them confirm what I'm pretty certain won't go shooting up beyond that promising 1%ish quote I got on Saturday evening. Maybe I'll turn the lemons into lemonade and have them, since my skin will have been pierced anyway, fin-fucking-ally tell me what the fuck kind blood type I have. Latent anger about my results? NO. This is venting frustration over the fact that over the course of the whole 7 years we've been waiting for our elusive 2 lines, not once has my blood been tested for type. Or if it has, why, for the love of GAWD don't I know what the hell blood type I have? Sheeeeeeesh.

In the mean time, I shall continue to shoot progesterone up my cooch. But will continue to find consolation in: Busily slamming tequila shots, pounding coffee, taking baths, downing soft cheese, putting away the sushi, + lapping up the codeine cough syrup. And possibly buying tickets to see:
http://www.ticket.com.tw/dm.asp?P1=0000009291

*"Made in Taiwan." I will tell you what I know for a fact (rubber on bottom embossed with ubiquitous imprint proves it) I will be bringing home that was "made in Taiwan":
My void-filling, shopping therapy, brand spanking new tall black boots. So there.