Sit right down folks because I’m about to get all TMI on you (seriously, again.)

I have found that going through this kerfuffle to make moosh 2.0 has been a blessing in disguise.

I was so focused on getting that baby in me and getting it out of me that I failed to realize just how messed up my body had become. I ignored screaming signs and symptoms that something really was wrong, infertility was just a side effect and the only thing that opened my eyes to just how out of control my insides were.

When I was pregnant in the beginning, barfing over a dozen times a day, I figured “this is morning sickness, this is what so many people talk about, why there is an entire stereotype around it.”

Barfing 12 times a day is NOT normal. But I didn’t want to look like a complainer for mentioning it to anyone else.

For the last 12 years (gah, 12 years) I figured it was perfectly normal to double over in cramps each month, take vicodin for them and miss days of work due to crippling pain associated with my period. All those Midol commercials must have been talking about what I was going through, I was just a wimp and needed prescription drugs and a day off to make it through.

WRONG.

I spent all of BlogHer on my period. (TMI ALERT TMI ALERT) It wasn’t just a pretend period either. It was a burn through super tampons and overnight pad in less that four hours period.

I didn’t feel a thing.

Not a cramp.

Not a twinge.

Not an ache.

You have no idea how pissed I am that I spent one week every month for pretty much the last decade in pain, no one ever even suggested endometriosis as a possibility. I’m pissed that I never spoke up for myself and said “YOU KNOW WHAT DOCTOR? MY PERIOD HURTS REALLY BAD AND I’M SICK OF IT. SOMETHING IS WRONG, I KNOW IT.”

I’m not going bald anymore, I sleep better, my emotions are in check, I’ve lost 9 pounds, I don’t retain water like I used to, I don’t get headaches like I used to, I don’t have constant dull stabbing pains in my abdomen, my depression is better, MY SKIN IS BETTER and SWEET NAKED ANGEL BABIES IN HEAVEN I DON’T HAVE MENSTRUAL CRAMPS ANYMORE.

Now I’m not saying that if you have the above symptoms you too can be magically healed by bellybutton sodomy. But I can say that if you chronically don’t feel good? TALK UNTIL SOMEONE LISTENS.

Being on the panel with other bloggers who write about their diseases opened my eyes, even patients who KNOW something is wrong, who KNOW what is right and best for them can back down when someone in a white coat acts as if they know our bodies better than we do.

I’m ashamed that I’m the one that said “If someone says they’re not doing well, listen.” and yet I let doctors tell me what was best for me for years, when it was me that had to live in my wonky body.

Being healthy and having control of my body for the first time in years feels spectacular.

SO THIS IS WHAT BEING A HUMAN IS SUPPOSED TO FEEL LIKE! IT DOESN’T SUCK!

Suddenly I’m not so worried about getting a baby in there, I want to see what this body can do when it’s not overproducing this, underproducing that and going bat crap crazy over there.

I angered some people when I mentioned that the follow up shots to my surgery were not being covered by my insurance. (Which they are now FTW!) While I can see how some people don’t feel infertility a valid medical concern worthy of coverage by a health plan, I hope they can understand that while my journey began to get pregnant, it has since turned into a journey to reclaim my body. To have it back in working order. Had I never gone it with the intention of getting pregnant I would have never come to where I am at today. And today? I feel good.

If $6K worth of shots will keep me in working order and preserve the benefits of a $17K surgery, why not cover them? Why run the risk of my symptoms returning resulting in more costly doctor visits and perhaps another costly surgery?

When I was pregnant my insurance refused to cover more than 21 anti emetic (anti barf my brains out) pills in a 30 day period. But they would cover my weekly trips to the ER to get IV fluids and a shot of the same anti emetic drug at five times the cost of giving me enough pills in the first place.

So many plans refuse to cover dental care. Having a $100 cleaning every six months is way cheaper than going without for five years and ending up with a $4K dental bill.

I am a firm believer that taking care of yourself is your biggest responsibility when it comes to your health. But there are times when diet, 64 ounces of water, exercise and getting enough rest aren’t enough.

This is where our healthcare system is failing so many of us.

I just want to be able to go to the doctor when chicken soup and orange juice fails me.

Not have to wait until I’m so sick that I require a hospital stay and perhaps even surgery to get better.

Is that too much to ask?

So. Lupron. Heard of it?

If not, allow me to school you.

Lupron is a shot that sends its victim patient into medical menopause.

Nothing like medical menopause at 27 years old.

I was becoming okay with the idea of a big shot to send me into crazy until I found out how much it was.

If a pharmacists gives you a serious look and says, “We don’t carry that in the pharmacy because it’s just too expensive.” what number pops into your head? $500 popped into mine.

I went home to research this overly expensive shot that would assure me weeks of hot flashes in the middle of an Indiana summer.

What I found was this.

That’s per shot people. PER SHOT. And I need three.

Apparently there is an entire “LUPRON DEPARTMENT” where they take care of insurance billing and what not.

I’ll bet there’s not many of you who have ever had a medication that had an entire department dedicated to it.

After finding out about LupronLand and realizing that a TWO THOUSAND DOLLAR SHOT was not going to make me rich, skinny or beautiful I did what any emotional eater would do.

I got creative.

That right there is a grilled peanut butter, chocolate and marshmallow sandwich. And it was my lunch.

Before visiting LupronLand I have one minor thing to get out of the way. I’ll will be referring to it as “that thing in Chicago” so as not to bother those who are unable to make it to “that thing in Chicago.”

As of this moment Canada will not let Mr. Lady leave (for those of you who don’t know, I am considered Mr. Lady Light. All the awesome without the swears, body piercings or liquor consumption) And if Canada continues to hold Mr. Lady hostage I will be filling in as moderator at the “PatientBloggers – You Are Not Your Disease, You Just Blog About It” panel at “that thing in Chicago.” I’ll be sharing the stage with three lovelies in the blogging world, Loolwa, Kerri and Jenni. If you’ll be at “that thing in Chicago” it will be the third session on Friday from 2:45-4:00 pm.

Mr. Lady hand picked me to fill in for her in case she couldn’t make it. At first I though that I would never fit on a panel about illness blogging. (Unless the illness was an intense addiction to SYTCYD.) But then I realized I write about my personal health a lot on here. Depression. Infertility. RAINBOWS GALORE MOST DAYS.

It wasn’t until I was recovering from my surgery a few weeks ago that I went through and tagged all of my infertility posts as such.

I write about my bunk lady parts a lot. Like a lot a lot. Thanks for coming back despite the fact.

I figured the least I could do to thank you for all of your support and patience with me and my uterus I’d introduce you to the little wench organ. (I’m inserting it small. As a favor to you eating your grilled peanut butter, chocolate and marshmallow sandwiches. If you really want to see her? CLICK IT! IT EVEN HAS WITTY COMMENTARY FROM YOURS TRULY!)

So yes. There it is.

Let’s run down the optimistic list of why it is awesome to be infertile.

• I get to have pictures of my uterus.
• I get to have x-ray pictures of my uterus.
• We don’t have to use condoms.
• DRGGZ!
• I get to have shots that cost more per ounce than liquid gold.
• Itchy glued on scabs. (seriously? The glue they used to glue me shut with over three weeks ago? WILL NOT COME OFF.)

Now if you’ll excuse me. There is a grilled peanut butter sandwich calling my name…

OH! And I got my hairs painted!

Okay. Sandwich. BAI!

(Oh, P.S. Will you be at “that thing in Chicago?” Tell me if you are! Or just, uh, tell me what you had for breakfast if you won’t be able to be there. *ahem*)

The day is coming that I will hurt you. Or offend you.

Consider this your warning as I am just now beginning to acknowledge that this is my curse/gift.

I hurt people unintentionally. A lot. When I think I’m being funny, or ironic, or helpful it turns out that I’m only causing another person grief and heartache. I’d like to say it’s only happened once. But it’s happend a lot. Everytime I learn. But I wish I could have learned enough the first time to keep it from happening ever again.

But alas every person is different.

Therefore falling on my face each time is a wretchedly new experience.

And no matter how things are resolved I always feel as though I have this poorly patched crack that everyone is watching, waiting for it to fall apart again.

There was a time I was spiteful, vengeful and just plain mean. I hurt people and I hurt them on purpose, I didn’t care.

(I call this era B.C., or “before Cody”)

But P.C. (post Cody) I’m a little more human. And have become more and more so as the years have gone by. I have sought out those who I was nasty to in my B.C. life and offered apologies. People I hurt deserved them and I knew that I needed to come clean to be able to start anew.

And yet here I am. Still hurting people when I don’t mean to.

I have been very ugly in the past year about pregnancy. It has been brought to my attention multiple times. And everytime I feel horrible. But to everyone I hurt? It’s my own thing. It’s nothing against you. And I’m sorry that I lashed out at you the way I did.

I’m on a very confusing road and somedays are worse than others. I’m sorry if I cross paths with you on those bad days. But I promise. It’s me. Not you. And I am getting better.

In May I wrote a fairly ugly post about infertility. One of the uglier ones I’ve written. But it got all of that ugliness out of me and put it out there on display. And I’ve felt much better since. It hurts when people say “I’m pregnant, but I was afraid to tell you.” I don’t even know why that hurts. But it does. My own personal battles aren’t going to leave me any less happy for you. I want you to enjoy your pregnancy. I want to know about your heartburn and vomit. Really.

What hurts more is when I find out through the grapevine. It is obvious that I am having severe problems conceiving. People around me know that. In many situations I feel like the big giant infertile elephant in a room full of fluffy humpy bunnies. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it when someone admits to me that they are pregnant, before the word hits the street. Call me selfish. But it helps a lot to be able to have that private moment with someone, to see how excited they are. To be excited with them. I’ve kept many secrets of pregnancies around me.

But when a new pregnancy is being discussed and the conversation shuts down as soon as I walk by? I feel as though my freak flag is flying. I’m not dumb. I know what you’re talking about.

To those of you who may have friends struggling with infertility that find themselves pregnant? Tell them. In person. On the phone. However you communicate the most naturally. Have them at the top of your list of people to tell. We can keep secrets. We want so desperately to be happy for you but it’s hard when we’re the last ones to know because you didn’t want to upset us.

When we take our kids to see fireworks we warn them that it is going to get loud so when the big booms do come, they don’t come as a surprise.

A lot of times we don’t tell our kids something before going into it for fear that we will scare them before anything even happens. Generally you don’t go to a mall walk your kid straight up to Santa and plunk them down in his lap. You warm them up to the idea. Let them get used to it.

This is longer than I wanted it to be. And I got off topic. Sorry.

I’m imperfect.

And I hate myself for that sometimes.

I hate that I can hurt other people so badly without meaning to.

I hate that I even have the capacity to hurt someone.

Especially those that mean the most to me.