Five years ago I went to a casino. I was invited by two co-workers to a gambling establishment just outside of San Diego.

I figured I would try my luck one more time.

The only other occasion I had to step foot into a casino was on my 24^th birthday. Dadisodes and I just started dating, and we headed to Las Vegas to celebrate. 

It was my first experience with gambling. And although my 4-inch black heels sank deeply into the luscious casino floors at the Venetian, the entire place reminded me of a facility set up for children. Is it me or do casinos remind you of Chuck-e-Cheese or Dave and Busters…with a lot more booze?

Anyhow, I was clearly in over my head. Especially after I withdrew $200 from an ATM and perched myself in front of a group of slot machines.

They were not just any slot machines. These had a $50,000 Mercedes Benz within arms reach begging to be won.  A lit a neon sign above the hood flashed, “Win this Mercedes or $40,000 cash!”

Within five minutes, I had sunk $100 into one slot machine below the car.

I was no idiot. It was time to move on.

Upward and onward I went to the blackjack tables. And just before my legs sat crossed upon a stool, a roar of cheering erupted behind me.

Someone had just hit the jackpot…on my slot machine.  

One of my worst birthday memories is of watching a crew haul that Mercedes down from the tops of the slot machines for someone else.

So when I entered the local casino with co-workers, I was a bit hesitant due to my unfortunate past.

As soon as I arrived, I wanted to pass out. The thick, congested nicotine air was enough to kill the gaudy silk plants in the décor. I had to break apart from my co-workers to seek refuge in a smoke-free area of the casino. It was a hallway, barely wide enough for one 80-pound cocktail waitress to walk up and down with a beverage tray.

But I had no choice. There really was no other place I could go, other than the inside of my car. And of course, in the confines of this claustrophobic space, there were two ratty nickel slot machines. One of which was already occupied by a moo-moo wearing elderly woman with rollers in her hair.

She didn’t smell so I sat beside her. I had another hour to kill and $5 in my pocket, so I lowered my chin into one hand and began dropping silver coins with the other.

Five bets later, my machine lit up.

I mean it lit up while setting off deafening sirens and flashing lights. All I remember seeing on the screen was “Tilt.” And the only thing going on in my mind was, “Score! Maybe I won back my $5 dollars.”

After the commotion died down, a tiny slip of paper slid out from the machine.

“What? That’s it? I get a lousy receipt?”

But as I looked down, the voucher read, “Winner of $540.00!”

I nearly passed out again. This was far better than the five bucks I was expecting.

As I held that meager, thin slip of paper, the world around me froze. The surrounding voices, ringing, and music all muted. I tightened my grip around the fragile evidence of my fortune, and wanted to shield it from the world.

Worst of all, I dreaded the long haul back to the cashier to claim my winnings. What if an employee walked up to inform me this was all a big a mistake? What if my sweaty palms erased the proof on the slip?

What if this was all just a dream? I knew I would not breathe again until I was safely cashed out.

Yesterday morning as I sat on my cold bathroom floor, I revisited those two days of gambling. My head was still spinning from Thursday’s questionable pregnancy test. For two minutes, I sat with my eyes closed, imagining the slot machine wheels spinning and spinning, as I hoped for a set of three. It reminded me of these past months of hoping for a pair of pink lines.

However, this month, part of me felt as if I am just destined for line solidarity on pregnancy tests. So I decided to mix it up.

And this month, took matters into my own hands…

I may not have 2 lines, but I have these two sticks…

And I feel like the luckiest gambler in the world.

Perhaps in 9 months, I’ll start to breath again.

Post title- Saying from William Bolitho

Living in absolute sin, Dadisodes and I shared an apartment in southern California.  I had just decided to stay in San Diego for him, rather than continue with travel nursing.  And after a yearlong courtship, still unwed and not engaged, my period was late.

<pause>

It would be important to mention here that at the time, I was still working in very acute neonatal intensive care units.  Although I was dating someone seriously, I was still unsure as to whether or not children were going to be in my future.  Especially since a normal infant in my eyes at the time was approximately 3-4 pounds and attached to life support.  Not to mention the constant smell of burning flesh in the O.R. during cesarean sections was not doing much to sway me towards motherhood.

Just like any woman not trying to conceive and taking precautionary measures, I panicked. A lot. And then proceeded to empty the shelves of the pregnancy test aisle at CVS.  Generic, early detection, fancy-overpriced name brand.  You name it and I scooped it into my arms, dumped them into my car, and raced home at alarming speeds.

It is truly amazing how difficult it is to pee during times of crisis.  And how slow three minutes can take to go by, pacing in front of a test.

Finally, there was only ONE pink line in the control section.

I breathed a heavy sigh of relief and then lowered the test back down towards the trashcan.

Wait. What’s that?

An ever so faint pink line shadowed alongside the dark pink one.

After several hours, it went unchanged.  I called my gynecologist to schedule an appointment for a blood test to make sure.

Upon arrival, the nurse immediately gave me a similar urine pregnancy test to take.  As she administered the drops of my urine onto the test strip, she immediately noticed two developing pink lines.

“Well,…*holds up round pregnancy calendar*…it looks like you’ll be having a May baby!”

My knees gave in and I nearly passed out.  Luckily a chair sat behind me to catch my fall.

“Are you okay, Sandy?”

“Yeah,…um…can you check the test again to make sure.  I got a faint pink line on my home test.”

“Let me see.  Well…hmm…. you know,… you’re right. It is barely pink.  We should really make sure.”

It turns out I was not actually pregnant. It was just a false alarm.

Trying to conceive over the last year or so, I still revisit that moment every month while taking a pregnancy test. Month after month, the negative test results have taken their toll.  It has evolved into a state of panic in a thick, heavy cloud of uncertainty, stifling as my time frame for trying to conceive comes to a close, our options become fewer, and biopsies come back unchanged.  Not even a glimmer of a pink line has presented itself.

Until yesterday…

With heavy signs of PMS (read: tender breasts, sugar cravings, water retention, mood swings), my past experience, and a years worth of failure, I am torn on how to interpret the test.

I fear latching onto this weak line of hope.  Because this time, so much more lies behind it.  I fear I am not strong enough to handle being letdown again.

Could this test be testing me?

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

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]]> http://www.momisodes.com/reading-between-the-lines/feed 80 http://www.momisodes.com/blindfolded http://www.momisodes.com/blindfolded#comments Mon, 15 Jun 2009 18:29:50 +0000 Momisodes http://www.momisodes.com/?p=2907

Sometimes I can be such a fool.  Not that people attempt to dupe me into things.  It’s just that I can become blinded by a situation and make poor decisions, but then again, hindsight is 20/20, isn’t it?

Like when we purchased our house.  It was a prerequisite for me in order to move forward with trying to conceive another child.  Along with the dated, 2-prong electrical outlets strategically hidden behind polished Pottery Barn furniture, there is a laundry list of issues the previous homeowners failed to disclose.  Most of them were to be expected with any older home.  But one of them, us warm weather natives, never had the foresight to inquire about.

Our house is a typical New England colonial home. The type of home a child sketches in crayon, with a centered front door, a billowing chimney, and a tree just to the side on the lawn. Only at our house, the lawn would not be colored with any shade of green.

We bought our home during the winter.

So picture if you will, a wintry holiday scene: a picturesque two-story home with a gorgeous holly wreath hanging on a heavy wooden door.  Perfectly manicured spruce trees framing the front windows and walkway.  And everything.  Everything.  Covered in a shimmering, white blanket of snow.

Including the front lawn. 

A front lawn that we would discover in Spring to be a dense sea of crab grass and dandelions.  The distracting eye sore that causes every passing driver to slow down and say, “Holy crap, how could these people leave their yard like that in this neighborhood?”

But we tried.  Dadisodes and I personally dug up our front yard twice last year and spread grass seed in hopes that this would be one less worry when I became pregnant.  But it never worked.  The weeds always came back and took over.  I began to worry that our yard would remain forever barren.

So this year, I threw in the towel and decided that we needed help.  After many (ridiculously over-priced) quotes, we found cheap landscapers who promised their method would work.  An army men of dug, raked, and pulled for hours. They managed to remove all of the weeds and poured a fresh layer of dirt and grass seed on top.

And then we sat by our window and waited. And waited.  Wished. And hoped.

I was convinced I had made the wrong decision yet again.  A couple hundred bucks down the drain.

But yesterday, we finally noticed tiny green sprouts.  Thousands of tiny blades of grass peeking from the dampened earth. Finally.

I released an apprehensive sigh of relief, thankful for one less item on the list.

Now if only I could become pregnant.  It has been over a year since we embarked upon both endeavors.

Soon, perhaps next month, I will need to have another LEEP procedure performed on my cervix, making it unsafe for me to bear children*.   My doctor had been certain I would become pregnant by now, especially with the help of Clomid.  But no amount of manpower, chemicals, or seed has made a difference.  And soon this yard of hope will be removed all together.

I’m finding it difficult to swallow the selfish guilt of not trying to conceive sooner.  Before this house.  Before the biopsies.  Before I cared about the view outside.

Although in hindsight it all seems so clear, all I wish to do now is close the window, and pull down the shade to block the view.

*My first pregnancy was high risk due to early onset contractions at 24 weeks, and another LEEP procedure will further weaken the ability of my cervix to sustain another pregnancy.

For the most part, I do my best to walk into situations with no expectations. At least, this was how I approached some of my recent medical procedures with my gynecologist.

A few months ago, my doctor scheduled me for a cervical biopsy. She gave me no instructions beforehand. I was to arrive just as I would if it were a normal yearly checkup. Despite my legs splayed in the air at 90º degree angles, I had no expectations. I figured, “Eh, it’s probably going to be like my yearly pap smear.”

*SCRAPE!!!*

Remember that post? Need I re-post the photo?

There was no numbing medication. No direction to take painkillers beforehand. Nada.

It hurt like hell.

I had a laser procedure a few weeks after receiving my biopsy results. The nurse assured me that it was a quick and easy procedure. Again, there was no direction to take painkillers beforehand.

That hurt like hell.

So this week, when my doctor suggested that I take Ibuprofen before having an HSG because, “it can be painful and there is lots of cramping,” I panicked a little.

Okay, I panicked a lot.

As I laid naked on the cold, stainless steel table, with a speculum, light, and catheter all wedged up in my va-jay-jay, the radiology tech stood firmly by my side.

“Don’t worry Sandy. Hopefully this will be quick. Here, put your hand in mine, and squeeze if the pain becomes too much to bear.”

Holy. Crap.

“Okay, Sandy. They’re about to insert the contrast solution. This is the part that’s not so great. Just remember to squeeze if you need to.”

Holy. Crap.

In that moment, my head tilted up and my eyelids closed in anticipation of searing pain. That poor woman’s hand lost all circulation for a solid thirty seconds.

“Okay. All done.”

“What?…That’s it?”

“Yep. That’s it.”

After all the foreboding warnings, I barely felt a thing.  I was so anxious with anticipation, I had to take a moment to release a long exhale. As I remained horizontal, several personnel scampered around the room, removing instruments and tubing from my body, and cleaning up surgical trays and equipment around me. I couldn’t help but ask myself, “How much more? When will this madness end?”

As of today, all of our fertility test results have come back normal, so it is still unknown as to why we are unable to conceive. But my doctor does not want me to get discouraged. She highly recommends that I take advantage of this month and monitor my ovulation (see photo below) since I took Clomid for a challenge test.

But now I am afraid of how I should approach things this month. How can I stifle the anticipation?

Something tells me that I better find a hand to hold.

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

That’s progress.

However, there are some arenas where the scales continue to be tipped.  Where women fall below, carrying the brunt of the weight.

For example, during childbirth, I think we all can agree that playing field is a cakewalk for the trojan team.

But before I rummage through that messy pile, perhaps we should back up a little.

As a couple begins the journey of trying to conceive, their initial steps are often taken together hand-in-hand.  Together they endure week after week, and sometimes month after month of physical and emotional intensity.  Occasionally a woman will take the time for an ovulation test and/or basal temperature measurement, but overall, it is an ultimate passage of love for two people walking side-by-side.

That is, until one year has passed and no pregnancies have occurred.

Then…well, that scale begins to plummet to one side.  This is the time when most physicians will begin to explore what may be wrong.

Here is a recent CliffsNotes timeline of our infertility journey:

- Last Friday- Started my period after being 5 days late.  Nature can be so cruel.

- Last Sunday- Drove to hospital and woke up the lab technician sitting in the back to draw 3 vials of my blood.  All of which she could not find the orders for.

- Tuesday (today) to Saturday- Start taking Clomid for medical testing (to make sure I ovulate in order to monitor my blood levels).  It is a medication that stimulates ovulation with fun side effects such as nausea, hot flashes, headaches, dizziness, vision changes, and breast tenderness.  None of which are the “serious” side effects.

- Sunday- Return to hospital to have more blood drawn.

- Next Monday- Return to hospital for an X-ray procedure where dye is injected into my cervix to check my fallopian tubes.  My doctor forewarned me that it is painful, and recommends taking Ibuprofen before arriving. Which freaks me out.  Because she didn’t even recommend pain relievers when she scraped out parts of my cervix for a biopsy…without anesthesia.  Twice.

- Next Tuesday- Begin peeing on a stick everyday to check for ovulation.  Once it’s positive, have “timed intercourse”.

Romantic, eh?

Like walking off along a sandy shoreline during a sunset.

Alone.

That’s right.  Just me.

Because you know where Dadisodes will be?  Want to know what kind of  hell the scales of justice will have him suffer through?

…He gets a private room with porn and a cup.

Dude, why can’t I be a dude.