When considering names for my brand new bouncing baby blog, I realized that I've always sucked at choosing titles, restaurants, music, or pretty much anything else. Decisions are not my thing. I am GREAT at brainstorming, rationalizing every angle, carefully listing the pros and cons, but when it comes to actually selecting among the actual options, well, let's just say I'm not exactly setting the world on fire. A Decider, I am not.
I started to think about what sorts of treats I should offer any reader so foolhardy (or insomnia-stricken) as to set foot into my little lair. One of the ideas that for some inexplicable reason makes me giggle uncontrollably every time I think about it (I have the same problem with the phrase "explosive diarrhea") is featuring a body part of the week. I could post a fetching close-up photo of the lucky part, discuss its history, merits, views on current events, favorite recipes, etc. The possibilities are endless. And of course the very first body part to be featured would have to be my navel. Not because my navel is particularly interesting, or attractive, or special in any way. It's a perfectly ordinary little navel. Round, an inny. Quite unremarkable. Its only distinguishing feature would be the tiny (OK, invisible) scar from a laparoscopic surgery, which serves to give it a little street cred. No, I would invite you to gaze at my navel as an ironic acknowledgment of the narcissism inherent in posting my routine little life details on the internet for everyone in the world to see.
However, featuring the navel in my inaugural post would also be misleading, since the REAL subject of this blog, and my life these days, is located somewhat lower on my anatomy. No, not that low, you pervert.
This blog isn't intended as a love song to my girly bits, but rather a place to vent my frustration at the failures of some of their internal accessories. I would identify the offending anatomy more precisely if I knew where to point the finger, but the best efforts of three medical professionals (so far) have left the exact location of aforementioned part "unexplained".
As it turns out, I am infertile. Or rather, my darling husband and I are infertile. Being "unexplained", I can't be certain that the problem is located in (or confined to) my own reproductive organs, but after two and a half years of what is euphemistically called "trying" (translation--fucking like bunnies without so much as a gentle wink in the direction of contraception), my urine remains free of the slightest whiff of contamination from those chemicals which create second lines on home pregnancy tests, make grown men cry, and make one start referring to one's own father as "grandpa". I had a little bit of endometriosis (stage II, located on my uterosacral ligament, if anyone cares) removed nine months ago, but it's been gone for a while now, and yet that second line remains elusive. Other than that, my tests are all "normal", my hubby's sperm checks out, and yet here we are. So, I've decided to pull out the "big guns", as it were. Today is the first day of my first ever IVF cycle. One needle down. Zillions to go. Let the fun begin.