Aunt Flo

Aunt Flo came to visit today.  She's the worst.  She is EASILY my least favorite aunt.  And I have an aunt that threw a hissy fit at her son's wedding when he didn't make the day all about her.  So.

Something about actually seeing the blood made me mad.  Just really angry.  It's so not fair.  Everyone in the world is pregnant, CSIL's having twins, and I've been trying for nine months, and I still get nothing.  I've dieted.  Exercised.  Lost 20 pounds.  Researched.  Put up with Dr. Angry Eyebrows.  Had sexytimes even when I didn't feel like having sexytimes and even when I was so busy that I had to work right through the sexytimes.  I've prayed.  I've cried.  Arizona Sister-in-Law ("ASIL") is almost in her third trimester already and we were SUPPOSED to be pregnant together.  What if she freaking gives birth, makes an ENTIRE baby, and I'm still not pregnant?  All of it just hit me and I was furious.

I was also mad because I was out of pads.  I bought some while I was visiting family last weekend but then left them there, as if my pregnant sister-in-law or menopausal mother had any use for them at all.  And I hate driving to the store!  Errands are annoying!

But I went.  And I got my pads.  And while I was there, I figured I should get my Clomid, too.  I waited in line all grumpy and mad that I had to be there at all and I tried not to cry as she handed me my first batch of drugs, making my own body's failure official.  I tried not to bite the head off of the pretty blonde pharmacist who walked me through how to take pills and then asked if I had any questions (You said put them in my mouth and then swallow?  Can I swallow and then put them in my nose, or does that not work?  I'm so confused.)

And on my way out I grabbed a six pack and put it on the conveyor belt because that is my new favorite way to deal with my problems apparently.  The check-out lady asked me how my day was going and I said, "I'm buying alcohol and it isn't even noon yet, so... what do you think?"  She laughed.

AND THEN I WENT CRAZY.  I BOUGHT A LARGE PIZZA.  AND I ATE IT.  AND I DRANK THE ALCOHOL (One bottle.  Calm down.  I didn't have the whole six pack.  And if we're really being honest, I only had two slices of the pizza.).  AND THEN I DUG UP THE COFFEE ICE CREAM THAT'S BEEN IN THE FREEZER FOR THE LAST THREE MONTHS BECAUSE I COULDN'T EAT DAIRY AND HUSBAND DOESN'T LIKE COFFEE AND I ATE THAT, TOO.

Because forget my diet.  It's making me miserable.  And it's not even working.  I lost weight but who even cares if I don't get a baby.  Drugs are my solution now.  I mean, I'll still try to eat healthy and whatever, but I'm not going to get all guilty every time I have something with milk or sugar in it.  That's exhausting.  So... Chapter Two: Can Drugs Save Us All starts now.  Fingers crossed, you guys.

Ugh, diets.

Sometimes . . . Husband does not really understand diets.

I mean, Husband and I have always had drastically different taste in foods.  I like sushi and vegetables and even though I am not a vegetarian I think that tofu is delicious.

Husband's idea of fine cuisine is Hamburger Helper or McDonald's.  Or Hot Pockets.  This is a thing that I have (mostly) accepted about him.  In fact, it's somewhat of a running joke in our family.  When cousins do impressions of Husband, they usually involve the look of excitement that crosses his face whenever he sees a fast food chain he hasn't eaten at in a while.  Basically, while I did try in early marriage to make meals we would both like, I quickly realized that it was a lost cause.  Back then, when we were still newlyweds, I made one dish for him and a separate one for me every single meal that we ate together.  Once law school started and I no longer had anything remotely resembling free time, that was obviously not a thing I wanted to do anymore.  So he's been on his own food-wise for over a year.

Because of this, making my own, separate meals when I started the PCOS diet was not unfamiliar.  What WAS unfamiliar was how angsty I got when he ate his food around me.  His tolerable food, I mean.  I continue to feel nothing but disgust when he eats Hot Pockets.

We had a lot of conversations about this in the first month of the diet, particularly when he ate half a box of chocolate donuts right in front of me.  (I feel the need to point out at this time that he is basically a bean pole.  I've lost 14 pounds and am right in the middle of the healthy weight range for my height, but he STILL weighs less than I do.  And he is taller.  This is just another thing about my life that is unfair.)  And, to his credit, he has been trying.  He hid the entire box of cookies that he bought yesterday on a shelf below eye level in the cupboard (I still saw it right away, but it was a good effort), and he only makes pizza when I'm not home (though the house does still smell like it when I get back).

So today when he asked if I could put away the last slices of his pizza for him and didn't understand why I didn't want to even look at the cheesy, white-flourey, greasy deliciousness of it, I got a little frustrated.  I've never asked him to diet with me.  And I wouldn't, because I know that he would not be able to.  I've made SOME progress with him over the years (for example, he will now eat fish and if given the option will choose brown rice over white), but it has not been easy.  I'm almost positive it's a mental thing, but he always feels sick after eating food he doesn't like and so he reacts strongly to being forced to, and has on several occasions eaten fast food before going to a friend's house for dinner in case they serve something he doesn't like (which is most of the things).  So I wouldn't ask him to.  I have always known that this would just be a me thing.

But sometimes... ok, a lot of the time... I really, really wish it wasn't just a me thing.  Even if he doesn't eat the food with me I wish it was at least on his mind as much as it is on mine.  When we go to a restaurant with a friend and I have already looked at the menu online and ascertained what dishes don't have white flour or dairy or soy, and then the friend suggests another place, I wish that instead of being all for it, Husband would know that I have no idea whether I can eat at the new place or not and would mention that instead of agreeing immediately and forcing me to remind him.

I wish that when guests come over he wouldn't get my favorite dessert bars and ask me to help frost them and tell me it's fine to take a slice when it obviously isn't.

And I wish that he would understand why I don't want to put away his pizza slices for him.

Sometimes, it's just really hard that this entire infertility thing is completely on my shoulders and that I have to work really hard to try and fix it while Husband can (and frequently does) forget that it's an issue at all.