Silence, Sunsets, Sand, Salvation.

It's been a difficult week.  

As much as I'd like to say I'm handling my three weeks of voice rest with grace and patience, I'm not.  Last time I did this, it was difficult, but I made it through.  I really, truly felt this time would be easier because it's for three weeks, versus the 30 days of "silence" I had last time.  I am using quotes because my experience since my surgery has quickly made me realize that although I thought I'd been unbelievably silent last time, I wasn't.  Don't get me wrong, I felt I might burst because I only said about 5% of the things I really wanted to say.  But 5%.... is a HUGE amount of talking compared to what I'm doing now.  Now, I'm... mute.  

I am so frustrated- so on the brink of losing my marbles.  My hands are cramped from all the writing I've been doing to communicate.  My typing has increased exponentially, as that's proven to be my quickest, and most effective form of communication at work.  To have conversations with my employees, they stand behind me and read the Word document pulled up on my computer screen.  They talk.  I type my responses.  It is complete bullshit.  

I mouth words the best I can, but without letting any air escape, it's pretty challenging to understand what the hell I'm trying to say.  In the beginning of all of this, I thought George might be the worst lip reader on the planet.  Now I realize, NOBODY can read lips if you can't use sounds to emphasize the beginning and end of the words.  "T" sounds don't have a "look".  When you don't let any sound out, a "t" looks like an "s", or a "d".  Don't even get me started on "h" words, or words that end in "y".  It's SOOOO FRUSTRATING.

To boot, my primary fertility struggle, as far as I can tell, has been my lack of ovulation.  I've been waiting, waiting, waiting... putting in the time required by my doctor of doing things the old fashioned way just to prove to the medical world that it would not be irresponsible to put me on fertility drugs.  (That time was necessary, by the way.  And for the record, I'm glad the world of gynecology has these sorts of unwritten requirements.) 

But, here I am.  At the starting line.  Clomid in hand.  I KNEW that this pill would be the absolute ticket.  It would make me ovulate.  We'd time sex.  Two weeks later, I'd pee on a stick.  We'd anxiously await the results.  We'd hug.  We'd cry.  We'd debate whether or not to tell the world.  We'd be expecting.  No doubt in my mind.

Fat chance.  Instead, Clomid has made me cranky, and shaky, and dizzy.  All of which would be absolutely fine - welcomed even - if the stuff would just make me ovulate!!!  I'm four days into testing for my LH surge (which is the clearest way there is to detect possible ovulation).  Nada.  

Now, it is true I could ovulate late.  I'm not completely losing hope; I guess I just expected more of a miracle, more of a quick result.   As with everything dealing with infertility, each time your expectations aren't met, your mind explodes with all the possible negative scenarios imaginable.  It is stupid.  I know better, but that doesn't change anything.

So, with a double wammy of frustrations and irritations, my George and I decided to fix things by picnicking at the beach.  A little sand, a sunset, some wine, absurdly expensive and absurdly smelly cheese, and some really gracious wiener dogs - nature's antidepressant.  I read a post this week from one of my favorites.  She reminded me how lucky I am, and how silly it would be to not appreciate and take advantage the life I have today.  

Here are a few photos from the beach.  The dogs ran and played and made a FLIPPING mess of themselves.  And in turn, they fixed me.  So.Much.Fun.  :-)