Myrtle: About 4 weeks ago I had a miscarriage.

Other Turtles: Oh my.

Myrtle: Immediately after hearing I had a miscarriage, I was informed I had a swollen gland in the unmentionable place below.

Other Turtles: Oh my.

Myrtle: In order to release the swelling, I was inserted with a catheter in my hoo-haw.  Uncomfortable doesn’t even begin to describe it.

Other Turtles: Oh my.

Myrtle: Over the past four weeks, I have had my blood taken 7 times.  Did I mention I’m deathly afraid of needles?

Other Turtles: Oh my.

Myrtle: I also had to get a mammogram last week since my family history reads: Cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer, high blood pressure, cancer, cancer, cancer. (The high blood pressure isn’t really a surprise.  When you think you could have cancer of course you’d be a little stressed.)  My boobs got squished.  It was unpleasant.

Other Turtles: Oh my.

Myrtle: So it turns out that the catheter didn’t work well enough and now I get to have a surgical procedure called marsupialization.  I swear I’m not making this up.  You know how marsupials wear their female stuff on the outside.  Basically that’s what I get to have happen.  The doc will turn my lady parts inside out in order to get rid of the swollen gland.  I’m so excited I could just punch my doctor!

Other Turtles: Oh my.

Myrtle: But on the bright side, this is the first time in four weeks that I don’t have to go to the doctor to get poked, prodded, cut on, squished, or humiliated.

Other Turtles: Hazaa!

All: I will not be brought down or defeated by the circumstances of my life.  Being infertile is hard, but I am strong!  I AM STRONG!

A thought occurred to me today that has me in a rut.  I can’t seem to shake the bummer feeling I have about it.

I’m defective.

I can guarantee I’m not the only infertile out there that has thought this and I probably won’t be the last.  But it does make sense at this moment.  The main purpose of my body isn’t functioning properly.  If I were a robot, here’s what they would say: Model Number M-123456789 can not reproduce without medication and thus far has not been able to carry through a pregnancy.  No refunds or returns.  Replacement parts are not available.  This model is defective and sold as is.

I know, I know, I’m more than just a pair of defective ovaries.  I can contribute to society in other ways. Yeah, yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah.

Just to add to my misery and yet another reason for the pity party, I’m currently on pelvic rest.  No really, apparently that’s a thing.  What OBGYN came up with that ridiculousness?  Pretty darn sure The Hubs didn’t sign on for weeks of pelvic rest and periods of planned sex that have to be documented and reviewed by another woman.  In addition, tomorrow is hump day and there is no humping (darn you, cruel irony!).  I can’t produce a kid and now I can’t even hunka chunka with The Hubs.  Well don’t I feel special.

So I’m declaring tomorrow Defective Model Day.  This will become a mass celebrated holiday consisting of anything that makes you feel better when you’re blue – hot bath, good book, shopping, chocolate, ice cream, chocolate ice cream.  Anything you want.  I do believe I will be having a hamburger and fries tomorrow.  Perhaps I will buy some new yarn.  Get a huge hug from the Hubs.  I may start a new book when I get home from work.  Heck, I may even go to bed early (especially since there’s no hunka chunka that will be happening).

Let’s go fellow infertile turtles!  Let’s have a day consisting of all those things that will make us happy!  What will your holiday plans be?

Number 1:  I seriously think my doctor is a vampire.  No really.  I’m starting to suspect that she is and that the blood from a pregnant woman is some sort of  delicacy.  I did blood work last Monday, last Wednesday and today.  Who needs that much blood?  And can’t there be an easier way to track things?!?  I’d much prefer to pee in a cup than get myself stabbed by a nurse that looks completely dissatisfied with her job.  Add on that I have a massive fear of needles and you get one not so fun week. Anyways, my doctor probably is a vampire secretly enjoying my preggers blood. Go team Edward!

Number 2:  Multiple rounds of blood work combined with an easily bruisable arm will result in you looking like a crack addict.  Probably not the best fashion statement when pregnant but what can you do.  My arm has a bruise the size of a quarter (which is actually small for me) and it’s a brilliant shade of purple and brown.  It’s beautiful.

I’m sure there are more side effects than those I’ve outlined above.  If you have any that need to be added to the list, please put it in the comments!

Yes indeed, I am going to write a post about parenting and offer a friendly word of advice to those parents out there raising kids.  Now, I will start with the admittance that I am not a parent.  I don’t know how hard it is.  I don’t know what it’s like.  I don’t know the trials or the rewards.  But that being said, I am member of society.  When you raise your kids to be complete morons, I feel the need to offer my opinion.

What prompts such a post you ask.  It’s a lovely story that happened no more than an hour ago.  Let me set the scene…

Colorado.  A warm 70 degrees outside. Partly cloudy sky with rays of sunshine coming down through slits in the clouds.  The sun is setting over the mountains.  The trees are green and lush.  There’s a cool breeze that is setting the world in motion.  And I am out for my evening run which starts with a warm up walk.  I’m grooving to a good pace and feeling pumped.  When I hear the dulcet sounds of a teenage boy in a passing car scream, “Go sexy whore!”

Well, this took my by surprise.  I admit a small pity party was forming in my head. But the endorphins from the walking were kicking in and I started to feel better.  Shrugging it off as boys being boys, I started into my jogging.  Once again, I was grooving (best pace ever!).

It was about 15 minutes after the first incident that the same boys passed by again.  Their greeting this time was equally as delightful as the first, “Run you f***ing whore!”

What I describe above is just plain inappropriate.  If it was mapped on a scale of what was socially acceptable, it would fall just above flinging poo.  I am fairly certain that the monkeys flinging poo have a higher IQ than those boys.  I blame this inappropriate behavior (the yelling not the poo flinging) on the parents.  And no, I’m not a psychiatrist choosing the parents to be the fall guy for everything.  This time it is partly their fault.

Many of us infertile turtles are dying to get the chance to raise precious little children to be functioning members of society.  Members of society that have some sense of decency and kindness.  That will treat all people with respect – whether someone is jogging on the sidewalk or standing on a street corner practicing the difficult art that is mime.

So here is my parenting advice.  You can take it or leave it.

STOP RAISING YOUR KID TO BE A COMPLETE IGNORAMUS!

And if your reply is going to be something like this – You think you can do better? Then you raise them – just shoot me an email.  I will happily take your kid and teach them that yelling profanities at women from your car is not right.

Side note:  For those parents that are raising kids to know that yelling out the car window serves no purpose and shouldn’t be done, good for you!  I appreciate your efforts more than you know.  Thank you.

Well la-di-freakin-da for you, Mr. Coworker.  Damn you and your sperm and your wife’s fertile, fertile eggs!  Next time I see you I will punch you in the face!

Wow, ok.  I need to chillax. (Caveat, I will not be punching anyone as that may lead to charges of assault that could land me in jail.  One cannot get pregnant in jail without conjugal visits which our local prison system does not allow.  The Hubs is in law enforcement, I know these things. Alas, no punching.)

I’ve read a number of different websites and other blog posts about coping with infertility.  I’ve come across a few different views for how to deal with this type of situation.  Here is the Reader’s Digest version of my findings:

Approach #1:  You are innately a good person.

Well, congrats!  You have the amazing ability to keep happy when others are blessed.  You don’t hold a grudge nor do you resent their ability to breed.  I’d like to say something sarcastic about you, but actually I am impressed with your attitude and fortitude.  So go on girl and be happy!

Approach #2:  Fake it ’til you make it … or at least until you can breakdown where no one can see you.

So far this has been my modus operandi and from what I’ve read it’s a popular one!  Basically, you put on the good front offering congratulations and asking polite questions like when are you due, boy or girl, etc.  Sometimes this leads into actually being happy for the couple, other times you find a moment to quickly break from the crowd in order to find a black hole to crawl into and cry.

Approach #3:  The Hulk

Though this is my preferred approach, it is not necessarily socially acceptable.  Not everyone likes to see an infertile woman go ape-shit.  This approach starts with gritting teeth and seething anger as you slowly morph into a giant green hulk of baby envy.  Eventually you start going smashy-smashy on an object or person nearby.  The beast can only be calmed by chocolate, yarn, or expensive diamond necklaces.  That last bit may just be me…

So, right now I’m falling somewhere into category 2 and 3.  I didn’t full out freak when the announcement was made, I was able to keep it in.  But I am now bitterly and sarcastically posting about them while I grit my teeth and seethe in anger.  Hazaa for me and my epic failure at being a good person!  Perhaps in a few hours I will get back to approach #1 and be happy for them.   However for now I am perfectly happy with my green pity party – complete with balloons and torn purple pants – while I sulk at my desk. Ah the joy of Monday.

Now everyone think back to Junior High.  Breathe a sigh of relief that you are only reminiscing and not reliving.  Remember the sex education class, awkward – yes.  Remember what you learned. Babies come from intercourse.  That was about the extent of the knowledge I retained.  So why, when it seems so easy when you put it in writing, is it so incredibly difficult to get pregnant?  I mean really! Horny teenagers in the back of a car get pregnant all the freakin’ time.

So this is where I’m at right now – wondering why the heck it’s so damn hard.  (hee hee hee, innuendo unintended)  You would think that two people going at it like rabbits would have a slew of children by now.

Totally lame.

I chose love and family.  The Hubs and I are coming up on our one year anniversary and things are amazing.  Well almost everything.  Our one year wedding anniversary also marks 10 months of trying to get preggers (knocked up, bun in the oven, wide load, whale sized etc.).  Now many of you may be thinking that 10 months is not that long and indeed in the grand scheme of things it is not.  But I’m not looking at the grand scheme, I am looking at the now.  Can’t help it, I’m near-sighted.  And right now, I am feeling the need to breed.

Considering that the Hubs is a solid 10 years older than me, we don’t really have time to waste.  We wanted to get on the kid bandwagon as soon as we could.  I am totally ready to be sleep deprived, wrist deep in dirty diapers, and generally frumptastic.  I’ve even considered pre-ordering some mom jeans to accentuate my wide hips and small ankles.  My husband is generating a stockpile of lame, embarrassing jokes and colorful socks to be worn with sandals and shorts.  We are ready to be parents.

Sadly, the need to breed is just not enough and our efforts have thus far been unrewarded.  But alas and alack, we will keep trying.

Cause I feel the need, the need to breed.

Yes, not exactly a super sought out topic, but it’s what I’m living right now and it’s what I know.  Now, I’m not going to approach this in the normal way.  ”Really!”, you say.  ”Do tell us more!”  Why, I’d be happy to.

Many of the blogs I have read on this subject, while informative, comforting, encouraging, and uplifting, are lacking something.  Sarcasm.  Indeed the situation does not lend itself to much sarcasm but I see that as an opportunity.  Not that I won’t be encouraging and uplifting, but my approach will be around adding levity to this heavy topic.

So stay tuned all you fellow infertile myrtles!  Cause this is one funny journey when you take the time to laugh.