Cold Feet???

I am a worrier.

THERE, I said it. Intellectually, I am fully aware that this is a useless and completely self-feeding affliction. Doesn't help - I can't stop! I am THAT girl. I worry and analyze everything to death and in between bouts of anxiety I have strategically mapped out plans A, B, C, D........all the way to F - just in case the S really hits the F. Does admitting this flaw mean I am now on the road to recovery? 11 more steps? Where am I going with this you might ask.............permit me to tell you.

I'm worried that I have cold feet - infertility cold feet. You know...the kind you're not really supposed to admit to because it somehow jinxes the process (and not the "We said the same word at the same time" kind of jinxing that leads to a free coke). This kind leads to tears, anger and a perpetually empty uterus. Is it possible to have infertility cold feet? Is this normal? Part of the process? Hello....hello....is anyone there?

While John and I were going through his/our battle with cancer I always felt confident that everything would be okay. I NEVER doubted - even through all the major setbacks (and there were a few doozies ie fainting spells, anxiety spells, emergency blood transfusions, grand mal seizure, discovering it had spread to his lymph nodes, discovering it had spread to his heart, discovering it had spread to his lungs, just to name a few). Through all this though, I still maintained a calm sense of peace about his inevitable success and recovery.

I don't feel that way about IVF. I'm scared. Can I say that? So many times I feel like I can't speak it's name. It seems that saying it out loud somehow gives life to the fear; very similar to the way Harry Potter is hushed for speaking the name of Voldemort. It is a taboo topic.

Truthfully, I'm terrified to so much as let this process begin, terrified of the embarrassment/pain of all the procedures, but mostly terrified of the "What If It Doesn't Work?" scenario and what it will mean for our lives if it doesn't. Is it better to live with the hope that "someday" (if we choose) in the far distant future we might have kids or to KNOW that it'll never happen and get on with coping? I'm afraid I might not have the courage to find out the answers to those question.

I went to my first appointment with Dr. Friend (OBGYN) last week. I LOVE that her name is Dr. FRIEND. All I can think about whenever I hear her name is "Dr. Friend. Dr. Friend getting friendly with the girlie-goods". I know, I'm a child. I can't help it. This was the first time I've met the good doctor and my 4th gyno appointment. EVER. So obviously I'm not horribly familiar with these types of appointments but it seems like we maybe should have shared dinner or at least some wine before we moved on to third base. But, alas, no - Dr. Friend is ALL business. She tells me to lie back, scoot my "bum" to the edge of the table and "just relax". I don't know about you.....but whenever a total stranger comes at my goods with what looks like a a plastic toy gun and a miniature chimney sweep brush the last thing that comes to mind is RELAXED. I did my best though and tried to pretend like I wasn't actually blushing. On the ceiling above my head is a poster with a cat hiding a dog's eyes with it's paw and saying something about being scared. Seems like a weird choice of poster for this scenario but.....to each their own.

After what seemed like a very thorough groping she finally said we were done and I could sit up. Then came the bad part. She started rambling off some doctor mumbo-jumbo that I don't even pretend to understand - but I DID manage to catch the "send you down to the lab to have some blood drawn" part.

Oh. Holy. Jesus.

Not needles. Anything but needles. My greatest weakness......the proverbial Achilles heel. I. HATE. NEEDLES. It's not about the pain, because there's really not much( IV's excluded. Those hurt like a mother). More the idea of the disgusting little steel straw being shoved into the delicate pink skin of my elbow (near bone and tendons!) to suck out my precious life juice. Gross. I quickly got dressed before any other bad news could ensue and reluctantly trudged down to the evil-doers lair. Thankfully the next few minutes went blessedly fast and before I knew it I was seated in a chair with my arm strapped down while a monster posing as a nurse took 12 vials out of my arm. TWELVE. It was literally enough to feed an infant vampire for the better part of a week. Afterwards I got a Sponge Bob band-aid, some juice and a cookie. It's the small things in life.

Good news is that my goods look good. Step 1 complete.

It appears that the next step in this new and exciting adventure is something horrible called an HSG test AND, I must admit that after reading the pamphlet it seems I have a new object to direct my worry at. BUT, until then, I will sit in my living room, trying not to think about it while I just keep mumbling the words, "Voldemort.........Voldemort.........Voldemort" over and over again, refusing to give the process power.