Of cups of tea, and cabbages, and kings

I haven't been around much over here recently because I haven't felt like I've had anything much to say.

As I predicted, we decided we'd put the IVF stuff on hold for a few months at least - I think we're going to reconsider our decision around the time we get back from Japan, around mid-November.

We should have a better idea of when our land will title, and when the building of our house will start - we've signed all the contracts and we're just waiting on final mortgage approval from the bank. We'll be building in Williams Landing, and we've picked a nice two storey house - well, I say that now. We'll see what I think when it comes time to move in.

So that's where all my emotional energy has been going lately. I even stopped focusing on the weight loss thing and the exercise thing, with, of course, the expected result - I've gained back four kilos from my all time lowest weight.

Over the past few weeks I've been really focusing on getting back to the gym and eating properly, and I've lost about 2.5 of that... so a little more focus and attention to go and hopefully I will be back in the habit.

I am playing a weekly game of netball, and trying to keep myself occupied with other thoughts while it feels like everyone around me is getting pregnant - sometimes it's more than I can take, especially when I've got my period and I feel like a failure for another month.

But, you know, I have these little guys, and One, and so I do my best to stay positive.

Arming myself

This morning I got up late. I didn't have to be up early; I didn't have to go to work. 


I put on my wedding ring and my engagement ring (I don't usually wear them; they're a lot looser since I've lost 20 kg and I'm afraid that one day, while I'm changing my gloves in the lab, they'll flick off and I'll lose them and that will be that). I put on my calf length black boots under my jeans (I usually run around in sneakers, forget heels!). I added a smart stripy jumper and my thick black Gap coat (no t-shirts and hoodies today!). Then I pinned on my favourite red wooden bird brooch and added a pair of small silver earrings, made by a jewellery student who is friends with my sister-in-law.


I took a deep breath and ran for the tram to meet One at his work by 9:30.


Compared to what I'd been dreading in the lead-up to the appointments today ("YOU ARE NOT SUITABLE PARENTS," in the counselling appointment, "THIS WILL COST ELEVENTY-BILLION DOLLARS" in the accounts appointment, and "YOU MUST HAVE FIVE PAINFUL INJECTIONS PER DAY AND LOSE ANOTHER 20 KILOS BEFORE WE WILL EVEN MAYBE CONSIDER YOU," in the nursing appointment), it was actually a breeze.


It will be a little more expensive than One was expecting (me? Well, it was an awful lot less than eleventy billion dollars, so I'm good!), I gave myself a practice needlestick in the belly in the nursing appointment (and you know what? It didn't hurt at all - says hypocrite me, with five tattoos and seven piercings), and the counsellor was a little amazed that we had done so much research and were so prepared - especially that we were so prepared for the actual, real statistics. Huh.


Then One and I went out into the sunshine and birds sang and there was a rainbow and all was right with the - okay, okay. We went out into the grey, cold Melbourne morning, and caught a tram back to the city. He bought me lunch - a baguette with roast beef and mustard - and we sat in the watery winter sunshine on the steps in Fed Square.


He went back to work; I had a coffee and a slice of ricotta and sultana cheesecake at Brunetti's. 


Now I'm at home, feeling more at peace and relaxed than I have in a long while.


PS. I told my boss that One and I were trying IUI (so that I could have today off), and he laughed. He is ridiculously excited for me - he kept telling me how wonderful he thinks it is and how happy he is, and what good parents we will make. It was honestly a little surreal, as I was imagining that he was not actually going to be all that pleased and possibly have a little emergency buzzer labeled with "MATERNITY LEAVE" that he might hit...

The prodigal returns

Blogging has been the last thing on my mind in the past few weeks, but I think I need to spill all the crazy in my head out so that at least  I might be able to get some sleep tonight. (I worry. That's my problem. The things I am worrying about now are things that I have been worrying about for the last five years, because not only do I worry about the problems I face right. now., I also worry about the problems that I might face five years in the future. Because why worry about one or two things when you can worry about everything, right?).

So.

One and I are looking for a house to buy. Awesome, right? Well, yes, except for a few things. We'd like to stay in the western/northern suburbs of Melbourne. I don't want to move to Taylor's Lakes. One does. His argument has merit, I admit - we can get the space we're looking for out there, if not the lifestyle.

I want to stay in the line of suburbs we're living in at the moment - kind of a line from Airport West down to Newport-ish. Except our budget in this area will stretch to an unrenovated 3 x 1, or a renovated 2 x1. One is not interested in renovating (majorly), and while I would be keen, I have to grudgingly admit that I have absolutely no talents in that area at all. Except maybe in the knocking down before rebuilding step. 

After a frustrating day last Saturday of frantically driving between home opens in Taylor's Lakes, Footscray, Coburg North and Airport West, which topped off a ridiculous six months of pre-buying internet searching, I reluctantly came to the conclusion that One was right, we are not going to be able to afford the space to raise out family the way we'd like to (that is, if we manage to ever have a family - more later) with our current budget in the area we'd like to live in.

I thought I was defeated and I was going to have to move to Taylor's Lakes or - shudder - Doreen - when One came home and said one of the guys he worked with had recently built a home in Point Cook, but has wished he could afford to build in Williams Landing as there was a train station going in there at the moment to be completed by the end of the year.

Huh. One  of our (major, deal-breaking) requirements is that our house be close to reliable (well, as reliable as it gets in Melbourne anyway) public transport. 

We started investigating, and trying to work out if the loan we have pre-approval for will cover building... apparently yes, yes it will.

Without having seen the estate and having been quoted the price of one block over the phone, and doing some hasty internet research, we are pretty sure that building a place will fall into our budget (just). And it's the just that's the sticking point.

We're just not sure that we'll be able to afford IVF, an interest-only loan on our block, and gradually, our house, and rent until we can move into our house - which could be longer than a year.

Oh, and our trip to Japan. Er. I might have forgotten to mention that. Long story short, amazing Jetstar sale, cheap flights, we've both always wanted to go and never been, figured that before kids+house it might be nice, and before we knew it, holiday was booked. One still has to organise his passport. I should remember to nag gently remind him about that later. We're leaving towards the end  of October, and spending just over three weeks in Japan (I am super excited. I have a special Japan song I sing to One sometimes when I remember we're actually going).

I think we've come to a bit of a decision, though.

We have our initial IVF appointments on Friday, and then on Saturday we're going to drive to Williams Landing and see if we can get some hard and fast numbers to do some calculations with.

But. At the moment, it's looking like we might buy a block in the next release (around November-ish), which should mean our block is available to build on by January, the house is done by June and we can move in. Theoretically. We could buy a block now and start building in a month, but then they'd be building while we're on holiday, and because both One and I are control freaks want our first house to be perfect, we're not entirely comfortable with that.

Having said that, to make it easier for us (and because that means we're probably stuck with housemates for another year), we're more than likely going to postpone IVF until the end of the year or the start of the new year. We'll make a final decision after Friday, but this is (unfortunately) probably the most sensible decision.

I have a little time to lose some more weight, we can (hopefully) get a house sorted out, and - don't get me wrong, we're not going to stop trying naturally, we're just not going to help things along with IVF either. 

I hate this decision and myself with my heart, but my head is resigned. This is why I can't have nice things; I am way too logical. And also panicky.

Run run, as fast as you can

Today One and I had an appointment with the gyno. She told us that there was no point in continuing to try to conceive naturally; we have a 3 - 5% chance every cycle  of getting pregnant naturally. 


Onward to IUI it is then. IUI, for those of you playing along at home, stands for Intra-Uterine Insemination. They will take some of One's sperm (which he will prepare earlier), spin it down, wash it and extract the "normal" (as far as anything of his is normal) percentage, and insert it into my uterus, through my cervix, at the appropriate time of month.


I thought that we'd be able to try an unstimulated IUI cycle (that is, one without the use of drugs to ensure I ovulate), given that I was told last time that I was ovulating and everything was A-OK with me, but apparently not - the referral to the IVF clinic that the gyno gave us indicated that I was to be put on drugs - not Clomid, I didn't recognise the name - to make sure I"m ovulating. 


She didn't say why.


I also got in trouble because I hadn't lost any weight since the last time I saw her. I saw her a month ago - not even, it was the last week of March, so three and a bit weeks ish. I've been stuck at my current weight since a little before then, but in total, since May 4th last year, I have lost 18 kilograms. I think that's a pretty fair effort - and I've managed to keep it off. It made me a little grumpy, as he implication was that I was just going to give up and sit around and put all the weight back on deliberately. Excuse me? I haven't gone to all this effort for nothing, you know! 


So we headed down to the IVF clinic and made the initial three appointments we need - the clinical appointment, the accounts appointment and the counselling appointment. We have to pay a $265 administration fee up front, of which we will get nothing back, and also get both police and Department of Family and Children's Services checks to make sure neither of us have ever done anything bad to kids. 


Then we can venture onto the rollercoaster.


(IUI will boost our chances from 3-5% to 18-20% per cycle. The gyno said if I'm not pregnant after 2 to 3 IUI attempts, we will probably need to move on to IVF. This is not something I am thrilled about).

Sure, I swear

One and I threw a surprise party for a friend last night. It was amazing - he suspected nothing. He didn't realise we'd manage to wrangle his family there, and the look on his face when he realised we'd gone to all of this effort for him was the best thing ever.

I baked him a rainbow cake as his birthday cake, and took the remnants to work today, to make sure that One and I didn't eat all the leftovers ourselves. Of course my workmates fell on it like a flock of starving gannets - although we have the annual Anzac Day Anzac biscuit bakeoff next Thursday, so I may not be the undisputed queen of baking for very long after that competition (Is it strange that I'm a bit scared of competing, given how competitive I am? I guess it comes back to my old fear of failing...).

--

I've started playing netball again, one night a week in a mixed social competition. I'm playing on a team with the same friend we had the surprise party for. There's no pretty way t o say it - our team is abysmal. We lost our latest game with a score of 45 to 2. Yes. 2. I fluked one  of our 2 goals - there was a reason that I was always stuck in defence in high school and it wasn't just because I was one of the taller girls on the team.

But. I am having fun, and definitely, definitely working out, and that's what it's all about, right?

I'm just not looking forward to the 9:40pm games, because usually I'm thinking about toddling off to bed right around then. 

--

I had a phone call yesterday from the gyno's office. One's tests came back with exactly the same results as last time. 

We have an appointment on Monday to discuss our options and what we actually want to do now. We have to check exactly what our health insurance covers and doesn't - I don't really want any nasty surprises in relation to costs, especially when we're saving for a house as well. 

I just - I'm finding it hard today. One of my workmates told me that she needed to leave early because she had to go for her 12 week scan - "oh yes, I forgot to tell you, I'm pregnant" - oh, she didn't want to tell me earlier (when she told my boss and the other girl who works in our section) because she was worried about how I'd react.

I'm a pretty open person, I think, and so I've been honest at work about what One and I are going through (partly, I admit, for selfish reasons, because I get sick of the "oh, why haven't you had kids yet? You'd both make such great parents!" and telling people the truth is a great way to get them to stop and think about what they're saying), but I was, I suppose, disappointed that I'd made her think that she couldn't tell me such beautiful news. 

Yes, I'm upset, because I can't help but wonder what if would feel like, I can't help trying to put myself in that position, but I am able to put that aside and be present for her, share in her excitement - but it was killed a little for me today when I realised she'd made the decision of how I was supposed to feel for me. 

Baking funtimes

I love to bake. If you know nothing else about me (I bite my nails, I have a degree in botany, I listen to ridiculous music), please know that I love to bake. I like cooking too, but my true love is baking.


The problem is, now that I'm trying not to eat all the things ever and actually, you know, not eat so many carbs and possibly drop some weight, I cannot bake all the time.


(Exhibit A: There is nothing I would love more this Easter weekend than to spend the whole four days baking. Oh my goodness. I bought a new piping nozzle set and some gel food colours off www.bakingpleasures.com.au last week, and I secretly want nothing more than to spend the entire weekend trying them out. But I cannot, because there is no one who will take the baked goods off my hands afterwards).


So here is a recipe. A recipe, that every time I make it when we have One's mates over,  there is never any left.


Jam Roly-poly


Preheat the oven to 180C.


Then, make a scone dough. You will need:


500g plain flour
4 teaspoons cream of tartar
2 teaspoons bicarbonate of soda
pinch of salt


Sift into a mixing bowl.


75g cold butter, cubed.


Rub butter into flour mixture with your fingertips until it resembles wet sand.


300ml milk.


Pour in, mix together with wooden spoon until a dough begins to form. Tip out of bowl onto a lightly floured surface, knead.


Roll out to ~1cm thickness in an approximate rectangle. Spread liberally with whatever type of jam takes your fancy (I have used cherry, with canned cherries and slivered almonds sprinkled generously on top, or peach, with walnuts and choc chips - but feel free to try out whatever combinations you like!), and add nuts or sultanas or fruit - I think grated apple and sultanas and a marmalade might be a really nice combination?


Roll up, just like a swiss roll, place in a baking pan, and pour over a quick caramel sauce - oops, sorry, forgot that bit. Melt a knob of butter in a saucepan, add a couple of tablespoons of brown sugar and let simmer until butter and sugar dissolve. Dilute by about half with warm water, stir in until you get a sauce, then pour over the roly-poly in the baking dish. (No exact quantities for that bit, sorry, I usually do it by eye).


Bake for 35-40 minutes at 180C, serve warm with custard or ice cream or on it's own.

Muffled voices

I have been procrastinating a while on posting. I'm not sure why, it's not like things go away if you just ignore them. 


I did that a lot growing up as a kid, pretended the uncomfortable things, the lying in bed with hot wet eyes, wishing I was dead, the lack of any friends and the bruises on my legs from the boys in my class just didn't exist. I don't tend to be real good at dealing with confrontation, you see.


So. The gyno told me that I was perfectly normal, I was ovulating as expected and she was really impressed by my weight loss (18 kilos to date, wooo - aiming for a total of 20 in the year since I started this diet-and-exercise thing). Just as I was getting ready to be told that we should go forth and procreate, she mentioned that there had been some irregularities in One's semen analysis and she'd like to repeat the test.


Apparently he has good total sperm numbers, but not very many normal sperm. Where a "normal" (for a given definition of normal, a couple with no fertility problems) have a 20% chance per cycle to conceive, with One's current "normal" sperm numbers being what they are, we have a 3 - 5% chance.


He's repeating the test in the next few weeks.


 I did have to stifle a few giggles over the list she ran through - "Does he smoke?"


"No."


"Drink?"


"Not frequently. Maybe - a beer or two a week and an occasional glass of wine?" (You would think for someone who loves to homebrew as much as he does, he'd drink more beer, but anyway).


"Uh - you should make him start wearing boxers."


"He already does. Plus, he's lost about ten kilos recently too."


"Well, that's definitely good. Does he take hot showers or baths?"


"Actually, no. He hates the heat - that was part of the reason we moved here from Perth."


We didn't end up reaching any successful conclusions. We'll see what the results indicate from the next tests, and then I guess we'll decide what to do from there. She did say we could leave it to chance, but as a scientist, I am not so fond of that idea. I know that 95% is generally considered a pretty statistically significant number, and, well, that's the chance of NOT getting pregnant every month that we have...


That means that the first thing we get to try is IUI. I - am not actually sure about this. I was all ready to deal with using ART if it was because I was infertile somehow. I was expecting a little more time to get used to it, I guess - kind of a "okay, well, we'll put you on Clomid and see if that helps and then we can start looking at other options," kind of thing. Instead,  it feels a little like we're leaping into this, and because I am a planner and a worrier (and am already worrying about ridiculous things, like what if our baby is bullied at primary school? Will I know? Will I handle it better for them than my parents did?), I can't help but fret about it. 


I suppose I also feel a little resentful. It was supposed to be my fault that we couldn't have children, and now apparently it's not. Mentally, I'm not prepared to cope with this. I was all ready for it to be my fault, and I'd researched the most likely pathways we'd take to try and fix it, and I was all prepared for that journey - and now we're embarking on something that is superficially the same journey but is in reality completely different. If that makes any sense at all. Sometimes I feel like I'm just babbling on randomly.


--


In other news. To change the subject. One and I realised on Monday that we have exactly the same amount of weight - 23 kilos -  to lose to reach our goal weights, so we decided to challenge each other. The person who reaches their goal weight first (we're not setting a time limit on this, we'd rather be  healthy about losing the weight; all bets are off if I get pregnant before either one of us reaches our goal weight) will take the other person away on an all-expenses paid, surprise long weekend! 


It seemed like a great idea and then I realised that we have joint finances anyway... Regardless, I am determined to win - given, I have a slight advantage for the next four weeks or so as One has stuffed his knee and has been advised not to do any cardio or weight bearing exercise, so he can swim and do some upper body weight work, but that's it.


I may or may not be slightly competitive.


And then my sister moved out last weekend. I've lived with her for most of my life - I think in total, we've lived together for 23 years? It was time, although I was hoping we could put it off for another six months or so, but I think she's made the right decision (but I am still horribly jealous of the friend she's moved in with and I miss her like crazy).

Rolling on

I went to the gyno last week, after a little frustration involving the need for a new referral and at least eleventy million blood tests requested by my GP (please understand I am not exaggerating here in the slightest; I think he's a not-so-secret vampire).


She didn't seem too concerned about my slowly-increasing cycle time - she said, in fact, when I mentioned that I was concerned, that she was really glad it wasn't as bad as I'd made it sound and it was nothing to worry about. I remain unconvinced. (From 21 days to 30 days to 36... we'll see what it blows out to this time).


So now she is sending me for more blood tests - maybe she is in league with my GP? They could be drinking my blood together! - to see if I'm ovulating. I have a request form to go get more blood taken on the 3rd of March, when she's hoping to see that lovely progesterone spike indicating that yes, yes, my ovaries have indeed been beaten into submission and I ovulated. 


If not, she's not wasting any time. Clomiphene, here I come.


Meanwhile, One is being sent for semen analysis. As a scientist, I admire the ruling out any possible variables approach. Why spend all this time and money treating me when all along it might wind up being him too? Sensible thinking. I like it.


--


I have had a bit of a hard week this week. I found out that one of my friends (we'd been really close from about 15 until our early 20's - we hadn't had much contact recently) passed away two months ago. Having no mutual friends and living on opposite sides of the country (plus no longer really being in touch any more), it made me incredibly sad. I only found out because I had a dream about him, went to share it with him on Facebook, and then wondered why all the posts on his wall for the last two months had been along the lines of "We miss you so much..."


I did manage to catch up with him for coffee (actually, tea, neither of us were big coffee drinkers) last time I was back home, and he seemed really happy. We cleared up a few things I'd always felt dreadful about, and I think I even apologised to him for assuming he'd always be there (I knew he'd always had a giant crush on me, and it makes me ashamed to admit it, but I played on that a bit, knowing he'd always come back).


So I spent most of Monday night in tears, and then of course, Tuesday was Valentine's Day. One of my workmates takes responsibility for creating playlists that we can all listen to in the lab (easier than agreeing on a radio station), and of course, created a themed playlist for the day... which happened to contain ten or so songs my friend had put on a mix tape he made me way back when.


That did not end well.


I am - not resigned, or accepting, but coping a little better now, I think. I miss him, and I always will, but I am also disappointed that I missed my chance to say goodbye.

Not quite the worst thing

My period is a week late. I tried not to get too excited initially; I've been disappointed before. 


But then I started feeling ill, my nipples were super tender and I was bloated for a week straight. So I took a pregnancy test this morning. This whole time I have been trying not to get my hopes up, telling myself that it doesn't mean anything - but secretly, some little part of me was already jumping up and down and waving her fists in the air.


Except I'm not pregnant.


Not only does this make me feel terrible for having dared to actually hope, it's not a good sign in terms of my periods establishing themselves into a regular cycle. My gyno and I were hoping that thanks to my weight loss (15 kilos as of this morning), it might kick start my body back into a regular cycle. That doesn't appear to be happening.


Next step? Make a gyno appointment. Pass her the baseball bat to beat my ovaries into shape.

thnks fr th mmrs

I"ve been pretty bad with my food lately. I don't mean in terms of eating chocolate every night or sitting down in front of the television with a bag of chips and emerging later to find only slightly salty fingers and a few crumbs right in the corners of the silver foil packets.

Randomly, I miss the packets that chips used to come in when I was a kid, the unlined, plain plastic packets that you could shrink in the oven. We used to attach them to our school bags.

No, I mean I've been bad with my food in terms of restriction.

I've been trying to lose weight since mid-May last year. In seven and a half months, I have lost 14 kilos. Except in the last four months, I have only lost about three. This is frustrating. Or, at least, I find it frustrating. Admittedly, I had kind of fallen off the wagon with regards to exercising most days and eating smaller portions before Christmas. But since then.

I have been to the gym / gone for a run / attended an hour of clinical Pilates for a total of at least five sessions a week (often more like 6 or 7), cut my portion sizes in half, and cut junk food out of my diet.

The end result? In a month, I have lost a kilo. And that was at the start of the month. At the moment, I'm wavering between 97.7 and 96.9 - it makes me want to scream.

What it's actually making me do is restrict my food. Tonight, my sister made a lamb salad for dinner. One served me a pretty small portion, but I still thought it was too much, and I tipped three quarters of it into his bowl. I ended up eating two 1 cm cubes of lamb, two tomato quarters, a few spinach leaves, two pieces of carrot and two 1 cm cubes of haloumi. This is not good, and it's not healthy. I've plotted out my daily calorie intake on CK and it's less than 1000 calories.

But I can't bring myself to eat more. I am so sick and tired of being fat, and nothing I am doing at the moment is seeming to have an effect.

This afternoon I had an appointment at the gym - they're writing up a new weights circuit for me, and I started swimming again for cardio on Saturday morning (managed to swim 1 km too, which I was pretty chuffed about). I just don't know why the weight is being stubborn and refusing to shift.

Waiting for Godot

I read this play when I was much much younger (or at least, it feels that way now). I was probably only 23, so it was five years ago now, almost six, but it feels like twenty or more years. 


I didn't understand the point of it back then. I couldn't see why they spent the entire play just hanging around, waiting for this guy to show up. Why didn't they go look for him? Why did they need him so badly?


I think I've figured it out a little now. Sometimes waiting is all you can do. Right now, waiting to see if I get my period or not, waiting to see if I'm actually pregnant this time - it's hard. I don't know if I have the courage to do much more. I know I'm doing everything I can to make sure it happens (c.f. losing weight - even if I beat myself up over my food issues and exercise habits - and seeing a gyno and taking metformin), but the waiting is hard work.


Is this nausea morning sickness? Or am I just vomiting as a bad metformin reaction? (I know they say to stick to a low carb, low fat diet on metformin, which I do, but it has not seemed to make a difference with the GI side effects for me. I will go a week or so with no side-effects, eating whatever  I like, and then bam, as soon as I toughen up my diet again, welcome home, feelings of nausea and intense cramping pain until I run to the bathroom with explosive diarrhea.)


Are my breasts tender because I'm pregnant, or is it just my body warning me my period's about to arrive?


I know I could take a pregnancy test - but I don't have the courage. I don't know if I want my heart to be broken again just yet. Right now, all I have the strength to do is just wait.

Home is where the heart is... or something

It's been an awfully long time coming (and by that I mean, I wasn't the kind of girl who dreamt about her wedding being the most perfect day of her life - instead, I dreamt about houses. I drew floorplans. I thought up decorating schemes. I plotted out the ideal permaculture vegetable garden when I was 12, for heaven's sake). 


Yes. One and I are starting to look for a house to buy. We're in a bit of a complicated situation at the moment, house-sitting for friends who are currently overseas - and looking that they're going to remain that way for a while - so we have a stable place to live for the moment, but we've also inherited their two cats (more on them later).


We've known for a little while that our deposit will be enough to start properly looking come July, and I know it's early, but not being native to Melbourne, we don't really have much of an idea about the areas to look in, much less buy in.


Ideally, we would like to stay on the western side of the city (because that's where all our connections are), and we were thinking we wanted to stay closer in, so we've kind of been looking from Airport West down to Newport - and then today, we went out to Taylor's Lakes for an appointment. Driving through the suburbs, One made a throwaway comment that our money could get us a 3 x 2 out there instead of the poky little 2 x 1  houses that we've been looking at.


And there would definitely be room for a puppy and a veggie patch, both things that I know are part of my dream house (and not just because they were always in my pictures as a kid) (One is not so sold on the puppy, by the way - or the veggie patch - gardening is not really his thing).


So now I suppose we have a difficult decision to make. While on one hand, I would love to buy an older house in need of some renovations, with a little room to extend, at the same time, I would also love to buy a house which doesn't need any work, one we can move into straight away and I can start my veggie garden.


I suppose if everything in life were easy, we'd all get bored very quickly.

Leveling up

I've always been a bit of a geek, but before I met One, it was mostly channeled into books. I loved books. Actually, that's a lie - I still love books (One bought me a Kindle for Christmas and I swear I have read at least 60, if not 70, books since he gave it to me early - yes, I got it in October. Moving on).


But, since I met One, my geekiness has been channeled into pathways matching his. We play video games together (I am playing Skyrim at the moment; he is mostly playing The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword). We buy presents for each other from Think Geek (my favourite is the beaker mug he bought me - not only can I drink tea out of it, which is another post, my love for tea, but it speaks to my science geek side too). Every Tuesday night our friends come over to our place for dinner and a nice rousing game of Dungeons and Dragons. 


So it's not really surprising that when I decided in May to get serious about this getting fit and losing weight thing, I decided to treat it as leveling myself up. Okay, I admit to possibly being somewhat creatively inspired by this xkcd comic. 


And now I can actually treat it as leveling up. Instead of just charting my exercise and weight loss in my spreadsheet (er - one  of my friends at work asked me how I was staying so motivated and I told her about the spreadsheet and then she made a joke about how it's always easy to tell when scientists decide to lose weight), I can track it on a website. Here, in fact.

And they're right. It's addictive. 


Today already, One and I went for our usual run this morning, but this afternoon I went to the gym on my way home, and then, because it was such a beautiful day (and I may or may not be addicted to filling in forms on websites and earning imaginary points), I walked most of the way home. 


Um. At least (so far) it's a positive addiction?

The day I hate the most

Today my period arrived. I had been feeling it threatening for the last few days, but it was already five days late, so I had my fingers and toes crossed, and was steadfastly ignoring the bloating and the ominous cramping (because if you ignore things, they just go away and you don't have to worry about them, right?), but to no avail.


It's both awful - obviously, because it means I have failed once again - and somewhat positive - because it means I am establishing an almost-regular cycle, something I have never ever had.


I know. From the time I got my first period (which my mother announced to all of her family, much to my shame and embarrassment - I guess I was lucky, at least there wasn't a cake or a party...) when I was 13, until I forced them into some semblance of normality by using synthetic hormones, my periods have never been regular.


I've been through it all. No periods for six months. Bleeding for three weeks straight. One period, followed by another less than two weeks later, and another two weeks after that. Looking back on it, I'm amazed I wasn't diagnosed much sooner than I was.


But. For  it to arrive now, five days late (and well, considering I only stopped taking the pill at the end of October and haven't really settled into a cycle yet), is what I'm trying to see as a bright spot.


A little more backstory:


In early 2008, I had a Mirena IUD put in - I was almost 25 and had just been on several "heavy hormone" pills that were supposedly specifically designed to combat the symptoms of PCOS. I found them all rough.


Without exception, they all took away whatever libido I had, made me suicidal, and ridiculously angry. I'd had enough, and after doing my own research about the Mirena, which seemed to indicate that it contained the lowest dose of progesterone available in any form of birth control at the time - and, the fact it was only going to cost me a total of $80 for 5 years of contraception seemed like an added bonus - made up my mind.


Midway through 2008, One and I moved to Melbourne. I wasn't doing anything to manage my PCOS, really. We didn't plan on having kids for what seemed like ages, and let's be honest - I was pretty lazy (plus, and maybe this is the real reason, I hate failing. Of any kind. I hate it so much, I often won't even try something I think I'm going to fail at - why try, when I'm going to fail anyway? Better not to try it at all right? So I'd convince myself I was just going to fail at the losing weight and managing my PCOS game too, and not even bother trying).


Then, in late 2010, my IUD fell out. Literally. I went to the bathroom, thought "hey, I don't remember putting a tampon - oh. That's my IUD."


I found a 24/7 GP who checked me out, reassured me it had come out in one piece, but agreed it was strange for it to just fall out like that, so decided to refer me to a gynecologist.


This is where the biggest stroke of luck ever happened. The gyno he referred me to was an obstetrician as well, and had no appointments free for new gyno patients until March 2011. Seeing as it was October 2010, she agreed this wasn't particularly helpful, but suggested one of her partners, who is purely a gyno. A gyno who specialises in infertility and has a special interest in PCOS, actually.


So off I trotted to the gyno in November 2010. By that stage, One and I were at least talking about kids (I said right then and now; no-one's ever ready; he said no, he wanted us to wait a bit longer. We agreed to reassess in a year's time).


The gyno sent me for another whole panel of blood tests and another trans-vaginal ultrasound. The hormone panel came back with, surprise, surprise, a diagnosis of PCOS. The trans-vaginal ultrasound said I had >19 cysts on my left ovary and >25 cysts on my right ovary. Oh, and a septate uterus.


What.


For confirmation, I had a saline ultrasound (not the most pleasant procedure ever, my uterus was pumped full of saline and then ultra-sounded - I don't think that's a word. Never mind), during which I kept a death grip on One's hand.


The doctor who did the saline ultrasound laughed jovially when he saw my uterus blown up to 100 x life size on the monitor, and assured me it was the least septate uterus he'd seen in 20 years. Also, 10 of the cysts on my left ovary had vanished, and taken at least 15 of their friends from my right ovary. In a month. Right.


The conclusion that One and I came to later was that either a trainee totally misread my original ultrasound films or that they were mixed up with someone else's - because really.


So the gyno prescribed me a year's worth of the pill, and I spent another year wanting to kill myself (seriously, I cannot talk about my depression without trying to make a joke out of it. I think this probably says a lot about me), and watching my libido spiral away to past nothingness.


Finally, in early October this year, I got to go back and say those magic words. "We're trying to start a family."


Now I am taking 1500 mg of Metformin a day, as well as a folate tablet and trying to lose as much weight as sensibly as possibly, trying not to come apart at the seams and praying every day that I do not feel that downward dragging cramping that means my period has arrived.

I've never been very good at beginnings

I'm Two. Or, well, you can call me Two. I'm not really Two. Call it a safe preservation of anonymity or something. I'm not very good at sharing things with people in real life, at times when I actually have to be honest and look them in the eye and all that kind of messy feeling stuff.

It's not because I don't feel. Sometimes I think I feel too much. I get overwhelmed with feeling, and find myself crying at ridiculous things, or biting my lip to stop myself crying in a cinema full of happy families, or watching silly trashy television shows.

The trouble is, I want. I want so much. I want a family of my own.

And it's hard. For eleven years, I've taken precautions to make sure that I didn't start a family. Now it looks like I didn't need to bother.

Backstory (yes, there will be a test later):

When I was 22, I was diagnosed with polycystic ovary syndrome. I didn't have abnormal numbers of cysts, but I fitted the hormonal profile, the facial hair growth (it's embarassing to admit I have to pluck or shave my chin hairs every second day), the male acne patterns (why, hello there, back acne. You're not even satisfying to squeeze because I can't reach you!), the skin tags in the armpits, and the weight gain. Oh yes, the weight gain.

I've always been on the fat side of plump, for as long as I can remember. The first time I ever remember noticing was when I went to primary school, and my belly stuck out more than the other girls. I don't remember being worried about it, or concerned, it just - was what it was.

When I was ten, I was walking back from church with the rest of my class (don't even get me started on that, please), and one teacher said to another, "Isn't Two growing up, look, she's losing all her baby fat." I'm not sure if I was supposed to overhear that; in fact, I'm almost sure I wasn't supposed to. But it made me aware that I was skinnier now than I had been previously - at least, I was compared to everyone else in my class.

It was about then that I started reading fashion magazines. Aimed at ten to sixteen year olds, they were full of advice on boys, and clothes, and music - and, of course, how you needed to look to attract boys, and wear the right sort of clothes, and listen to the right sort of music. I started being picked on, and food was always there - it didn't let me down, it didn't judge me, or punch me, or ignore my existence. It was comforting.

I wanted to be just like the models I saw in the pages of the magazines. Except I kind of always knew, deep down, that I was too fat. And then my mother decided I needed to lose weight. I was twelve, the first time she told me that I needed to watch what I was eating, and cut down, and do more exercise. In later years, she hastened to add that it wasn't because she was worried about how I looked, no, she was worried about my health.

She's always been the first person to compliment me on any weight loss, or criticise me on any weight gained, real or imaginary. I can't really judge her though. She hasn't let much slip about her own "trials and tribulations" with body image and her weight, but from what she has said, I gather she finds it difficult to keep herself in a state she likes.

And that's my problem. I don't find myself in the least bit attractive, or sexy, or cute. I hate my body. There's a quote in "Real Gorgeous", a book by Kaz Cooke, from a woman in Darwin. She says, "When I was a teenager, I used to wish aliens would beam me up, and roll my fat off my body, like a giant fat suit. And then I could be myself." To a large extent, I've always felt like that. Somewhere, I'm sure, under this stuff, is me, and maybe I could like myself if it wasn't all in the way. (I'm sure some, if not all, of these feelings of self-loathing go back to primary school - but that's a post for later).

Mum and I started going to WeightWatchers when I was sixteen (and then again, a few years later, when I was nineteen). Sure, it worked for a little while - these things often do. But I fell back into the old familar traps of emotional eating and shrinking back in on myself (only not literally - I was putting more and more weight on), and it all came back. And this time, it brought friends. And then I would get more depressed, because clearly I had no self-control, and wasn't I a bad person for not being able to force myself to look like those girls in the magazines?

I don't have a 'real' eating disorder now, per se. I was always too scared of going too far and looking like a skeleton to toy seriously with anorexia, and I couldn't bring myself to wreck my teeth with stomach acid, so no bulimia for me either (why yes, shallow is my middle name). I just - punish myself with food, I suppose. I don't generally eat breakfast. I'll limit what I eat or control it in some other way (bingeing, or choosing certain food, or making myself wait certain lengths of time) if I feel out of control in some other way - often some other way triggered by my weight.

When I was 22, I was finally diagnosed with PCOS, and things started to make a bit more sense. There can be increased insulin insensitivity, so your body craves carbs to 'mop up' the extra insulin, and as a result, more insulin is produced - and so on, in a vicious cycle (are there any not vicious cycles?). The diagnosis was a fun process too - I had three trans-vaginal ultrasounds while they tried to decide.

At the moment? I hate my body. I hate myself. I hate these irritating lumps and bumps and rolls that I've developed, I hate the fact that so many of my clothes don't fit me, or strain and gape at the buttons, or just don't look quite right. Today, I hated the fact that my stomach was getting in the way when I was shaving my legs in the shower.

The problem is not that I love food. Of course I love food! Food keeps us alive, and if we're alive we can breed; we're biologically wired to love food. There's nothing wrong with loving food.

My problem, I think, is that if I lose weight, I suddenly lose my protective shell as well. And I'm not quite sure that I'm ready to do that. I mean, I'll never know unless I give it a try, and "lose weight" is always one of my resolutions, and goals, and whatever else you want to label it, but I just never seem to be able to follow through. It's as though some part of my mind has already measured me up to those images in glossy magazines, and billboards, and on tv, and told me that I'm never ever going to measure up, so why should I bother to even try?

But. (This is embarassing, and it makes me ashamed to write, but maybe it will continue to make me do something about it). On January 1st, last year, I weighed 111 kilos, pretty much exactly. As of this morning, when I got on the scales, I weighed 98.2 kilos.

I guess I have to just keep plugging away.