Between The Lines

moving day

2010-07-01T09:52:00.000-07:00

Things just haven't felt like home around here for quite some time now, so I've been house hunting. I think I've found a new place, and although it needs a lot of TLC and a coat of paint, I'm starting to settle in. I hope you'll come visit some day soon...

http://LettersFromYourMama.blogspot.com

a moment of wonderful

2010-06-22T19:52:00.000-07:00

I will never forget leaving school that afternoon, walking the short walk home in the cold rain, dreading what I was to find. I'd not cleaned my room like I was supposed to and knew my mom would be furious when I walked in the door. I prepared myself for scolding, for screaming, for grounding as I dragged my feet through the fallen leaves, trying to stretch the peaceful moments before the misery began. I walked in the door quietly, wanting to melt into the background of the living room and saw her standing there. I waited for the punishment, the stern faces, the cold shoulder. Waited. But they didn't come. None of it came. My mom told me I looked chilly, wiped my nose and wrapped me in a blanket. She sat me on the couch and produced a cup of hot chocolate (and not even Swiss Miss - rather she dusted off the silver can of bitter Hershey powder, measured and mixed it with sugar, milk and vanilla and slowly warmed it on the stove). Overwhelmed by her generosity I couldn't help but confess: "but I didn't clean my room..." And she shrugged, smiled gently and told me it was ok. It was so unlike her - not that she was typically cruel or unkind, she was just never a milk and cookies mom (and certainly not when clothes were strewn across my bedroom floor, toys scattered, food remnants hidden beneath bed skirts). Unexpected kindness and a hot cup of cocoa on a cold autumn afternoon make a moment I will never forget.

And that Valentine's Day - the one that fell on a Saturday, when I watched as my dad prouduced a giant red cardboard heart filled with nauseatingly sweet candy and handed it to my stepmother - I will never forget it. My eyes widened at the sight of the cheap lace circling the heart, envious mouth watering, as I wished for the day that my own husband would bring me chocolates. And then, out of nowhere a small red box, a heart that fit my tiny hands so perfectly. So unexpected, so atypical of my family - my father had gotten me a Valentine too. And so I didn't need to wish away the days of my childhood, waiting for the time that a man would feed my sweet tooth, because my father filled my heart and my belly himself with that box. Never before and never since have I celebrated a Valentine's Day with such pure intentions, such sweet, genuine representations of true love. Each bite of cheap candy confirming that I was deeply loved. That is a moment I will never forget.

The time our camping trip was rained out and so my mom cleared out the furniture and set up the tent in the middle of the living room - replacing the camp out with a camp in. The day, at 22 years old when I opened a package from my dad to find the Harry Belafonte album I'd listened to a thousand times on his old record player - a birthday present (not just a card with a $50 check quickly scribbled and stuffed inside) that whispered in my ear that he remembered too. Or the evenings as I would help my dad in the kitchen: peeling vegetables, stirring sauces, fetching utensils until one day he asked me for my opinion ("Which spices would you use?") and then shook the bottles I'd selected over a bubbling pot. The Christmas morning when my mom called the radio station to request "Linus and Lucy" and they actually played it.

This is what I want for you, Oliver. These simple, gentle moments - unscripted and quiet in their grandiosity. I want you to remember the time you thought we were going grocery shopping and went to play mini-golf instead. Or the time I came home with Cap'n Crunch (with Crunchberries!) instead of the oatmeal I usually make you eat. Or the time when you were certain you'd be grounded and lectured for some as-yet-unimaginable rule breaking you did, but instead found a sympathetic ear and a forgiving heart.

Every parent wants to give the world to their children and I am no exception. If you show a vague interest in a toy at a playdate I have to fight myself not to rush out and buy it immediately. If you find a book you love I instantly want to log on to Amazon and buy every other book in the series. When we return home after a day of running errands and naptime looms, I find it almost impossible to put you right to bed - even if you are undeniably exhausted - because I think you deserve some playtime in return for your patience as we run into grocery stores, banks and Target (again). Rewarding you and gifting you is already so deeply engrained in me and even though you've only just turned 1, I struggle to find balance between spoiling you and saying no for the sake of no.

And so I have decided that I will resist buying the toy (you don't like any toys longer than 10 minutes anyway). I stay away from Amazon (and instead squeal with delight when I find those books you love at Marshalls for less than half what they would've cost new!) And I let you play for only a moment when you should be napping, because truth be told we're ALL so much happier when you're well rested.

But you won't feel denied, not if I have anything to say about it. Because while I may not succumb to the pull of the Toys R Us ad, I will always make time for you. I will stop to play with the door hinge you find so fascinating (while you still find it fascinating), even if it means we're one minute later than we would've been otherwise. I will let you walk at the grocery store (when you learn to walk) even if it means our trip will take that much longer. I will value your opinions and listen to your thoughts with an open mind, even if in the end I decide your mother really does know best. I will find moments to surprise you, sometimes with gifts but more often with kindness. I will be playful with you. Curious with you. Patient and calm and thoughtful with you. I will always look for ways to give to you, not just things, but moments. Moments like the ones in my own childhood when I knew without a doubt that I was respected, I was special, I was loved.

Because in the end, when you look back, I would rather you have tiny moments of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special.

365

2010-05-25T19:51:00.000-07:00

You are my sunshine
My only sunshine
You make me happy
When skies are gray
You'll never know, dear
How much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away

I, like just about everyone, have sung You Are My Sunshine here and there throughout my life. A sweet little ditty, cute and cheerful, but nothing remarkable. If I could whistle I imagine I would find myself whistling it absentmindedly - seems like just the right melody to blow through pursed lips while strolling through frozen foods. Or it did before I had you, my dear.

I sing to you all the time, every day for the last 365. And for as long as I can remember I have ended our nights with You Are My Sunshine, whisper-sung breathily in your warm, sweet ear as I lay you in your bed. But unlike the song I've sung since childhood, this is heavy stuff. Not a silly throwaway nursery rhyme, but a deep and expressive hymn. Because it's true, every word of it.

You, Oliver Robin, are my sunshine - you bring the light into my life each morning and the world is certainly darker when you're not around. Like our sun, you, my son, keep me swirling around you, dancing with me in a symbiotic relationship. My body feeds you, yes, but you feed me so much more profoundly. (And admittedly less profoundly as I scoffle the sweet potatoes you don't, slurp the yogurt you won't, finish the pizza you can't.)

I know someday you will sing that song - maybe to assembled parents and their video cameras at a school concert - and maybe you will even remember hearing my voice whispering those words in your ear as you drift off. But until you have your own children you won't understand the depth of those words.

Because you will never know, dear, how much I love you.

I can't put into words the fullness of my love for you. How it's all encompassing and incomprehensible. This world is full of mothers who adore their children, but how could it be possible that they love their own as much as I love you? How could the world keep spinning under the gravity of all that love? I can't imagine that my own mother loves me anywhere near as much as I love you. I just can't fathom how that could be. But maybe I too will never know (dear) how much she loves me?

You were born 1 year ago - in that moment, both of us flushed, both of us confused, both of us crying. I've done my best this past year, often missing the mark, I'm sure, but always trying to give you everything you deserve. And you have given me so much. Sleepless nights, yes (fantasies that you would sleep through the night for the first time on your birthday were proven to be simply the dreamings of a madwoman) and frustration about your unwillingness to eat. But so much more than that. You have given me so many smiles and such a warmth in my spirit. You have given me open mouth, slobbery kisses and an identity beyond any I'd had before (Ollie's mom). You have given me bites of your pancake after you've sucked on it and a new relationship with a man I used to call Tal, but now call "daddy" (even if you don't quite yet). You have given me your trust, your love, your admiration, whether I deserve it or not.

Let there be no doubt, my sunshine, as you turn 1 and as you turn 101 that nobody loves you like your mama. And you will never know, dear, just how much that is.

Happy birthday (one day late) my Ollie Robin boy.

xo,
Mama

tethered

2010-02-23T13:07:00.000-08:00

The name Amber doesn't lend itself well to nicknames. Aunts and uncles shortened it to "Ambie" and my mom tried on "Ber" for awhile, but neither really stuck. I was called Matony for years, after a commercial starring the Flying Matony Brothers that I apparently loved as a baby, but that was a name reserved only for the closest of family. But there was one nickname that stuck for a long time, used by most everyone and probably not with the kindest intentions. They called me Motormouth. Motormouth because my jaw was always flapping, tongue always rattling. I didn't walk until 17 months, but I spoke in complete sentences seemingly from birth. My dad once bet me that I couldn't go an entire day without talking and with $20 on the line (or $5 or $100 - all I know is that at 8 years old it seemed like A LOT) I was determined to prove him wrong. I did well, fighting the urges in order to gain my prize (and pride) and my dad paid up. But later he confessed that as I played the piano that afternoon, picking keys one by one, I sang along with a made up song, never even knowing my mouth was running.

And yet now, somehow when so much is happening, the hum of the motor has slowed. Inexplicably, the woman who has always refused to be silenced is quiet.

I want to talk - I do. I want to share quirky tidbits about life as a mom, about leaving the house without noticing the cheerios stuck to my ass, about finally electing to leave the diaper bag at home only to have a major poop-splosion moments later, about the wacky and wild days of motherhood. But much as I love my son (and my heart bursts at the thought of him napping peacefully (in his crib!) in the room down the hall) I can't delude myself that those tidbits are interesting to anyone but me. And frankly, some days they aren't interesting to me either.

*

I am enjoying motherhood in ways I never expected. Sure, there are some lonely afternoons and the nights are still long and sleepless, but I adore my Oliver Robin. I find him intriguing and hilarious and smooshable. He fills me up each and every day, even fuller than the box after box of Thin Mints I scoffle. I worry about him (not eating, not crawling, not sleeping, not sleeping, not sleeping) and yet vehemently defend him when others express those same concerns. I could reserve every breath for him for the rest of my days: breathing him in, deeply inhaling his essence, feeling his very being fill my lungs and course through my veins, bringing life to every cell of my tired body.

He fills me so entirely, a vessel overflowing, and yet I miss the days when I created my own energy, was responsible for filling myself.

I can blabber endlessly about his moments, his laughs, his pincer grasp and teeth, but I have no moments of my own anymore. People ask me how I am and I am honestly unable to respond. I don't think I exist anymore, certainly not in the way I did before. I am responsible for helping this small little man create his world, develop his senses and yet I feel, at this moment, so underdeveloped myself. In 9 months I haven't created anything (literally or figuratively) that was born of myself. And I miss me.

I have become his vessel, his vase in which the buds of his personality bloom and that is a role I value beyond all else. But there was a time when I tilled my own soil and forced my own dormant seeds to blossom. *I* was responsible for making my world beautiful.

I could feel my own power then, stretch my own wings. Now those wings don't expand but rather contract to envelop my baby bird (my Robin) to help him discover his own power. And to watch him soar might be even more beautiful than my own flight. But I yearn for the wind to ruffle my feathers too. I need to try to fly alongside him, but I just can't remember how.

before and after

2009-10-04T17:03:00.001-07:00

Oliver Robin - 10/4/08

Oliver Robin - 10/4/09

10/4/08: I woke up early to pop a valium on an empty stomach. I headed to my doctors office, with all my hopes and dreams sitting in a petri dish in the room next door, waiting for fate to decide their next step. I was full of optimism and fear and couldn't sleep for the excitement.

10/4/09: I woke up early to play with my darling ,darling son (who doesn't know that normal people don't get up on a Sunday while it's still dark out). We headed to Starbucks to help the morning pass and he smiled at every stranger that crossed his path. Instead of my hopes and dreams residing in a petri dish, they lay on the floor beside me (and rolled from back to tummy for the first time just moments ago!). I am full of optimism and fear and still can't sleep. But how wonderful is it to have that cluster of cells lay in my lap and gaze at me, his mommy.

but if you try sometimes, you just might find...

2009-09-01T13:59:00.000-07:00

"I don't want to hear about it unless there's blood."

This was a common refrain in my house growing up, and not one my mother denies 25 years later. My brother and I would argue and fight and come a certain age we were expected to resolve the situation ourselves. We didn't, of course, but we knew that whining to mom for every injury (emotional or otherwise) wasn't an option. While she was an involved, caring and compassionate parent she also believed in the value of teaching children to handle themselves, even from a very young age.

My brother has taken this theory to the extreme, allowing his children freedoms that are shocking to me. I question his decisions (although not usually to his face) and what they have meant for his growing and developing boys. His kids have no bedtime, no naptime, no routine at all. At 3 years old my nephew can regularly be found up and about at midnight (or later). He doesn't eat anything that's green (including all vegetables, unless you count macaroni and cheese as a vegetable, which I don't). I wish he lived a more structured life and as an outsider I think they needs less independence, but "unless there's blood" has stuck with my brother like dirty gum in hair.

With these models in mind I expected to be quite a laid back parent, one who sees the worth in crying it out and yet a mother who knows the importance of routine and boundaries. Perhaps I'm cruel but I've always found my eyes independantly roll when people say they can't bear to hear their babies cry, that moving them from their room into the nursery was almost too much to handle. I never said never when looking at parenting philosophies, but I was quite certain that I wouldn't allow my baby to decide my parenting style for me - that my lifelong beliefs would win out over a stubborn child's unwillingness to nap.

And then I had MY baby.

I won't lie - the night I moved him to his own room I slept like a baby. And so did he. I refused to put a monitor in the room, knowing that his noisy sleeping, grunts, moans and kicking legs would crackle through the speaker at me as though he were in bed with me. And not in a good way. No, I put him in his crib, the nursery right next to our room, and closed the door. And I only heard him when he cried. Silence, glorious silence and the first decent hours sleep in 5 weeks. (Not nights' sleep, mind you. No, not yet.)

So my parenting beliefs stand strong. Meanwhile my parenting techniques have evolved into something the pre-parent me wouldn't recognize.

I gave birth to a spirited baby. A baby with desires and the voice to get them met. A no doubt gifted child, but one who shares those gifts by screaming. I call him "high needs" sometimes, following the label Dr. Sears (inventor of the dreaded "attachment parent" banner) coined, but I don't believe it. Because to be "high needs" implies that somehow, some way those needs may be met, and try as I might my baby is un-meetable, unless the need he's expressing is for a stiff brandy. (I haven't yet tried to meet that need, although some night I might see how such a drink manages my own deeply unfufilled needs.)

We've tried to manage any physical discomfort he may have. Prevacid was step one, a drug which made him more miserable if anything. Cutting out dairy and caffeine made me depressed and didn't seem to help him either. The chiropractor didn't hurt (although our bank account hasn't recovered) but found our darling child well-aligned yet still maligned. Probiotics have helped - they helped him poop. He no longer screams as he gears up for a "movement", but he hasn't stopped screaming once he's done. Some days I'm certain his issue is a physical one, but there are times when I think he's just a scared little boy, hesitant to accept my constant reassurance. I tell him in the quiet of his overnight feedings that I love him, will always love him and will never abandon him (unless he becomes a republican), but he doesn't seem to believe me.

I spent the first 10 weeks of his life fighting him, confused and angry that he wasn't who I thought he'd be. He doesn't respond to the things babies are supposed to respond to. He doesn't warn me with fussing - he's either (occassionally) happy or explicitly not. He is a baby of extremes, not inbetweens. I tried to make him fit my mold, adapt to my parenting style to no avail. After being told that crying wouldn't kill him I decided to finally put him down to take a shower, and when I returned to him (still screaming) I found that his soft-spot had caved in from the hysteria that 15 minutes on his own had brought about.

When faced with a dented head (which apparently can happen, but jesus christ - could there be a more blatant way to show me I've failed as a parent?) I had no choice but to face reality. This little blob was not one to be controlled. He wasn't going to be molded. I wasn't going to wait until there was blood to hear about it, I was going to hear about everything, all the time, whether I wanted to or not. I wasn't going to shape him into the baby I thought I'd have. He was going to shape me into the mother he needed to have. And he has.

I sit now with my baby on my chest. He's napping contentedly, not waking as I continually bend to kiss his head. But he's napping only because he's in a wrap, strapped to my body. He's napping only because I gave him the 20 minute wind-down of bouncing, walking, patting, shushing that he requires. He's napping because I have decided to follow his cues, even if that means that I don't use his naptime for a shower and chores - like I would if he would nap, even for a moment, in his bed. I have realized (after he told me...repeatedly) that getting him to nap in any way I can is more important than how he naps or where.

He will have moments in a swing or on a playmat when he seems content. Moments. And those are good moments, but they are so so quick and he is so so vocal when the moment has passed. If he spends 3 minutes quiet and happy while doing an activity I deem said activity a full-on success, even if that success is never to be repeated. He will have moments in our arms or our laps when he seems content. Moments. And again, those are good moments, but they are so so quick and he is so so vocal when the moment has passed. If one position keeps him quiet and happy for 5 minutes it is deemed a winning position - even if it is likely never to do the trick again. But I have learned to seek those moments, not hope they will happen on their own. Because he has told me and I have (finally) listened that his happiness won't come easily. But that it will be worth it.

I have finally accepted that I must parent the child I have, not the one I expected to have. And my child will not accept the hands-off, independent parent I wanted to give him. He needs more. And he deserves it.

I still believe that telling a kid "I don't want to hear about it unless there's blood" is ok. I know that I was in no way damaged or distant because of it. I still think I will cry it out if needed, but I also know that it might not work for my child. That he might not have enough tears to cry out his fears. I am not an attachment parent because I think it's better or right or more. I am an attachment parent because it's the only option my son has given me.

I thought I would teach my baby about the world he lives in and the people he meets. I thought I would set the course of our lives. But now I know that he's the one calling the shots - not because he's manipulative or bad, but because he knows what he needs more than I do. So I will keep giving (but no doubt keep trying to drive the bus occassionally) and keep listening while he teaches. I just hope that I can see for myself when he's telling me what he wants, rather than what he needs. And I hope I will have kept enough of myself to tell him to relax, calm down, and only tell me about it when there's blood.

conflict resolution

2009-07-31T11:25:00.000-07:00

Evenings are long. In some ways longer than the day that preceded them. You would imagine that having an extra set of hands would make things easier; having a set of ears that can understand you might make things less lonely, but this life isn't that predictable. Parenthood can be surprising. During the day you find that what you're doing either works or it doesn't. He's in a "good" mood. Or he isn't. But whatever the hours bring you, it's up to you to deal with them. You keep pushing, looking for distractions and celebrate the quiet moments, and when the screaming starts it's up to you. But in the evenings those extra hands sit so close, the extra ears hear him as well and so every difficult moment left to you seems to be a moment which *could* be handled by someone else. He has hard days too so you respect his need for down time as much as you crave your own. You share the burdens (because the witching hour is even more witchy with a baby who tends to be quite bitchy), but find yourself resenting the work that is left in your hands. I don't break down in the mornings and have only once cried during the day. It's the evenings, when calm and freedom is so close but so so far, that leave me cold.

But the nights.

My brother told me when I'd been a parent for just a week (and jaundice kept the little one sleeping) that I should forever make daddy take a night shift every night. My husband might have to work in the morning, but his job is easier than mine, he said. (My brother got the snip last year so felt safe to reveal this, most closely guarded secret of fatherhood.) But my nephews were formula fed, so night shifts were up for grabs. My son (after a month of exclusively pumping) has taken to breastfeeding like he's taken to crying. His latch is improper, he drools half the milk, but he clearly enjoys my breasts as much as any man ever has. So the night shifts all fall to me. And I'm glad for it.

There is something about the quiet of the night. Something about the dark. Sitting on the couch at 1am, scanning the channels for something other than infomercials with a drowsy baby drooling your milk onto your underwear doesn't sound romantic, but it is then that I love being a mom. It is then that I *feel* like a mom, instead of some imposter, some inexperienced child without the tools or the ability to parent. At 1am he smells so good (even when he smells of vomit, which he does regardless of the number of baths). At 1am he looks so sweet, even though his eyes are steadily becoming more chihuahua like by the day (just like his mommy). At 1am I am thankful and happy and powerful, even though I know that my sleep reserves are actively draining. At 1am it's just he an I, and it's beautiful.

But then this morning, after feeding him at 4am, I drove to my mother's house. She's leaving (on a jet plane) and needed an early morning ride to the airport. I am up anyway (I'm always up these days) so I volunteered, but expected to feel tired, annoyed. I climbed in the car, having brushed my teeth (a better start to the day than most these past 2 months) and back my car on to my dark, quiet street. Even at 4am the Houston air was hot, but I rolled down the window (and turned up the air) and drove the curvy road to my mother. And it was exhilarating.

Being alone in the car, driving freely with no cars and no baby to slow me down made me realize how much I miss being alone. I had just smelled my baby's sleepy head, breathed deeply to appreciate fully how lucky I was, had just reveled in our 4am feeding. But given 15 minutes in a car, 15 minutes when I wasn't checking my son in the rearview mirror, I was delighted. I was free.

I cherished those moments like I cherished my nighttime feedings and I wonder what that means. But then I recall that just weeks ago I wasn't cherishing anything, wasn't enjoying much, and I'm thankful. Thankful that I'm finding time (at 1am) to be thankful.

stranger danger

2009-07-19T18:01:00.000-07:00

"He did really well!"

"He is absolutely passed out cold!"

"You wouldn't believe it - he smiled at me! He smiled and then he GIGGLED!"

"It was a really bad night, huh? He was really awful, wasn't he?"

Word for word, I heard each of these statements over the past 24 hours, all about my son. My son, who for some unknown reason is hellbent on making me a liar AND making me literally insane from sleep deprivation.

I don't hesitate to tell people how irritable he can be. I am honest about his reflux, his screaming, his unwillingness to sleep. I almost never smile and nod when people tell me to enjoy this time - I tell them honestly that it's hard to see that through the noise and exhaustion, that I'm not proud but I'm counting the hours until he grows a bit and becomes more comfortable with his existence. So when these people meet him they are expecting a difficult baby. A screaming baby. Rosemary's Baby. But he nearly always disappoints. He will sleep in their arms for hours on end ("he is absolutely passed out cold!"), remain relatively calm and collected during a funeral ("he did really well!") and when babysat for the first time, sleep for 3 consectutive hours waking only to eat, smile and giggle (his first ever) at his grandmother (a woman who just last week told my nephew over and over that he was her favorite grandson. In front of me.).

These people, after seeing my delightful son, must think I'm delusional; weak. At best they think I'm a liar - making up or exaggerating my baby's bad behavior. And at worst a lousy parent - a mother who is unable to calm and comfort her own child when everyone else can.

I was at a store, buying nursing bras in an attempt to contain my enormous, milk filled breasts, and not surprisingly O. opened up. He shouted those obscenities at me, as he is prone to do. I tried to calm him, tried rocking him, singing to him, bargaining with him, but he wasn't having it. He was just in one of those moods. And so I attempted to get fitted for my bra, buy it and leave as quickly as humanly possible, hoping that the car ride home would soothe him. But before I had a chance to rush out of the store the woman who was fitting me bent down close to my baby's ear, shushed him and had him quiet in moments. I stood there with my naked, vein covered breasts dangling and sagging, breasts with giant target nipples and a map of stretch marks spanning their engorged surface, breasts that signify my motherhood - I stood there half naked and watched as a stranger comforted my child more quickly than I ever had.

And later that week my husband held his son, criss-crossing the living room, shushing frantically as the baby screamed. Our housekeeper, who comes every 2 weeks to scrub my floors, approached him, smiled and asked if she could hold him. Within moments he was silent. Until she handed him back.

Well-meaning friends and strangers make suggestions, some which we discard (maybe he's cold?) and some which we cling to in the hopes of finding a solution - Prevacid, The Happiest Baby on the Block, chiropractic care. "Have you tried having him sleep in his swing?" He wakes the minute his butt hits the cushion. "Have you tried sleeping him in his bouncer?" He won't even settle enough to belt him in. Some ideas work...for awhile. The white noise was great for a week - it calmed him, helped him sleep, helped him stay asleep - and then, like Star Trek's Borg he adapted, his cries blasting through the ocean sounds. Getting close to his ear and singing a long, lone, off-key tone quieted him for 2 weeks, but I believe it was only because it amused him to see his parents look like escaped mental patients as they "ahhhhhhhed" endlessly. But when the novelty wore off for him, so did the effectiveness. For 3 days last week I thought we'd found the solution to having him sleep at night. Putting him in his own room, swaddled, on the wedged sleep positioner with the white noise humming gave me 3 nights of progressively longer and deeper sleep. I started looking forward to bedtime and woke nearly refreshed after only 3 feedings in the night. And then he became immune. Immune in such a violent turnaround that last night he did not sleep for more than 5 minutes at a time until 5:35 am. When he slept a whopping 45.

I have proposed the idea that he hates our house, half joking, half serious. I know I'm grasping at straws, begging for an explanation for his behavior. Hoping it's this house he hates and not it's inhabitants. But when he coos at grocery checkers and scowls at me it's hard not to assume the worst. That I've failed at parenthood before I've even had a chance to succeed. That my child, who I love, whose puke-covered head I sniff contentedly, who I feed from my own body for hours each day, that my child would rather spend his time with anyone but me.

They say you can't spoil a newborn, that they aren't even able to form lasting preferences. But after 8 weeks with my baby I am not so sure. I don't have to ask him to know who he prefers. Unless I'm topless and he's suckling it appears obvious that he prefers everyone over me.

the other side

2009-07-07T13:56:00.000-07:00

Each morning I awake - well rested, sun shining - to the sound of birds chirping merrily in the flowering tree outside my window. I tiptoe into my darling son's room to find him laying quietly, bright-eyed in his crib. I greet him hello in a sing-song voice and he grins that sloppy grin that eats through my heart, right into my soul. Together we sit in the glider as he eats breakfast, pausing in his sucking occassionally to smile up at me from my breast as I sing sweet lullabies to him. Before long my husband comes in quietly, bearing a cup of herbal tea and hot buttered toast so that I too can have breakfast before starting my day. He gazes down at the glowing face of his son, greets him with a "hello sport!" and puts his arm around me, proud of me. We kiss softly over our child, the baby we made together, and know that this is what we've been waiting for. Exactly this.

Or maybe not so much.

I never idealized family life in the way that I think some infertiles (and plenty of fertiles) do. I knew that baby-raisin' would involve a lot of bodily fluids, not a lot of sleep and a fair amount of crying, on everyone's part. I actually worried quite regularly through my pregnancy that I would birth this baby and find that I hated motherhood. I hated babysitting (oh, the crying!) so why would parenting be any different? While I was (and am) irritated by smug mothers making smug comments like "sleep now - you'll never sleep again!", if a mom shared with me the honest difficulties of raising her child I would listen with empathy rather than moral outrage. "Well at least you have a baby!" was rarely my response to a mom being realistic about the stress of her profession.

But I understand that not everyone feels that way. I don't blame you if after your third failed IVF (or first failed Clomid cycle) you have little patience for someone on the other side complaining about the hardships of motherhood. We are all in our own places, dealing in our own ways, and if irritation at a complaining new mom is how you cope, I hope it helps you cope well. Staying sane in the face of infertility is a daily battle. Trust me, I know.

And so I feel like I must warn you that to those of you fighting those fights this blog might not seem like a friendly place anymore. Because I have to tell you - being a mom is HARD. No. Really. Like, harder than you could ever imagine considering the job duties of a mother of a newborn basically include feed baby, change baby, stop baby from putting poison in mouth, repeat. Oprah isn't bullshitting when she says "it's the hardest job there is" (although how does she know???). And if I've ever needed a place to vent and cry and whine, this is the time. I don't want to alienate anyone (anyone who is still here after an unforgiveable 6 month blog sabbatical) and I truly feel for every one of you still fighting the hard fight. But let me tell you, caring for a screaming, hysterical, dare I say colicky newborn is a fight too. I would absolutely rather have my hands full than empty, and even when that little lobster baby (bright red from the endless crying) is shouting in my face, seeming to tell me how much he hates me, I am grateful for the opportunity to raise him. But seriously. He is LOUD. Dude.

So for those of you who may continue reading (if I do, in fact, continue writing) please know that you aren't likely to ever see anything like that first paragraph here again. First off because to "awake in the morning" implies that one slept the night before. And to greet my son in his crib would mean that he's slept there, even once, for even a moment. (Although I did greet him there yesterday after I had to put him in it, leave the room and close the door to escape his sobs and hopefully get a grip on my own. But he wasn't smiling when I returned a few minutes (and a hysterical phone call to my husband) later. Not exactly. Spewing obscenities more profane than any profanity I or the entire US Navy have uttered is more accurate.) And the smiles that melt my heart and soul? Maybe someday, but so far we're still in the accidental gas smile stage. Although occassionally I will glimpse a grin while he sleeps, presumably because he is dreaming a sweet dream of murdering me. (Because how could somebody possibly shout like that all.the.time at someone they didn't despise to the core of their being?)

Being a parent is nothing like babysitting (which, have I mentioned I hated?). There is no one to rescue you at the end of the night. As a matter of fact, the night is when things get really interesting. When the baby sleeps (if the baby sleeps) you aren't able to invite your boyfriend over for a makeout session. No, that's when you frantically try to brush your teeth (and on a good day your hair too!) before the screaming starts again. And you don't get paid - not even a meager $2 an hour. It's exhausting. It's endless. It's nothing like babysitting at all.

It's a million, squillion, gillion times better.

Even with a reflux baby, a baby who constantly vomits your milk back at you in a mucousy mess and is hungry again moments later, even then there is the love. Instead of being annoyed by the incessant screaming (which you wish more than anything would end), you're tortured by it. Wondering what you could possibly do to make this poor, helpless creature feel better; what you could do to make him realize that being alive isn't really that awful. You ache because he aches. And as painful as that sounds, it's also beautiful. Having not just an obligation but a deep desire to set yourself aside for the one you love. And there are moments - even with a baby who makes Morrissey look chipper - when your heart melts at the beauty of your baby. When he opens his eyes so wide, as if to tell you "yes, mommy - I will never sleep again!" you can't help but adore his little chihuahua face. When you kiss his little lips and he opens his mouth in reflex you can't help but glow, deluding yourself that he is kissing you back. And when your husband tries to calm him by sitting in the glider, rocking slowly and singing him off-key Beatles songs instead of nursery rhymes you remember why you fought so hard in the first place.

So let me tell you (and not in a smug, obnoxious way): Parenthood is hard. It's blindingly terrifying and sometimes soul crushing. Parenthood is hard and it is LOUD. But it is worth it. It's so worth it.

arrival

2009-07-02T19:24:00.000-07:00

I sat in the wheelchair, leaving the room that had become almost cocoon-like for me in the past 4 days. It was a room I hadn't once left since having entered it. A room that saw both immense highs and dark moments. A room in which I'd gotten to know my husband in a way I'd never known him; gotten to know a new part of myself. It was a room of so many firsts, that small little room. And I wonder now how those 4 plain walls could've contained so much uncertainty, delight, love, terror. Leaving that room, seeing a hallway through which I'd undoubtedly been before but had no recollection of, I couldn't imagine ever having existed in any other room before. And in some ways I hadn't, not the person I was now, because that was the room where I became a mother.

Holding my son in my arms as I was wheeled out of that room was surreal. Passing through that hallway that I felt I'd never seen before. Getting on an elevator, with a nurse standing behind me and my husband beside me, the 3 of us beaming while the fourth slept (deceptively) peacefully in my arms. As people got on and off the elevator as it descended from the 24th floor they smiled, cooed and sometimes asked for the details of how and when we became a family. I never thought I'd describe a ride in a lift as "beautiful" but it was. And I wept.

Four days prior, when I last entered that elevator, I had no idea that I would leave it a changed woman. I expected to be told that my bleeding was the result of my placenta previa and that I was to be on bedrest until my scheduled c-section in 11 days time. When I was hooked up to the monitors and saw that those little cramps I felt periodically were actually contractions, coming in surprisingly regular time, I thought I might be stuck in the hospital until the blessed event. But I didn't expect that event to come in 9 hours - the soonest the doctor on call could come deliver my Memorial Day baby. I didn't know enough to savor the movie we'd seen that night (sadly, Terminator 4) or the car ride to the hospital, during which I was mostly annoyed that I wasn't in bed. And my husband didn't know to pack a hospital bag that contained more than 2 cans of Sprite, 4 bags of chips and a book he'd been reading. But before we knew what was happening I was being wheeled through double doors into the sterile room in which my son would be born, mercifully screaming and pink, 7 lbs 4 oz at 36 weeks.

And four days later, as I was pushed through the automatic doors and out into the rest of the world I was overcome with my good fortune. Overcome with deja vu of sorts, as I heard the nurse (as though speaking long distance through a tube) talking merrily of the excitement yet to come. Because it was nearly 3 years prior when I was last pushed by a nurse out of that very same hospital, those very same doors, having been sedated in another sterile room and having "birthed" my twins. I cried that time, as the nurse told me I could try again soon. And I cried this time, overwhelmed by the journey I had taken in those 3 years, overwhelmed by the poetry of leaving those same doors, perhaps in the same wheelchair, but with my son in my arms instead of just my heart.

Five and a half weeks have passed since I became a mother. Some days it feels easier than that first day and some days so so much harder. Sometimes I can't believe he's been here more than 5 weeks already and sometimes I feel he's always been here. It's been heavier and harder than I could've imagined, but there are moments of lightness when I know we will all make it and be better for having each other. And through it all there's the love, blinding and breathtaking. Love for my son and my husband. Love for *my* family.

and so with pride (and exhaustion) I finally introduce to you my Oliver Robin. Born at 36 weeks exactly, weighing 7 pounds 4 oz and measuring 19 1/2". My big boy. My big, handsome, stubborn, delightful and bewildering boy. A boy named to honor siblings we will never know (siblings who were the size of olives when they left) and the Brazilian soccer player (Robinho) after who he was inexplicably nicknamed just 4 weeks after his conception. A boy who looks like his father and screams like his mother and yet is so completely and uniquely him.

ch-ch-ch-changes

2009-01-16T14:05:00.000-08:00

Women have body issues. It's just a fact. Every single one of us has something: that hair that appears on our chin, never noticed until it's 3 inches long, dark and disturbingly pubic in nature; the cellulite that formed on our thighs before we could legally drink; the weight we carry in our asses or our bellies or our thighs or our tits, always wishing we were carrying it in any other spot. Tall, thin, gorgeous women feel gangly and their limbs unwieldy (or so I'm told). Short women feel dumpy, frumpy and often lumpy. And regardless of how much they pay for that perfect, sassy haircut that everyone loves, every woman on earth has issues with their hair. I'm sure of it.

I am not immune. I definitely have my issues. My mother and (ex)stepfather found it amusing at 14 to talk about how big my ass was. "You could show movies on that thing!" It wasn't cruel - you don't make it in our family without withstanding merciless teasing - but I don't think they realized how formative those years are, how delicate self-esteem is at that age, and so I still, at more than twice that age, feel self conscious about my bottom. Thank god my husband is an ass man.

But all things considered I have a fairly healthy bodily self-image. I gained more than 20 pounds between meeting my husband and marrying him. I didn't love the weight, but I did love eating and laziness and therefore was never driven to do anything about the growing waistline and never resisted the increase in pants size. I have on numerous occasions gone from nipple-obscuring-length hair to a Winonna-esque pixie with one snip of the scissors. Just 2 weeks after losing my twins I walked into a hairdresser I'd never seen and told him to give me a drastic change - whatever he wanted, just something different. Hair grows back, this I know, and I treat it as such. I've watched my boobs go from B-cups to Cs and enjoyed the change, and was equally unfazed when those Cs shriveled to As, simply taking up the banner of small chested women everywhere. My body is simply that: a body. It isn't me and I'm not it.

That is, apparently, until that body no longer belonged to just me. Now that I'm being inhabited by another being (eek!) I'm finding that changes I expected to embrace are sometimes difficult to take. I love my belly. I embrace my belly. Even when the baby was the size of a poppy seed, but my abdomen was so bloated I looked like a stereotypical Ethiopian child, I loved my belly. But the first time I glanced in the mirror and noticed that my pert, perky boobs were suddenly looking sad and forlorn - literally downcast - I felt a surprising sting. I had known that motherhood would bring changes and that the breasts I'd recognized would be lost forever, but I expected those changes to happen while breastfeeding or after weaning. I didn't know that staring at my tits at 12w I would be shocked by how matronly they'd become. And it's an image I still haven't adjusted to.

I'm not an idiot - I knew the numbers on the scale would grow, that my baby wasn't healthy if they didn't. But I didn't expect to flinch when seeing that growth flashing obnoxiously on the scale below me. Had I known this I would've given my OB a fully-clothed, shoe-wearing, post-pasta-eating pre-pregnancy weight by which she could track my gains. Never would I have provided her with my at-home weight, which has always been taken first thing in the morning, after peeing, before eating, butt-ass naked. Because when I hear her say I've gained X pounds I have to restrain myself from pointing out that my shoes must account for at least 3 of those.

And when my mother told me, at 17w, that I was starting to waddle? Well, I don't care how steely your self-esteem, no one gets past the word "waddle" without cringing.

I thought I would be different; I thought I was an earth-mother. I expected to embrace bodily changes like the changing of the season. I thought I'd be proud of pregnancy acne and feel womanly in my spreading hips, but even I can't revel in nipples the size of dinner plates (regardless of the fact that come June they will serve as just that). I love my baby and I genuinely love being pregnant. But I've come to realize that you'd have to be a saint to love your stretch marks.

Oh god...stretch marks. I'd better learn to embrace my new reality or it's going to be a long 5 months...

sins of the father

2009-01-10T16:41:00.000-08:00

I've been told my entire life that I look exactly like my mother. (Well, except that one time when I was about 12 and went for an exceptionally bold and very short haircut and was mistaken by one of my dad's oldest friends for my brother. Oh, the scarring, how it is permanent.) I realize that my mom has always been a very attractive woman, even now at 54 keeping in great shape and never without lipstick just a shade too bright. And yet I've always found myself slightly doubting of our physical similarities, regardless of how blatant they are.

However, when looking at baby pictures of the two of us I am happy to acknowledge that we're nearly identical. Full lips, big, smiling eyes, a self confidence that's obvious even from toddler-hood. I see those faces, nearly indistinguishable, and see girls full of promise and joy and I don't deny that we were similar not only in bone structure but in outlook. Obvious innocence. A clear belief that the world was ours to discover. And so I am forced to conclude that my reluctance to accept the undeniable family resemblance has nothing to do with my disbelief or unwillingness to see the similarities, but rather my fear that the similarities run much deeper than our full pink lips.

My mom is a bold woman, determined, outspoken. I've admired her strength through 2 divorces, both of which were abusive (in different ways). I respect her insistence on speaking her mind and I commend her determination to stick it out once she makes up her mind. But sometimes, in speaking of those divorces (one to my father - a terrible husband but a great dad) she appears as a martyr. I can't help but see that when she speaks her mind she does so in a way that often disregards how the listener will receive that message - believing that sharing her opinion is more important than preserving the feelings of those she looks down upon from her pulpit. And her determination is sometimes just thinly veiled stubbornness; a refusal to accept her own faults and mistakes.

And I know that I too carry each of those strengths and every one of those burdens in my own gut. I can feel them. They're so heavy.

I believe that more often than not women find themselves wanting daughters (and men, sons) either because of or in spite of their own maternal relationships. It's usually clear that the new mom is intent on duplicating her own relationship with her own daughter or on wiping the slate clean and fixing the mistakes she feels she suffered at her own mother's hands. My mom, desperate for a girl when I was in utero, obviously had some perceived wrongs to right - she's told me as much growing up, priding herself on how different she was with me. But I hear her complaints about her mother and I feel as though a mirror is being held just inches from my own nose. But she would never see it. Never admit it.

I too have always wanted a daughter. Always. Always. But in all my soul searching, regardless of how deeply I've dug, I haven't been able to determine whether I hope to correct the mistakes she clearly made or whether I yearn for a similarly passionate and deep relationship with my own child. Simply stated, at 30 years old I still do not know if I love my mother or loathe her. But I've always known that I too, want the opportunity to have my daughter ask herself that same question someday, painful though I'm sure it would be for me to hear. It's a conflict that runs deep in many a woman's soul, I'm certain.

And so the universe has taken pity on me. Removed from the picture any fears of reliving the sins that were thrust upon me. The universe has, it appears, given my baby a penis.

I expected in that moment, when the pointy part was clear and we heard the ultrasound tech say "it's a boy!" to feel disappointment. I prepared myself for the inevitablity that I would need to adjust to the fact that I was looking at soccer balls rather than debutante balls. But I surprised myself when at those words I felt nothing but pride, joy and excitement about the little man growing in my womb. The world wasn't closed on me in that moment, my options weren't limited. I became a mom with a son who I loved.

In that moment I realized that my relationship with my mother isn't perfect. It's not ideal and it won't ever be. But it is full and it is fiery. It is enough.

here it comes...

2008-12-08T18:08:00.000-08:00

We knew it would happen someday. My ennui and confusion about this pregnancy couldn't last every single moment of every single day. There was bound to be a day when I would find myself giggling, grinning ear to ear and marvelling at how blessed we are. Feeling as though I'd downed a bottle of Felix Felicis, today is that day.

Waking up this morning to the mental milestone of 12 weeks was a perfect start. One small step for a pregnant woman, one giant leap for *this* pregnant woman! Although I'm now much further than I was with any previous losses, this week seemed like such a foreign threshold to cross and yet here I am, walking through that door and glowing on the other side.

Glowing, with a healthy (and big!) baby kicking me on the inside. I can't feel it yet, of course, but I could certainly see it this morning at our NT scan. Those long spindly legs kicking, those adorable little fingers at the baby's mouth, that heart - THAT HEART! - thumping away, 4 glorious chambers beating perfectly to sound the most beautiful music a mother can hear.

The most beautiful music a mother can hear...in her own home. My doppler also arrived today and with a little fiddling there it was: woosh woosh woosh. My belly soaking with gel, underwear pulled down around my knees, entirely without grace and yet feeling SO full of grace. Just so full.

Full of life, overflowing with love. My heart beats stronger knowing that today another heart still beats below it. Within it.

(Please re-direct me to this post when complaining about cankles, stretchmarks and hemorrhoids.)

human trampoline

2008-11-24T09:21:00.000-08:00

There is a girl in New York City
Who calls herself The Human Trampoline
And sometimes when I'm falling, flying, tumbling in turmoil
I think "whoa, so this is what she means"
She means we're bouncing into Graceland

-Paul Simon, Graceland

Good news: Last Wednesday I woke up officially more pregnant than I'd ever been. My chemical pregnancies ended before the pee dried on the stick and my stickiest pregnancy lasted to just 9w1d. On Wednesday, at 9w2d, I felt relieved that we'd crossed a bridge into unknown pregnancy territory and simultaneously terrified that I didn't know where I'd find myself on the other side of that bridge. Would I reach this milestone, only to soon find myself in grief once again over life lost or would I really be venturing into the true wilderness of parenthood, finally birthing a baby I'd dreamt of for so long? My whole life felt laid out in front of me that morning, as opposed to the previous 9 weeks, when I felt I was tethered to my past.

Bad news: That same morning, at 9w2d, I went to use the bathroom in the morning and glanced (as I have for the duration of this and every pregnancy) at the toilet paper, looking for but not expecting to see blood. My toilet paper searches while still a constant have become much less determined, much more flippant. 5 trips to the bathroom every day for 5 weeks and not a single spot of blood, it's only normal to lighten up a bit...but not enough, apparently. Because last Wednesday, more pregnant than ever before, I found myself bleeding. Nothing to write home about (nothing to even write on blog about), but present nonetheless: little speckles of dark reddish-brown blood. I laughed out loud and actually said "you've got to be kidding me" as I sat, ass exposed on the cold hard seat, and decided whether to panic.

Good news: I didn't panic. I realized that it was such a small amount, such a minor event that it didn't warrant a full blown terror. I debated whether to tell my husband, whether to explore the issue any further, and considered flushing the toilet, walking away and forgetting I'd ever seen anything. But I couldn't do that. I knew that rather than forget, my unwillingness to acknowledge the scare would lead to a scary week ahead as I waited for my OB appointment. So I decided to come clean with my husband - calmly, rationally - and hoped that he too would decide not to panic.

Bad news: He didn't panic, but I could tell he couldn't brush it off either. We forced ourselves into a lighthearted discussion as to how best to handle it. I'd been released to an OB exactly 3 weeks prior, but was miserable in his care. We'd decided not to return to him and I'd booked an appointment with a new doctor for 10w2d. But since I hadn't seen her yet either, I didn't know where to turn for reassurance.

Good news: I have the greatest RE in the city (and I feel like I can comment, considering I've seen 4 of them over the course of our treatments). A woman who always made me feel cared about and listened to in every respect. And although I hadn't been her "responsibility" for 3 weeks she offered to sneak me in for a quick ultrasound, just to reassure me that everything was ok.

Bad news: Have you ever noticed that even when one is decidedly not panicked, knowing that a definitive answer is forthcoming can deliver fear faster than Dominos delivers pizza? Cool, collected Amber was lost when faced with an ultrasound - hopeful that the spotting was as insignificant as I believed, but fearful that I had again begun the beginning of the end.

Good news: The probe inserted and adjusted to find the sac, a baby appeared on the screen. Still, but with heart beating strong and fast (178bpm). The doctor and I sat, both relieved, and stared at a beating blob, her with pride in her voice and me with tears in my eyes. I would've been happy at that moment to jump off the table, I didn't want to take another moment of her time and I knew now that for now the baby was safe. But my RE wanted me to feel not only safe, but happy. And spent 10 minutes letting me gaze at the precious little one, noticing arms and legs as I'd seen in my twin pregnancy, but for the first time also a spine. My baby has a spine! And soon I realized that s/he knows how to use it. Next thing I knew s/he was twisting and twirling as much as my insides had done in the hours leading up to this ultrasound. And to know that still 2 hearts beat in my body, to see hands I haven't yet held and feet I haven't yet tickled...to see our baby on the screen wiggling as if to assure me that all is well. Well, are there any words?

Bad news: My husband, trapped at work, didn't get to see any of it.

::crickets::

2008-11-18T13:48:00.000-08:00

I have noticed, while reading infertility blogs, that oftentimes once the blogger becomes pregnant the blog becomes stagnant. Once overly verbose writers clam up, posting nothing more than the occasional ultrasound update. I often wondered why pregnant infertiles suddenly go quiet and sometimes deduced that they were too blissfully happy to bother updating us who were still miserable, bitchy and barren. And maybe that's true for some of them.

But having officially become The Pregnant Infertile Who Shuts Her Mouth, I can tell you that in my case it's definitely not a matter of being so consumed with the rays of light shooting forth from my womb, but rather an inability to process my own thoughts and feelings within my own head, muchless in a readable way, sanitized enough to share with the public.

As an infertile you have months, years, to adjust to the life you're living. A woman new to the world of IF blogging is still quite experienced in feeling and thinking in the way of an infertile. Even someone newly diagnosed has likely had a year or more to come to grips with the fact that she is not like everybody else. By the time pen is put to paper, fingers to keyboard, she has likely processed countless failed cycles, a diagnosis, endless friends and their "oops" pregnancies and have begun to identify as one of the barren bunch. Pregnancy, it turns out, is the reverse. After spending 2 1/2 years adjusting to the concept that you are not pregnant (and aren't likely to get pregnant without remarkable acts of god or science) suddenly you're thrust into a new identity. Sure, it's an identity that you've strived for over the course of a lifetime, but it's also one you've fought to accept you might never have. Where the hell are you supposed to go with that?

I have now known about the pregnancy for 5 weeks, but I am no more adjusted to the reality of this reality than I was the day I found out. I am thankful that I haven't come out to most people, because honestly I don't know how to be pregnant. When friends who know ask how I'm feeling I don't know how to respond; I find myself uncomfortable discussing even the most mundane pregnancy details. I've spent so long feeling so raw when hearing the details of others' pregnancies...I just never imagined I would feel the same way myself. And I cannot lose the understanding that my pregnancy details could be excruciating for someone else to hear - someone out there doesn't want to know about my morning sickness the fact that I'm already in maternity pants, worrying instead that they will never have the discussion themselves. And as it turns out, maybe they won't. At least not out loud.

I don't know who this woman is or how she's supposed to feel. I don't know what to say, what life to live. So the days tick by, the counter creeps further towards 40 weeks and I wait. Hoping that someday soon I will know once again who I am...likely just before having to adjust again, this time from pregnant woman to Mother.

the golden thread

2008-11-10T15:58:00.000-08:00

On August 28th, 2006 I was standing in front of the dry erase board at work, reading patient charts when suddenly I had this overwhelming rush: "what if I really am pregnant this time?" I felt almost as though my life flashed before my eyes, in that moment I pictured making my grandmother a great-grandmother again, connecting generations of my family's women with another branch of the tree. The intense feeling passed fairly quickly but the imprint of it stayed with me and when 3 days later I learned that yes, I really was pregnant, I wasn't surprised. Foolish though it may seem, I still believe that that moment (at 7dpo) was the moment of implantation. The moment my babies became connected to me.

When I lost them I was devastated. Sadness is pervasive, but almost more than anything I felt lonely. I'd been speaking to my babies since that first day, begging them to stay with me through all the scary bleeding. I'd tell them I loved them, of course, but I also had a simple running dialogue with them. We lived my life together in those 9 weeks and when they were gone, when I could no longer share my every experience with them, I felt like a close companion, a confidant had died. The golden thread connecting them to me had snapped.

I've known I was pregnant for a full month today. I've seen this healthy baby on 3 ultrasounds, watched her (his?) heart beating twice. I feel nauseas much of the time, my breasts are tender and the bloat is immense. (Seriously. It's ridiculous.) But regardless of *knowing* what is going on within my own body, I don't feel it. Not like last time. I talk to this baby on occassion, but it feels forced. I rub my belly often, but mainly due to the water retention, not any maternal feelings. I know there is a baby in there, but I do not know this baby. Not like last time. And I feel sad and guilty about it.

I wonder if my twin pregnancy was a bit of a perfect storm, bringing about the intense connection. I bled from day one (well, 2dpo to be specific) so I spent many hours begging those babies to be strong for me, to hold on while my body did what it could to make them let go. My husband was out of town for a month from 3 days after getting that first positive. Spending so much time alone I'm not surprised I made friends wherever friends could be made: in this case, within my own body. The idea of pregnancy was so new to me, as was the idea of trying. It seemed in some ways magical, mystical rather than a scientific process.

In contrast, with this pregnancy I have, for the first time, had not a single scare. I thank god for the lack of blood, but I'm also without reason to suspect that this little squirt is going anywhere and therefore not likely to beg him (her?) to stick around. My husband is very much present, sometimes leaving me wishing I had some time alone, so I talk out loud to him rather than internally to a person I'm not sure has ears. I've had 3 ultrasounds since learning I was pregnant - but hundreds in the past 2 years while attempting to get pregnant. I've looked at them as a science experiment over the course of many treatments - how can I now expect to switch to a mindset focused on the blissful joys of a newly minted mother-to-be?

Knowing the above, I shouldn't be surprised that I feel distance. But I wonder if it's something more.

I wonder. I wonder if although I feel very few bursts of fear, check my pantyliner for spotting rarely, genuinely believe that this time we will have a baby come June...I wonder if the fear I expected to feel is still there. Still lurking and poisoning my pregnancy. I wonder if my unfelt fear is manifesting itself not in incessant worry and panic, but in a disconnect. Preventing my seemingly hopeful heart from being broken once again when the other shoe drops. I wonder if that golden thread is tied not around the beating heart of my baby, but rather the fear that I may never know this one either. And I wonder when *that* thread will snap.

a little (more) patience

2008-10-31T09:55:00.000-07:00

Do you remember when about a week before starting stims I wrote a post called "a little patience"? At the time it was nothing more than a way to work out my nerves, my excitement, my impatience about my upcoming cycle, but once the post was composed and up there for all to see, I realized it was more a meditation - a mantra of what would hopefully be self-fulfilling words. I'm not usually into ideas proposed in The Secret (or the hundreds of other similar self-help books) and I didn't use those writings as a mantra, but I can't deny that every single thing I wrote has come blissfully true so far. Who would've guessed?

So looking back, now realizing the power (or coincidence) of my words, I'm really wishing I would've been more specific. So I now offer the universe a revised timeline of this pregnancy and beyond. Note the changes in italics...

a little (more) patience

I cannot wait until next Thursday when I pop my last birth control pill (hopefully for a very long time). 6 straight weeks of BCPs and I'm ready to get rid of the acne and the bloat.

I cannot wait until the following Monday when I start stims - even if those "stims" will initially be (the confusing and anti-climactic) Clomid. Clomid that will no doubt bring about acne and bloat.

I cannot wait until 4 days later when I start real stims - hamster ovaries and nun pee, straight to my abdomen.

I cannot wait until I hear that our big, plump and numerous follicles are ready to trigger - not because one runaway is threatening to ruin it for everyone, but because they are all mature and ready to make babies.

I cannot wait until I'm bent over the kitchen counter, my husband standing behind me with that inch and a half needle aimed right for my ass.

I cannot wait until I wake up from anesthesia to hear how many beautiful, textbook quality eggs were retrieved. And I can't wait for the long day of napping and gatorade that will follow.

I cannot wait until the phonecall that tells me how many fertilized, how they're growing and that we're definitely doing a 5 day transfer.

I cannot wait until the moment when my husband stands at my side, grasping my hand as we watch on the ultrasound screen as our babies are sent home.

I cannot wait until I am waited on hand and foot. We wouldn't want to upset any precious embryos with chores or cooking. And just to be sure they're feeling safe and sound, their daddy will caress my bruised abdomen and tell them through layers of fat (and bloat) how much he loves them.

I cannot wait until we hear that we had beautiful, healthy blasts make it to freeze. Every last egg we sucked out that didn't get thrust back in will head straight to the icebox. (Or nitrogen box. Whatever.)

I cannot wait until I experience an entire 14 day luteal phase without a single smear of blood, for the first time ever. (Go for the gold, girl! Forget a 14 day luteal phase without spotting - how about an entire 9 month pregnancy!)

I cannot wait until the phone call that changes our life - for the good - and tells us that maybe this time we will finally become parents. Even if it does mean another 2 months of shots in the butt.

I cannot wait until I have the fortitude not to immediately run out and spend $50 on pee sticks *after* already knowing they'll be positive. I am an intelligent woman who understands that I don't need 3 boxes for the "pregnant" thrill. And I know that when you wait until 14dpER to pee, the sticks won't get much darker, so why bother?

I cannot wait until we see our baby(s), bright and healthy, on the ultrasound screen for the first time.

I cannot wait until I schedule the *second* ultrasound, the one where we look for the heartbeat, at a date during which I won't panic that it'll be too early to see that flicker, and then have the doctor tell me, right before the Probulator (tm) goes in that no, it wouldn't be ok to not see a heartbeat at 6w2d.

I cannot wait until I find the perfect OB, one who shares my desire for cautious medicine and treatment and a preference for an insane number of ultrasounds...and yet is supportive of labor being as natural as possible. Oh and an OB who thinks staying on the low-glycemic carb diet through the entire pregnancy as my RE suggested is absolutely insane and begins an IV potato drip immediately.

I cannot wait until I use the doppler on my own belly, in my own home with my husband at my side and hear the woosh-woosh-woosh of life growing inside. (And until I never once have trouble finding that woosh, sending me into a panic which will in turn send me immediately to the aforementioned OB for another one of those ultrasounds.)

I cannot wait until I feel completely comfortable stopping my progesterone supplementation, with no lingering fear or hesitation.

I cannot wait to watch the trimesters fall behind me as my belly grows big and healthy before me.

I cannot wait until we learn if we're having boy(s) or girl(s) and to watch my future change before my very eyes to adjust to this new reality of our growing family.

I cannot wait until I win some sort of minor lottery, giving us exactly the amount of money we need to decorate the nursery exactly as I'd like. Oh, and buy me a four door car (because really, car seats and VW Beetles aren't a good match.)

I cannot wait until I feel flutters, pinches, kicks and rolls from inside, knowing their personalities before anyone else can even imagine who they are. Until my husband, too, can feel them; know them.

I cannot wait until I am the only pregnant woman in history who sleeps comfortably, eats healthily, glows constantly and never waddles, right up until my water breaks (at 40 weeks exactly.)

I cannot wait until I'm struggling in my own labor, learning that things don't always go as planned (but sometimes do). My man will be at my side, comforting, coaching in a way that only he can.

I cannot wait to hear that first scream as a wet, bloody and very confused new person is brought into this big world.

I cannot wait to meet my child(ren), placed squirming and pink on my chest after my husband cuts the cord connecting them to me.

I cannot wait to get home and wonder what in god's name we've done and how we're possibly going to do this. And then we'll do it, day in and day out, better and better as it gets easier (and sometimes harder).

I cannot wait until we breastfeed, finding few difficulties, plenty of milk and that it really *is* true that pregnancy weight just melts right off (thanks every celebrity in People magazine!).

I cannot wait until milestones are reached: they'll smile and roll over and sit and stand.

I cannot wait until I comfortably baby-wear all over town. (Yes, it's a random dream, but one I've had for years.)

I cannot wait to see that my husband not only grows as a father, but as a husband and as a man. And regardless of the difficulties of parenthood we find ourselves closer, working towards a common (and wonderful) goal.

I cannot wait until reaching hands and tiny fingers torture the cats. I can't wait...but the cats can.

I cannot wait until I hear my name - the only name I've ever known in my heart - spoken by my baby. Mommy.

I cannot wait until a year and a half after this baby is born we learn that miraculously my husband's sperm count has skyrocketed and that trying for our second will be simple, quick and involve actual S.E.X.

I cannot wait for first days of daycare, first days of school, first loose teeth, first friends, first fights.

I cannot wait to say things like "because I said so", "because I'm the mom" and "eat your broccoli".

I cannot wait to watch them grow bigger, grow up, grow away from me as they become their own individual selves. Selves who sometimes just need their mom.

I cannot wait to to live all the moments I've been imagining my whole life. And to experience all the experiences that I never could've known were to come.

I cannot wait for any of it. But I will. I'll wait as long as it takes. (And be grateful for all of it.)

***

I sit here today, 6 weeks and 4 days pregnant, having seen one beautiful, healthy heartbeat on Wednesday and officially released to a (high-risk) OB. I'm still surprisingly fearless (or less fearful than I imagined, anyway) and haven't had a single scare. I find myself thinking forward in weeks, never wondering *if* I'll be 7 weeks on Monday, or 8 weeks the Monday after that. (Instead I find myself thinking that *when* I am 7 weeks I might actually break down and buy maternity pants. Yes, I know it's 100% bloat and totally pathetic, but I am sick of having to unbutton my pants any time I'm not actively walking around in public. (Sitting in public is a perfectly acceptable time to unbutton pants, for the record.))

But at the same time I'm finding myself struggling a bit to connect to this little shrimp inside me. I don't yet feel the golden thread connecting us that I felt so so early with my twins. I'm surprised by the disconnect, but not concerned. We're just taking some time to get to know eachother. To settle in.

***

As you may know, Kymberli at "I'm a Smart One" and Chance from "Embracing Happenstance" are embarking on a new journey together. Kym, who suffered infertility before being blessed with her 4 seriously adorable children, has since continued to pay her blessings forward by becoming a surrogate mother. She has already delivered one handsome little meatball of a surro-baby and is now joining Chance (and Apollo) in an attempt to do her part to make another family complete. From Kymberli's blog:

Chance and Apollo have created The Waiting Heart, a symbolic representation of all for which your heart is waiting. Made of solid sterling silver, the heart is hand-engraved by Chance with the word waiting along one side. It is placed on a Wear to Make Aware pomegranate satin cord, representing Infertility's Common Thread. All proceeds will go directly towards helping Chance and Apollo with the surrogacy journey, which we've dubbed Project Happenstance.

For me, giving to someone else has always been a wonderful way to experience the gifts in my own life. I was so glad to be able to help Kymberli, Chance and Apollo in whatever small way I could, knowing that so many out there would do the same for me without a second thought. Head over to Chance's etsy store: The Waiting Heart and do what you can to help bring their wait to an end.

Besides, what a cool necklace!

the world has turned

2008-10-21T14:03:00.000-07:00

When I was in 4th grade I made a pact of sorts with my best friend that we would never smoke. My parents weren't smokers - I'd never been in a smoking environment really - but her mom was on a pack a day. Her house smelled strongly of cigarettes (and looking back, other smoked "delicacies") and the culture in her family was simply a smoking culture. We both agreed at that young age that it was a disgusting habit, one we'd never partake in. We remained close friends for years, although our peripheral friends diverged and changed. It was obvious that we were becoming a different species (as often happens in high school) but our friendship endured. Walking home from school together as sophomores we encountered some of her friends. One of them offered her a cigarette (Newport Menthol - I'll never forget) and she took it, lit it, smoked it. It was clear that this wasn't her first time, she held it confidently (or as confidently as a 15 year old can). I didn't say anything, I wasn't one to start a conflict, but I was hurt. Not that she was smoking - it was her body, she could do what she wished with it - but that she'd left this part of her, a part that we'd shared, behind. It felt clear to me then that a line had been drawn. She'd moved on, become someone new, and I'd stayed exactly where I was.

One of my early boyfriends relayed a similar experience while we were dating - he and a friend had always been fun but sober. They'd go to the high school parties and provide much of the entertainment, but while others' were swilling schnapps stolen from an unlocked liquor cabinet, Mike and his friends stuck to Coke. They never made a statement, weren't anti-drinking - they just didn't feel the need. But one day Andy got drunk. There was no dramatic after-school-special style climax, nothing terrible happened. But like Newport Menthols did to me, his friend Andy's first drink revealed a chasm that Mike hadn't seen before. Andy was exploring and maturing while Mike sat behind, stuck in the shell he'd always been. He listened to Weezer's "The World Has Turned" on repeat for awhile, feeling pathetic that a romantic ballad was representing a change in his friendship, a change due to a simple drink or two. But he knew now that they were different.

In the past 2 1/2 years the world has turned many times for me. Friends who got pregnant a few weeks after I did kept their babies, had expanding bellies and showers, gave birth, became mothers and watch their children grow. I don't resent them this change, but I can't deny it either. I have watched girls who'd battled to achieve a lasting pregnancy succeed and come home with babies - their attitudes sometimes changing so quickly, seeming to erase where they'd come from, what they'd gone through to stand where they stand, forgetting what they'd left behind. I've had family, friends, acquaintances and virtual strangers shift our relationships by virtue of their own growth, drawing an unintentional line in the sand between those who try and those who succeed. My world has turned. And turned. And turned.

Today I find myself on the other side of the globe. I am, for now, a success. Someone who caused the shift rather than had it thrust upon them. And although none of my close friends are battling the beast of infertility, there are those who are trying, who I know have cheered my win but wonder where that leaves them. And countless more (you?) who have less invested, who might very well write me off as "One Of Them" as I celebrate my pregnancy, the canyon between us seemingly too grand to jump.

I don't feel guilty for my joy and I don't feel undeserving. I won't apologize for this victory, however lasting it may or may not be. But I don't forget how I felt, just weeks ago, when hearing of another pregnancy. I don't forget the conflicted heart, the bitter and the sweet, the feeling of being, yet again, left behind. I know there are girls for whom the world has turned upon my announcement. And regardless of what I say from this moment on, I promise you I won't forget.

I might be lucky enough to become "One of Them", but I will always be One of You.

***

On a much more fun (and immensely flattering) note, my dearest Busted, one of my most favoritest bloggers, has bestowed me with an award. Hear that, high school math teacher who didn't believe in me? I've been given an award! Pfffffttt!

To claim this most prestigious of prizes I need to answer a meme of sorts, this one with one word answers. And so:

1. Where is your cell phone? purse
2. Where is your significant other? work
3. Your hair color? eggplant
4. Your mother? herself
5. Your father? good
6. Your favorite thing? carbs
7. Your dream last night? strange
8. Your dream/goal? mom
9. The room you're in? living
10. Your hobby? knitting
11. Your fear? loneliness
12. Where do you want to be in six years? home
13. Where were you last night? couch
14. What you're not? energized
15. One of your wish list items? socks
16. Where you grew up? Wisconsin
17. The last thing you did? wrote
18. What are you wearing? scrubs
19. Your T.V.? on
20. Your pet? cats
21. Your computer? overworked
22. Your mood? hopeful
23. Missing someone? always
24. Your car? beetle
25. Something you're not wearing? shoes
26. Favorite store? Anthropologie
27. Your Summer? hot
28. Love someone? always
29. Your favorite color? brown
30. When is the last time you laughed? today
31. Last time you cried? week

And the fun part - time to pass the award on to 7 other bloggers:

1. To Gretchen, for being my official Fairy Godmother (and because maybe she'll have to update her blog now).

2. To G, although I completely understand if she's not up for quirky meme's right now (from One of Them) she needs to know that I heart her and her blog.

3. To TheWorms, for being one of the kindest, most giving people I've never met.

4. To Lifeslurper, whose posts always make me think and sometimes make me wish she could do my thinking for me. She's better at it.

5. To Amy who has been far too quiet lately, and is just too cute for words.

6. To Kymberli, for being a fantastic writer, a great subject for stalking and an even better mom.

7. And I cannot resist giving this award right back to the woman who gave it to me. I heart her and her blog so much, she deserves it twice. The girl crush is so totally mutual. Thank you, Busted.

I have to fess up to something. When I had a mere 3 (ish) posts under my belt but was getting the hang of commenting, my dearest Busted bestowed me with another award: the Kind Blogger Award. I was so touched (and still am!) but was frankly too much of a newbie to know what to do with it. I've always worried that since I never gave my acceptance speech she thought I was too good for her award, and yet months after the fact I felt ridiculous suddenly acknowledging it. But now's as good a time as any, right? So thank you for this too, Busted. YOU are too kind.

pro-choice

2008-10-16T13:06:00.000-07:00

I decided this cycle not to POAS before the big test, so I knew I would be truly surprised by the outcome of my beta, whatever way it went. I imagined that driving to my RE on Monday morning I would be an absolute wreck. I imagined I wouldn't be able to sleep the night before, tossing and turning with nerves and fears. And I expected the wait, once blood had been drawn, to be excruciating.

Imagine my surprise when I woke up Monday morning, fully rested after a night of unbroken sleep. And as I headed 40 minutes to my test I listened to music, sung along and generally relaxed. Coming home I found that I was anxious to hear the results, but not pacing, as I'd expected, like a lion in a cage.

I have had 3 days to absorb the news now (and another lovely beta of 367 - doubling in 49.35 hours). The excitement hasn't entirely set in, although I'm obviously thrilled. But that's not surprising to me - I've spent most of the past 2 1/2 years being decidedly NOT pregnant. I wouldn't expect to adjust to this new reality so quickly. What is surprising is that the fear hasn't set in yet either.

I won't pretend that I am 100% without concerns: that waiting for that second beta I didn't worry about the results, that I don't check and double-check the toilet paper every time, looking for the blood that had become synonymous with pregnancy in my experience. But my fears appear to be that of a normal, average pregnant woman. Not someone with my history (or my astounding ability to panic).

My mother believes that this lack of fear is a "good sign". That is means it was "meant to be". I wish she was right, I wish I believed that good feelings meant good endings. But regardless of the strength of optimism there is no guarantee that the next time I check the T.P. I won't get a nasty surprise. I don't believe my absence of terror, my Zen, is due to an greater understanding of the future. I believe it's due to a choice.

Upon scheduling my first (and exceedingly early) ultrasound, my husband asked how far along I'd be then. And then asked how far along I was when we lost the twins. Cogs were visibly turning in his head, doing the math, trying to find the "safe time". My mother came right out and asked when we'd be "safe", expecting, I think, to hear "at the end of the first trimester" or some other similar cliche. But instead I told her of the girls I know who lost babies at 16, 17 weeks. At 23 weeks. Immediately after a full-term delivery. I told her that there is no such thing as safe, in any part of life. Tragedies occur at every stage of the game, and it doesn't stop upon giving birth. Babies die of SIDS, toddlers die in hot cars, children are run over in their own driveways by their own parents. Devastation is always lurking around the corner and can never be outrun. But what life is lived if it that life is spent waiting for your worst fears to be confirmed?

And so I will not hold my breath, waiting to know that everything is good, that we are "safe".

I have made a choice not to put a timestamp on my happiness. Not to delay my excitement, waiting for the devastation. I know at this point that this is likely the only pregnancy I will ever experience. (Something tells me that $20k isn't going to be any easier to come by when a little one is sucking down the savings.) I've wanted for so long to be pregnant, to experience a life inside my own - how could I pass on that experience, choosing to experience fear instead? I refuse to miss this opportunity and find in 9 months that it passed me by in a terrified haze.

And if in a day or a week or a month the devastation finds me, I will feel it then. But I won't regret this optimism, this hope, this joy that I choose to feel today. I won't regret experiencing my pregnancy over my fear. I won't regret living this life. Not for a moment.

and I say "hello"

2008-10-13T08:55:00.000-07:00

October 13, 2006 was the first day of the rest of my life. I'd lived in limbo for 3 days, knowing I'd lost my babies but that they were still inside me. But on October 13 I woke up for the first time alone, having physically said goodbye. There was a new normal now.

And today, October 13th, 2008 is the first day of the rest of my life again. Today I am greeting a new soul (or souls) with open arms into my body, my heart. I begin again a hopeful woman who is blissfully, delightfully, eternally gratefully pregnant.

Pregnant.

Pregnant.

It's been so long since I could say that. But with a beta of 187 at 9dp5dt I can absolutely say that today I am pregnant! I am humbled, I am in awe and I am absolutely ready, with the help of my husband, my doctors, my friends and family, to accept this new beginning. I'm sure the fears will come, but today I feel nothing but gratitude.

It feels so good to look forward, with optimism. It feels so good to say "hello!"

goodbye again.

2008-10-10T07:09:00.000-07:00

Two years ago today I learned that my twins, whose perfect hearts I'd seen beating just days prior, had both died.

That was the pivot of my life; the dividing line. Every moment has since been measured in befores and afters. Had you told me then what the after would be like, I don't know that I would've survived. But now I can imagine no other course that my life could've taken. My twins were of me, their loss is part of me and the desperate attempts to extend the love I felt for them to another, living baby is much of who I've become. And I wouldn't give it back.

Today, though, is so much about who I was then. And so I'll share something I wrote in the early morning hours of October 12th, as I waited to go to the hospital for my d&c.

***

I had some very light spotting on Monday, something which has been quite common throughout this pregnancy, but I had just decided that I was putting too much energy into work and wasn't prioritizing as I should. So I decided to stay home and give me and my babies some much deserved rest. The bleeding stopped and everything seemed fine. But Tuesday morning when I went to the bathroom there was a large volume of red blood. The toilet water was pink and on the paper was a quarter sized clot. I knew it wasn't good, but I assumed everything would be ok. A tiny part of me was relieved actually. I didn't have the guts to quit my job (although I believed it was the right thing for my pregnancy) but surely my doctor wouldn't want me doing physical work if I bled like that.

I had started this pregnancy as the most nervous mother-to-be. I was sure I would miscarry at any given moment. That is, until 7w2d when we saw TWO heartbeats instead of one. Even though I went from a regular to a high risk pregnancy in the blink of an eye, suddenly I didn't have any concerns for the health of my babies. I thought my mother's intuition had just been off base - I had known something was different, but it wasn't an impending miscarriage I sensed...I was a mother of identical twins! And I just knew, to the core of my being, that I wouldn't be given this blessing (a scary blessing, but a blessing nonetheless) and have it taken away.

I got to the doctors office on Tuesday and was pleased that although it was very tight and cramped, there were photos of smiling moms and babies all over the walls. My new doctor was in many of the pictures - beaming over children she'd helped to bring into this world. This was the doctor I had wanted. Not the one I'd suffered through for 2 months, with grey walls, grey chairs, grey staff. Not the doctor who loved to drop the "m-word" in every appointment, like she was talking about brushing her teeth. I had finally found the doctor who would deliver my twins. I just had to sort out this little bleeding problem first.

As I sat to tell the nurse practitioner my story she listened with a kind face and understanding. She told me that I'd already gone through so much with this pregnancy. It was so nice to hear that acknowledged, because I sure felt I had. When she performed the internal she told me my cervix looked good and closed and I remained optimistic. It's funny how quickly optimism can drain right out the soles of your feet when faced with an ultrasound.

I knew the moment the ultrasound had begun that it was bad. I couldn't look at the screen - couldn't discover for myself that it was over - but the heartbeats were so easy to see now and I knew that no exclamation of "there they are" was coming. When the nurse started saying she was sorry, when she put her hand on my shoulder, my husband was concerned. He could see our babies on the screen - both of them. He could see their little faces and their hands. Why was his wife moaning and why was the nurse giving condolences? He had forgotten to check for the heartbeats. This brilliant man had somehow decided that if we'd lost them they'd be gone. Melted away into the fuzz of the screen. He wouldn't see his perfect babies lying in my womb if they were dead. But he did.

I moaned and I whimpered, but the tears didn't come. A nurse handed me a pile of tissues I could've suffocated myself in (maybe she wanted to give me the option) but I couldn't do it. Tears welled up in the nurse practitioner's eyes and the assistant nurse openly cried.

The doctor came in to confirm the diagnosis, although she gently told me before hand that there would be no change. Heartbeats don't hide in ultrasounds, and my babies' chests were as plain as day. She said she was sorry. That's all there is to say. My husband asked her to point some things out on the screen - the head, the body, the umbilical cord - but I couldn't look. Just before she finished the ultrasound I realized that this would be my last chance to see my babies and that I needed to take that opportunity, so I looked at the dark little screen. And there, in the clearest image yet (and this was our 5th ultrasound) was one of my babies. Facing right at me. I could see the eyes, I could see the torso, it was so obvious that this was a little person I was looking at...my little person. I don't know if my last vision was of baby A or B, but whichever it was, it looked so perfect. I forced myself to ask the doctor for printouts from the ultrasound. I didn't know what I wanted to do with them, but it only seemed right that their mother should have them. Neither image is nearly as clear as that last shot of my baby. I don't get to see their perfect faces, staring right at me. But they're there and I think they knew I love them.

Being at home is so strange. The bleeding has stopped entirely and I haven't had a single cramp. I feel nauseas much of the time and can't eat, but then, isn't that what pregnancy is like? It's so strange to have no will to go outside and witness society and yet feel lost in my own home. I can't do nothing, but doing something is so overwhelming. So I wait. I watch the hours tick by, napping occasionally and then feeling guilty for it. Pregnant people need naps and I...am not pregnant. I could drink a case of beer, but I sure don't want to. I want to treat myself as a pregnant woman, attribute the nausea to morning sickness, not dread at the procedure that comes today.

I had a dream while I was pregnant. Just one pregnant dream. I dreamt that I didn’t feel like I was in labor, but my doctor kept telling me I was. I had no pain, no contractions, but they told me I was dilated and it was time to push. I didn’t understand, didn’t believe I was giving birth but I pushed anyway. Eventually out popped a green olive with a bright red pimento. The doctor realized he was wrong, that I wasn’t in labor and that a baby would come later. It was a strange dream, but obvious where it came from. I had just read in a pregnancy book that at 9 weeks your baby is the size of an olive. From that point forward (I was 6 weeks at the time) my goal was to get to the olive stage. I wanted my babies to be the size of olives. At 9 weeks, I turned to my husband and said gleefully “they’re olives!”. At 9w1d the bleeding started. And today the doctor will deliver my little olives. All I can hope is that the rest of the dream was right as well – a baby will come later.

Each day has been worse than the last. Yesterday, upon receiving flowers, I realized a little bit more that it's over. Today, when unable to drink or eat all morning in preparation, I realize a bit more still. And tomorrow, I won't be able to cup my belly and talk to those little beings inside. They might not hear me now, but I know they're there and I can tell them how loved they are. Tonight they will be far from my body. Removed by force and placed not into my arms, but into a receptacle marked "waste". There aren't any other options really, they're only 2cm each. It's not appropriate to bury your children in a shoebox in the backyard...but is it appropriate to let some man take them away? They are my babies. They were tiny and helpless and they died, but they had faces and fingers and hearts - can they really just be disposed of? How can I just go to sleep and wake up with them in another room, in a bag, on their way to a disposal facility? What kind of a mother am I if I let that happen?

Am I a mother? At what point are you entered into that club? Do you have to kiss your babies' foreheads? Do you have to rock them to sleep? Did you have to feel a tickle in your belly - movement, a kick - to be a mom? I will go through a birth of sorts. I will be asleep (and so will my babies) and the doctors will take them from me, but they will still pass from my womb, through my cervix and out into the world - is that not giving birth? Can I call myself a mother when all I have to show for it are a few printouts from a scan and two lines on a stick?

I know it's illogical, I know it's not possible, but it seems so cruel to take them from me. I know they've died and I know I'll never hold them in my arms, but can't I hold them in my belly? Can't I keep them with me where I know they'll be safe? My husband and I tried so hard to make those babies and now they're going to be taken away from me? It doesn't seem right. It seems like they need me as much as I need them.

This was not how this was supposed to be. This is not right and it isn't fair. All I wanted was to be a mother. But I guess if being a mother just means loving your children with every ounce of your being, well, then I am a mother. And I will be a mother again.

***

I don't remember feeling hope on that day, but clearly, in that last line I did. Last year, however, on the anniversary I was virtually without optimism, without hope - we'd recently learned of our MFI diagnosis and the further difficulties we'd have to face. Last year this day passed as a painful reminder of what we'd lost and weren't sure we'd ever attain again. And so today I am thankful; thankful that 11 days ago my eggs and my husband's sperm met again. That 6 days ago we transferred the beginnings of life back to the womb that was scraped clean 2 years ago. That today I have hope.

In Jenny McCarthy's new book she mentions that when she wants someone to make the right choice she sometimes prays to their guardian angels to point them down her chosen path. And I knew, in that moment, that if these tiny clumps of cells in my uterus have anyone watching over them, they have their lost siblings. And so I asked my twins to help point these new souls on my chosen path. To me.

Two years later and I still miss my babies. I'm still without toes to tickle and hands to hold. But this day, two years later, I have one thing. I have hope.

delightfully tacky

2008-10-07T17:09:00.000-07:00

As I'm nearing the end of my second IVF cycle (and have suffered through more than 30 2ww in total) I feel as though I'm qualified to give a bit of advice:

If, when showering, you remark on how your stomach really looks pregnant, that the bloat is still so pronounced you could easily be parking in the expectant mothers spots...

If, after putting on scrubs, you notice that your ass has expanded so incredibly during the past few months that you're suffering a visible panty line in SCRUBS...

If, while noticing your visible panty line, you also see that your ass seems to have gotten not just wider but also markedly saggier during the months of drugs and comfort food...

If you find yourself continually picking and popping the zits that march across your jaw line more faithfully than penguins march to the sea and back...

If you're on that godforsaken PCOS diet with a husband tisk tisking over your shoulder every time you even think about picking up a cookie (while he dines on a baked potato, the rat bastard)...

If all of the above is true and you find yourself with a craving for hot wings (and are proud because while fat-tastic naked wings are carb-free and therefore on the PCOS Diet According to Amber) DO NOT under any circumstances walk your giant, seemingly pregnant belly, your fat panty-lined and saggy ass and your pockmarked and mountainous chin into Hooters to satisfy your craving.

All the wings in the world won't fix that hurt. Not when served by tight, taut, tall tits in tank tops.

petri v. me

2008-10-06T11:34:00.000-07:00

My heart ran away with my brains this past week.

Everything had been going so wonderfully, so *differently* from IVF #1. More than twice as many mature eggs retrieved, almost 3 times as many fertilized. Great fert reports, day after day after day. A 5 day transfer of 2 beautiful blasts, one of which was already beginning to hatch (and the other on which we performed assisted hatching).

The day prior to transfer we still had 5 morulas and multiple 12 and 10 cell embryos. We did some (admittedly very hopeful) math and figured we were certain to get some snowbabies out of the deal. We were a little surprised to learn on the day of transfer that they only expected one of our remaining blasts to make it into the freezer, but remained blindly optimistic that a few more might pull together and make the big chill.

When they didn't call yesterday with the frostie report I started to get a little nervous. And my fears were confirmed when this morning I learned that none of our original 11 embryos made it to the freeze.

In many ways this is no tragedy. I can't imagine we'd consider an FET with only one embryo anyway, and seeing as we'd paid for 2 fresh cycles in advance, we'd planned on doing another fresh first regardless. And yet, today, after this news, I feel fear and doubt and grief for the first time this cycle.

All I can wonder is how, if the embryos we left behind in the perfectly controlled lab were unable to survive, how will the 2 we have in my tempermental uterus have a fighting chance? We started with 12 and are down to 2. That's not a very good survival rate. I'm finding it difficult to put faith in our questionable DNA and my faulty organs.

I just don't know if they can turn this game around.

battle scars

2008-10-03T13:52:00.001-07:00

"All the change anyone ever needs is a good haircut." - a wise ex-boyfriend

Three weeks after I lost my twins (two years ago this month) I decided I needed a change and since I was barely able to drag myself off the couch, a haircut was as far as I could go. I had to ask around for recommendations as I hadn't been anywhere more exotic than SuperCuts in years. But before I knew it I was sat in a chair, looking at my still-tear-stained face in the mirror in front of me as a heavily tattooed man ran his fingers through my long, shapeless hair.

"Do whatever you want. I don't care. I just need a change." I don't think he or the colorist were expecting such a blank slate. They looked, they fluffed, they remarked that my "virgin" undyed hair could be donated to Locks of Love and eventually they settled on a short, asymmetrical bob with caramel highlights.

The colorist, not surprisingly was hugely pregnant. Even after telling her I'd just had a miscarriage she proceeded to talk for our hour about the shock of finding herself pregnant, the pains of carrying such a load, the difficulties of securing maternity insurance once you're already in a maternal mode. She didn't seem to understand that the discussion might not be comfortable for me, but then I didn't give her any such indications. I considered it a test - a dry-run for my re-entry to the real (and often knocked up) world. I passed the exam, but wondered if I was better for it.

When the color was done and I was sat again before Branden, my uber masculine punk-rock stylist, I reiterated that I was his to do whatever. "A change. I just need a change. A really big change." Curious, as anyone would be, he asked what precipitated the cut, to which I simply responded "I was pregnant with twins but now I'm not." I expected to hear platitudes or maybe a simple sorry, any one of the cliches I'd already learned to dread. Or perhaps this macho man would simply grunt and turn away. But he didn't. All he said was "that makes me really sad". And I could tell it did. Of all the responses I received to my devastating news, that one remains firmly ingrained in my mind as one of the kindest, most honest and simple. My loyalty to Branden hasn't waivered since.

When I went for a cut the month before last it was clear that Branden wasn't himself. He confessed that the night before was one of the worst of his life, but didn't initially elaborate. But as my style came together he came clean: the night before his wife confessed infidelity. He couldn't get past it. He was getting a divorce. I was shocked and so so sad - he was such a good man and so clearly devoted to his wife and his role as husband. I tried to support him, to offer him the comfort he'd offered me, but I don't know how I did. I thought of him a lot in the next few weeks, wondering why such decent people sometimes face such indecent situations.

This week I went to see Branden again for a much needed cut and color. It was obvious that we needed to address how things were going for him, so after the initial niceties he opened up. He'd found himself an apartment and a roommate. She'd kept the dogs but he visited them once in awhile. He realized that they'd been growing apart but had just been too hopeful and in love to acknowledge it. It was hard but he was doing ok. And then he said "can you imagine your life without your husband?" I couldn't stop (or rather, I didn't stop) and blurted out "sometimes I try to!" in a snarky tone. It's the kind of thing people say, isn't it? Making light of a situation that is nothing but heavy. In the next hour I made several more similar comments, mindless chatter about the joys of single life. He didn't react, stayed upbeat, but when I left that afternoon I felt terrible. I'd just done to this man what so many had done to me. I'd taken his loss and simplified it, even glamorized it, when I knew how painful it must be.

I'm ashamed of myself, of my reaction to one of the few who reacted kindly to me after my loss. I want to apologize but don't want to dramatize. But mostly I know I need to realize that infertiles aren't the only ones in pain. Miscarriage survivors aren't the only one who deal with insensitive comments by plastering a smile on their face while their heart melts beneath their chest. We're all fighting our internal battles and they're all hard. And if I expect compassion while I'm in my own trenches I must project the same sensitivity when being trusted to tend to others' war wounds.

I've been scarred and beaten so many times by so many thoughtless people. I cannot be one of them. Not again.

*****

In much MUCH happier news, tomorrow morning I will pop a valium and at 7:30am have my feet in the stirrups as our embryos are sent home. They've been doing so well outside my body, I can only hope that my unreliable incubator finally steps up to the task and finishes what the petri dish started. We'll transfer 2 (assuming things go as predicted) big, beautiful blasts and hope against hope that some of the remainders will be headed to the icebox. As of today we've still got 10 of our 11 embies growing - 5 at morula stage, 2 12-cells, and one each at 10, 9 and 8 cells. They've worked so hard already, growing, dividing, growing and I'm proud of them. Now it's my turn to give them a hand. I just hope my ol' ute is up to the task.

the good, the bad, the ugly

2008-10-01T15:27:00.000-07:00

The good:
Of those 12 beautiful little eggs that were retrieved, all 12 were mature and 11 fertilized with ICSI! I cannot tell you how thrilling this is to a couple whose first IVF fert report found us with 9 retrieved, 5 mature and 4 fertilized. And the good keeps getting, um, "gooder". As of today all 11 are still growing and dividing: 1 5-cell, 6 4-cell, 2 3-cell and 2 2-cell! Usually I'm all for unity but in this case, DIVIDE, baby! DIVIDE! Assuming there isn't mass cellular mutiny in the next 12 hours we're looking at a 5 day transfer on Saturday. For the very first time, this afternoon I thought of those photos of expanding blasts that some women show off after transfer - and I imagined them to be mine. It never occurred to me until now that those could be *our* embryos; healthy, dividing, numerous embryos. But I'm starting to hope - to reasonably hope - that they will be.

The bad:
For some reason I expected to feel myself again after ER. I expected the bloat to subside, my energy to soar, my brain cells to flourish. Afterall, with IVF #1 I was pretty much a-ok within 24 hours. But then with IVF #1 my post-retrieval cocktail included: Crinone 1xday. Not much of a cocktail, really. More of a slimey, discharge-y scotch on the rocks, hold the rocks. This cycle, on the other hand, the cocktail includes: PIO, progesterone suppositories, 3 estrogen patches swapped out every 3 days, Zithromax, Methylprednisolone, baby aspirin (cherry flavored - yum!), Metformin and the 7 other pills I take daily. Not so much a "cocktail" as a garbage can punch served at a frat party. And most of the time I feel like I've been drinking said punch. A lot of it.

The ugly:
Me. And not just the bloat and the PIO targets drawn in Sharpie on my ass. No, the ugly is more a state of mind. And unfortunately, this state of mind has been unleashed more on my darling husband than anyone else. I might be sitting peacefully, thinking delightful thoughts about what a caring, kind man I have, but if at that moment he walks into the room my mouth takes over, erupting and shouting about one thing or another. And just like PMS, regardless of my ability to acknowledge my cruelty and to apologize incessantly, I am completely powerless to stop. Thankfully this good, kind man is understanding, even soothing while I rage - always understanding and patient. The bastard.

adding it up

2008-09-29T11:07:00.000-07:00

OvCon50 uber-BCPs x 6 weeks = impatient woman

((75 Menopur + 225 Gonal F)x 3 days) + ((150 Menopur + 300 Gonal F) x 8 days) + (Ganirellex x 4 days) = sore abdomen and wild mood swings

5 ultrasounds + 5 blood draws = 13 mature follicles

10,000 units HCG + sub-cutaneous injection = relieved husband, happy ass

1 valium 10mg x back rubs in bed = best night's sleep ever

hospital gown + cap + booties + PIO targets drawn in Sharpie on ass cheeks = sex symbol

good anesthesiologist x not waking mid-surgery = grateful patient

(awesome nurses + fantastic doctor) x modern science = 12 eggs retrieved

(Progesterone + oil) x big f'ing needle = much much whining

2 pound kitten + post-anesthesia nap on the couch = happy, sleepy morning

and

All previous tallies + hope + optimism + luck = a lifetime of love with children of our own

must. eat. brains.

2008-09-26T13:52:00.000-07:00

Because that's the only chance I have of having enough brain cells to put together a complete sentence while I'm in this state.

With IVF #1 I had virtually no side effects from stimming. Sure I had weeks of constant, pounding Lupron headaches (and hours of whimpering and whining to go with them) but once I was suppressed and the cycle got rolling I felt pretty darn ok. I'd hear girls complain about bloat, tenderness, mood swings and I thought they were wimps. I was bloated and moody too, but I wasn't begging for my eggs to be sucked out at any cost. But I have come to learn that that's because I never experienced the bloating and moodiness. Not really.

But today, with 15 follicles and 9 nearing maturity and an E2 of 2100(ish) I'm starting to get it. I'm a moody girl in the best of times (my husband is so lucky) but even I don't ordinarily spend an entire evening sobbing because I feel "wrong". And I'm a lazy lazy woman, but even I can usually manage to...I don't know, *do stuff*. And I like to think that I generally have half a brain, often capable of unique and complete thought, but as that last sentence illustrates all blood flow seems to have been re-routed from my brain stem to my ovaries. (No, seriously: in this morning's ultrasound the screen suddenly started pulsing as she focused on my left ovary. As we sat watching blood rush to my ovaries, a rhythmic thumping perfectly in line with my heartbeat, she pointed out a very large artery feeding my ovary: one that's not usually so obvious. I suggested that she try to refrain from nicking it during retrieval and she concurred. Although it would be nice, for once, to have an explanation for the random luteal phase bleeding I expect to experience.)

My next appointment is tomorrow morning, assuming that I can shove off my exhaustion enough to drag myself out of bed. I'll be in the stirrups at 7:30am for (hopefully) one last time, assuming I still have the intelligence to remember which pedal is gas and which is brake. And if things go as expected I will do my first of many intramuscular injections tomorrow evening, as we finally trigger for IVF #2. That is, assuming that I don't retain so much fluid overnight that it overflows from my gut and into my backside; the inch and a half needle unable to penetrate the muscle, never making it past the retained water in my fat, flabby ass.

The time has almost come. I'm ready to be done. I'm fat, sore, tired and stupid. But I'm happy - really very happy.

testing...testing

2008-09-24T15:42:00.000-07:00

*tap tap*
Is this thing on?

Modern life is amazing - lights that turn on when switches are flipped, a TV free from improvised rabbit ears and no need to desperately search for rogue wi-fi signals in the backyard. Hurricane's over, folks. Nothing to see here.

We got our power back on Saturday after exactly one week of darkness. I feel so fortunate to have had it restored before the cool front left town, and feel such empathy for those who weren't so lucky. We were without cable and internet until, oh, about 25 minutes ago, and honestly the lack of TV was a nice way to ease back into the everyday. I was a lucky girl when it came to this hurricane. I've got nothing to complain about. I just wish the rest of the area could say the same.

IVF #2 is rolling right along, although more slowly than anticipated. On our first attempt I triggered on my 8th day of stims. Today is day 9 and we've got a good few days left in us. There are subtle signs, however, that the drugs are working. When I burst into tears at the sight of a convoy of electric trucks from Jersey I suspected that the hormones were kicking into gear. When I nearly punched out a family friend who suggested I had missed a couple of get-togethers last year - that was a sign. Taking my husband in a deep embrace as he sung a little song about how much he loves me...and then screaming at him for hugging too hard - thankfully I've got the drugs to blame it on. Toss in the sore belly, now being poked thrice daily, and the bloat which leaves semi-permanent impressions of my jeans on my gut. Yes, things are in full swing.

My follicles are less impressive than my bruises, though; we measured 9 today between 11mm and 17mm. Truly it's about what I expected, but my hopes? Well, they hoped for a bit more. But don't we always? I'm feeling relatively optimistic, though and have no doubt that my cycle is being managed with great expertise and care. I trust my doctor - a new experience for me - and didn't even *ask* for my E2 today. Progress. Definite progress.

My next (and fourth) stim check is Friday morning. I hope to report a sudden surge in glorious follicles, and I hope to do it in a far more interesting post than the one I've offered today. I swear, the fluid from my brain has gone straight to my uterus.

quiet

2008-09-19T21:32:00.000-07:00

Growing up we never had much money. My parents were divorced – my dad a mailman and my mom a full-time student and bartender. We lived on quite a strict budget and saved wherever we could: I remember a school year when our household income qualified me for free cartons of milk at lunch – they were a nickel for the rest of my class.

For the lack of resources, however, we were never made to feel poor. Christmas was always a boisterous time with plentiful presents and birthdays were always greeted with large slumber parties. And each summer my mother would be sure that my brother and I had two vacations – she was always determined to provide experiences that would be the grounds for fond, lasting memories. We never went to Disneyland, never even left the state on our two trips. Rather we would spend a week each at Yogi Bear’s Jellystone Park and River Bend, a posh campground to which a friend held a membership.

My brother and I do have wonderful, everlasting memories of those annual camping trips. We’d shop for piles of junk food in the days prior, stocking up on Olde Tyme sodas (grape, cherry, cream soda) and Little Debbies. We would pack the family’s Dodge Colt so full of camping gear that we (and our one friend each) would be forced to squeeze into any space remaining for the hour-long trip to Yogi Bear’s. On our arrival, after scouring the grounds for the best site (each of us having different priorities: my mom to be close to the bathrooms, me to be near the pool and activity center, my brother hoping to find a spot secluded from the other campers) we would set up our tents and exhale. Over the next week we would do much (swimming, hula hoop contests, and near-miss first kisses) and nothing at all (read books, eat crap, go to bed early and get up with the sun).

This past week has been much like that – the anticipation of the hurricane, stocking up on junk food and non-perishables. The excitement of the storm and the calm in the aftermath. We had days in the same clothes (with no water to wash them) and spent time helping neighbors. We’ve eaten much food of little nutritional value and all cooked over an open flame. I’ve read 4 books, so far, by the thin light of a flashlight. In many ways this week without power (still without power) has been a lot like camping. But in some ways not so much.

I had been instructed on Friday to begin the meds for IVF #2 on Tuesday. We were expecting the storm, but didn’t really comprehend what would be left behind. I thought we’d be out of power until Monday, maybe Tuesday, but never did I imagine the estimates of 2-4 weeks. Once the full news of the outages reached us (over the radio) I just assumed that we’d be canceling the cycle, refilling my BCPs and hurrying up and waiting for another month. You can’t imagine my shock when the message came through: start stims as planned on Tuesday.

It’s a strange position to be in, hearing of so much devastation just 50 miles away (while being thankful for our own good fortune) and still being concerned about advanced reproductive therapy. To sit on the floor in my dark house, mixing vials and giving injections, prepping my ovaries for an elective procedure while others worry about finding gas, ice, food. This is not how I expected this cycle to go – how could I have predicted this? – but I think it’s working in my favor.
Having rare access to the internet means I’ve been unable to obsess about dosing instructions and my E2. I’ve been unable to compare my progress to friends and fellow bloggers. My poor husband has been subjected to my ponderings as to how the cycle is going, unable to provide insight, knowing he is just a sounding board to replace my usual network of overly informed IVFers. But it’s meant that I’ve had to trust my doctor, go with the flow and wait and see. A good thing, no doubt.

But now that I sit with access to the web for a moment, I will no doubt be frantically searching for others with low E2 (92 after 3 days of stims and an estrogen patch) and pathetic follie scan (8, all measuring under 6mm). I will look for stories of girls who reacted more slowly to a higher dose of meds than a previous cycle and will scour for the truth behind the rumor that “a slow stim is always better”. But before I have time to collect enough tales of similar cycles to calm my frayed nerves I will be back home, in our warm, dark house, far from the community of women who understand.

I will take my increased dose of meds (150iu of Menopur and 300 of Gonal F), pick up the flashlight and curl into bed with another mindless book, my thoughts slipping away from my ovaries once again. Until Monday when I am again pulled from the relative primitive life of our “camp” and thrust back into the modern world – another date with the butterfly needle and the vag cam and another missed opportunity to obsess as I ordinarily would. Unless, of course, we have power by then. In which case I’ll be right back here, desperate for you all comfort me and assure me that this cycle is going just fine.

yIKEs

2008-09-12T06:52:00.000-07:00

Looks like after 12 years of life in Houston I am about to experience my first hurricane. We've got chips and donuts, canned peaches and gatorade. We squeezed both cars in the garage and dragged in all our patio furniture. We're staying put as advised and hoping for the best. It's odd - watching TV we know what is to come, but it's bright and sunny and hot outside. Everything we're seeing tells us to hunker down, but there's just no need. Yet. Like 6 weeks of birth control before IVF, it's all anti-climactic waiting for now.

I felt guilty when I called the nurse yesterday, asking what the plan was. An enormous hurricane is heading right for us, no doubt people have bigger things on their plate than my vagina. But she was a step ahead of me; already figuring out with to do with her IVFers. Next thing I knew I was on the table, vag-cam firmly in place. The ol' ovaries looked good and so, assuming power has returned, I will start stims on Tuesday. My uterus waits for no storm!

I expect that we'll be just fine (although if winds are as forceful as predicted our roof might not be - I don't have much faith in the two old, dying trees in our backyard). We live pretty far inland. If things go as planned we'll be in the neighborhood bar tomorrow evening, drinking a lukewarm beer by flashlight. I don't doubt that power will be out, probably for days, but the neighbor has a generator and we've already got the ok to store our meds in his fridge. (Priorities, right?) I'll update when I can, but until then I'll be on the hunt for Anderson Cooper. I mean, I might be infertile (and married) but I'm not dead!

mind over matter

2008-09-10T13:41:00.000-07:00

When I was 9 years old I decided to stop being ticklish. My brother used to mock me for having so little self-control when I would collapse in fits of giggles at the slightest touch. My brother spent most of his waking hours making fun of me for one thing or another and I usually didn't take it to heart. But his suggestion that I was weak-willed hit home and I vowed to stop being ticklish. The next time hands reached for me, fingers wiggling under my neck or behind my knees, I breathed deeply and deliberately, forcing myself to remain calm. I didn't twitch or smile until the tickler reached for my feet, at which point I fell into a heap, laughing my little belly laugh. I wasn't deterred, though, and before long I was no longer ticklish. Even those who claimed their nimble fingers could bring laughter from a stone failed. I was not weak-willed. I was powerful. I was in control.

I was an avid cook from a very young age. Many of my culinary experiments were great failures ("fried meringue" anyone?) but I was determined. The only thing I enjoyed more than cooking was eating - my own creations and others'. When my mom would make a whole chicken she would pull that paper bag from the cavity and extract the livers from it. Two tiny pieces of creamy, fatty, deliciousness. As the chicken baked she would fry those livers in a small pan, salt and pepper them, and moments later she and I would each devour one. One little packet for each of us - the best part of the chicken. I was very much a carnivore and would eat any meat product offered to me. Lamb, smelt (little smoked fishes with their heads still attached), even sweetbreads. I loved them all. On New Years Eve when I was 15 years old I decided I needed a resolution. Not some vague utterance about being a better student or a nicer person. Something concrete. So without any premeditation I decided I would become a vegetarian. It wasn't an effort to save animals (although I was already an intense lover of all things furry) or even to be in vogue with my angst-ridden teenaged friends. Rather I decided to give up something I loved wholeheartedly, just to see if I could do it.

I loved to fly when I was young - after my 1st flight (to California with my aunt in 3rd grade) I announced that I was going to become a flight attendant. (I've never been particularly ambitious in my career aspirations and knew even then that pilot was beyond my lazy reach.) I often claimed that the flight was the best part of a vacation - 3 hours of sitting under a blanket while eating miniature food was an excellent way to pass the time. And then, on Wednesday, July 17th, 1996 I sat in my room and watched on TV as the pieces of TWA flight 800 burned on the surface of the ocean. I had a flight booked for a few days later and suddenly I was dreading it. From that moment on I was terrified of flying, needing a sedative just to approach the tarmac. And yet, 6 years ago I drove myself and my (now)husband 40 miles to an open field with a long runway. We watched a video about falling through the air and mimed jumping out of the plane. Within a few hours I was sitting on a tiny, terrifying propeller plane next to the open door as the world got smaller beneath us. I had no desire to sit on that airplane and even less to jump out of it. But I needed to know that I could - that I was bigger than my fears. And I was. Twice.

I don't think of myself as a controlling person. I don't feel as though I manipulate those around me to fit into my own plans. And yet as the stories above illustrate it is clear that I yearn for the knowledge that my future is in my own hands. I know that I am strong and I know that I am capable. I know that I can trust *me* to do whatever it is that needs to be done. And if I fail or make mistakes I am comforted in knowing that the mistakes, too, are my own responsibility. So to hand over that power to someone whose own strength I have not tested is enormously challenging.

As you probably know, because I can't shut up about it, I am scheduled to start stims on Monday. (That is, if my ute can keep it together for 2 more days and quit with the bleeding already. I'm popping 2 BCPs a night - get the message!) I am so excited for this cycle to get underway and will practically be bouncing on the table as the vag-cam checks my sleepy ovaries. But until that moment when I'm told we're good to go, I will continue to stress about my protocol...or lack thereof.

You see, I have never cycled with this RE before. She has my history from our failed IVF (and all the records from the myriad of doctors I've visited on this journey) but her first-hand knowledge of my reproductive organs is minimal. We decided at our initial consult, based on my poor showing for IVF #1 and the drugs I had available to me, that I would do an antagonist protocol. So I did my research, learned why this was an appropriate choice for me and got an idea of what I might expect. I was armed with the knowledge I'd gained and was ready to move forward. Until last week, while signing the consents, when the IVF coordinator dropped the "C" word. No, she didn't call me or my c*nt a c*nt. Rather she pointed at the calendar and said "this is when you'll start taking the Clomid".

What? Clomid? On IVF? When I have a giant box of Gonal-F and Menopur - probably 2 cycles' worth - sitting in my kitchen? Why, why in god's name would I take Clomid? The nurse was sweet and did her best to explain that a Clomid "boost" before the injectibles works well for some poor-responders. Improving quality as well as quantity. But she couldn't tell me why, couldn't tell me how they'd come to this conclusion. Had she suggested any other protocol I probably would've been fine - I've *heard* of all those! But putting me on a med combo that I was not only unfamiliar with, but thus far unsuccessful in attempts to research has sent me into a tailspin. And the later decision that we wouldn't actually determine whether or not to use the Clomid until *after* my baseline on Monday morning has me in a total tizzy.

I don't like my inability to control my fertility, but a lack of control over my body is something I've gotten pretty used to. But this inability to prepare, either with knowledge or advanced planning, is giving me heart palpitations. I want to know what we'll be doing and I want to know why. And I don't want to wait until hours before I pop the pill (or not) to find out! But for the time being I have to keep quiet and keep sane. I need to learn to let go and trust in the professionals I have paid to take care of me. I have to look at her success rates and remember that those 65% of IVF cyclers who became parents last year did not decide their own protocols.

I realized at some point that being ticklish isn't a bad thing. Losing yourself in laughter as your loved ones grin over you is something to be relished. But it's too late for me - I'm no longer ticklish. I also learned that I *could* say no to the meat I craved, and I did for 8 long years. But one day I learned it was ok to say yes, too. And that was the best damn burger I'd ever eaten - up until the one I had the next day, and the next. I have to keep reminding myself that sometimes it's ok to let go, to accept that I'm not always in charge, even of myself.

And I need to learn that maybe I shouldn't jump out of a plane prove to myself that I am in control. I should jump because free-falling is an amazing ride.

a little patience

2008-09-05T10:31:00.001-07:00

I cannot wait until next Thursday when I pop my last birth control pill (hopefully for a very long time). 6 straight weeks of BCPs and I'm ready to get rid of the acne and the bloat.

I cannot wait until the following Monday when I start stims - even if those "stims" will inititally be (the confusing and anti-climactic) Clomid. Clomid that will no doubt bring about acne and bloat.

I cannot wait until 4 days later when I start real stims - hamster ovaries and nun pee, straight to my abdomen.

I cannot wait until I hear that our big, plump and numerous follicles are ready to trigger - not because one runaway is threatening to ruin it for everyone, but because they are all mature and ready to make babies.

I cannot wait until I'm bent over the kitchen counter, my husband standing behind me with that inch and a half needle aimed right for my ass.

I cannot wait until I wake up from anesthesia to hear how many beautiful, textbook quality eggs were retreived. And I can't wait for the long day of napping and gatorade that will follow.

I cannot wait until the phonecall that tells me how many fertilized, how they're growing and that we're definitely doing a 5 day transfer.

I cannot wait until the moment when my husband stands at my side, grasping my hand as we watch on the ultrasound screen as our babies are sent home.

I cannot wait until I am waited on hand and foot. We wouldn't want to upset any precious embryos with chores or cooking. And just to be sure they're feeling safe and sound, their daddy will caress my bruised abdomen and tell them through layers of fat (and bloat) how much he loves them.

I cannot wait until I experience an entire 14 day luteal phase without a single smear of blood, for the first time ever.

I cannot wait until the phone call that changes our life - for the good - and tells us that maybe this time we will finally become parents. Even if it does mean another 2 months of shots in the butt.

I cannot wait until we see our baby(s), bright and healthy, on the ultrasound screen for the first time.

I cannot wait until I use the doppler on my own belly, in my own home with my husband at my side and hear the woosh-woosh-woosh of life growing inside.

I cannot wait to watch the trimesters fall behind me as my belly grows big and healthy before me.

I cannot wait until we learn if we're having boy(s) or girl(s) and to watch my future change before my very eyes to adjust to this new reality of our growing family.

I cannot wait until I feel flutters, pinches, kicks and rolls from inside, knowing their personalities before anyone else can even imagine who they are. Until my husband, too, can feel them; know them.

I cannot wait until I'm struggling in my own labor, learning that things don't always go as planned (but sometimes do). My man will be at my side, comforting, coaching in a way that only he can.

I cannot wait to hear that first scream as a wet, bloody and very confused new person is brought into this big world.

I cannot wait to meet my child(ren), placed squirming and pink on my chest after my husband cuts the cord connecting them to me.

I cannot wait to get home and wonder what in god's name we've done and how we're possibly going to do this. And then we'll do it, day in and day out, better and better as it gets easier (and sometimes harder).

I cannot wait until milestones are reached: they'll smile and roll over and sit and stand.

I cannot wait until reaching hands and tiny fingers torture the cats. I can't wait...but the cats can.

I cannot wait until I hear my name - the only name I've ever known in my heart - spoken by my baby. Mommy.

I cannot wait for first days of daycare, first days of school, first loose teeth, first friends, first fights.

I cannot wait to watch them grow bigger, grow up, grow away from me as they become their own individual selves. Selves who sometimes just need their mom.

I cannot wait to to live all the moments I've been imaginging my whole life. And to experience all the experiences that I never could've known were to come.

I cannot wait for any of it. But I will. I'll wait as long as it takes.

children's children

2008-09-02T14:18:00.000-07:00

1/3 of American girls become pregnant before the age of 20. Should I repeat that? One-third, one out of three, thirty-three percent, of American girls become pregnant before the age of 20.

Or so says Barbara Walters in response to the announcement of 17 year old Bristol Palin's pregnancy. (Yes, in addition to watching Regis and Kelly, I believe I may have just outed myself as a viewer of The View.) I know that many an infertile's reaction to the announcement of yet another oops! pregnancy is bitterness. Jealousy. We might find ourselves pleading with the universe, begging for an answer as to why they get pregnant and we don't. I have been there. I still do that. But this time that is not my reaction.

As an exceptionally liberal liberal, one who has developed a serious aversion to the pick of Palin for V.P., my immediate reaction might've been glee. Upon sharing the news I could tell my mother expected me to lick my lips at the scandal. My husband, who has been surprised by my violent reaction to Palin's candidacy, assumed I would rant about the hypocrisy of a champion for abstinence-only education finding herself a 44 year old grandmother. But I didn't experience this revelation as a liberal, but rather as a woman. My gut reaction was simple sadness at the official statement that the parents-to-be will be married.

An unintended teenage pregnancy can be, I imagine, a devastating, scary event for the family. And I understand the desire when faced with a personal tragedy to do everything you can to Make Things Better. In some situations that might mean an abortion and in other, more right-wing families they Make Things Better with the sound of shotguns ringing in the air...er, I mean, wedding bells.

I can understand a girl, a child, who thinks that Johnny No-Condom will make a wonderful husband - I mean, he *always* texts when he gets home! - and I can relate to her dreams of an (off-)white wedding and blissful family days to come. But what I cannot understand is the parent who condones these childish delusions. More likely than not, the parents have had their doubts about this boy from the start. They don't like that he beeps from the driveway instead of ringing the doorbell. They aren't sure about all those text-messages - isn't it too soon to be *so* swept up in each other? They probably haven't trusted this boy to bring their daughter home by curfew, but now they trust him to hold her beating heart in his palm? Now they ask him to help raise their grandchild, when days prior they wouldn't have allowed him to pet sit their dog? I understand the need to fix things, but I wonder just how many things, how many hearts, how many people will be broken as a result of this "fix". And I worry that Bristol, like so many other young mothers, will feel herself and her life speeding past her, without her control, on a crash-course with a future she never intended.

Upon blowing out the candles on my 20th birthday cake I exclaimed that I officially would never be a teenage mother. It was a joke, of course. Mostly. I didn't even lose my virginity until I was in college and officially legal and I went on birth control immediately thereafter. At 20 I'd still only slept with one boy and he was so concerned about knocking me up that we often tripled up on protection - pill, condoms and spermicide. But I'd known of so many unwelcome surprises (I *was* an unwelcome surprise!) that I assumed the same fate would befall me.

When my brother, at 21, found himself an unexpected father to a very unexpected pregnancy I couldn't help but try to picture myself in his place. He loved his son, as did his girlfriend, but it was clear that this was not a path they would have chosen for themselves. They fought through those early days together and now work separately to give him a stable(ish) home. They've done their best and it's been enough, but it wasn't what any of them wanted. I look at my nephew today, at almost 11 years old and am proud of the smart, feisty boy he's become, but I cannot for a moment imagine him to be mine.

I might not have chosen the path I currently walk, had I been given the chance. I wouldn't have asked for the waiting, the heartache, the loss. But if I'm honest, I wouldn't have traded it for the alternative. I am glad that I didn't drop my 10 year old off at school this morning. I am thankful that I haven't spent the last decade wondering how I would provide for myself and my child. I would've loved my baby and I would've done my best, but I don't know that my best would've been enough.

Infertility might hold my heart in a vice-like grip, forcing me to grow in ways that I never expected and wasn't prepared for. It's battered and bruised me. Teenage motherhood would have beaten me just as thoroughly, however it's pushes and punches would've fallen not just in my gut, but in my child's. And I'm so thankful that I'm the only one taking the beating.

repeat

2008-08-30T13:40:00.000-07:00

I feel sometimes as though I've been woken from a comfortable slumber by a shimmering man in chains: The Ghost of Pregnancy Past. Throughout the year he wakes me and pulls me from memory to memory, hope to hope, reminding me of a world that could've been. There are times that I willingly accompany him on this journey; witnessing the seemingly unattainable becomes a welcome substitute for the real thing. But much of the time I'd rather stay in bed than relive haunting reminders of life lost.

*

To most people January might be a rebirth, new year, new you. I make the resolutions with everyone else and try to shake off the Christmas decadence, but January has a secondary identity for me. I can't help but think of that 1/1/08 due date I had with my last chemical pregnancy. I don't know what my EDDs would've been with my other chemicals - the positives weren't positive long enough for even the idle daydreams of deliveries to come.

In April I watch my husband as he pushes himself in his last few weeks of training for his annual 150 mile bike ride. I drive him to the start and pick him up at the end, cheering him along in the day in between. But I also recall how I once announced a pregnancy to him on the drive home as he "found" a positive pee stick in my purse. He was exhausted from the ride but couldn't contain how excited he was to be given another chance.

May sees my birthday roll around again, with Mother's Day hot on it's heels (or as in the case of this year, right on top). I "celebrate" Mother's Day as so many of us do, trying to recognize our own mothers while doing our best to stop from drowning in the reminders of our own empty nests. And a few days after Mother's Day, on May 14th, I think of what would've been had my twin pregnancy turned out differently. I watch friends celebrate their children's birthdays and imagine our own celebrations, which would've had the same number of candles on the brightly colored cake. And when May next approaches I imagine I'll remember the bewilderment I felt upon learning that our first IVF attempt had failed spectacularly.

September brings reminders of an entire month in which I was pregnant. Ultrasounds with beating hearts and bleeding scares. October finds us with Trick-or-Treaters knocking on our doors, but the true frights come on the 10th and 12th - the anniversaries of my m/c and d&c. November brings another chemical reminder.

And today, August 31st, is the 2 year anniversary of my first positive test with my twins. It was 10dpo and I was bleeding profusely but my obsession forced me to pee on another stick. After what appeared to be a faint positive I drove all over town, shaking from nerves, and bought test after test. Dollar Tree and FRER, Accu-Clear and CBE. Digitals were purchased but not used until the double lines were dark enough to assure that I wouldn't be faced with the dreaded "NOT PREGNANT". I showed my husband a picture of the first test when he came home from work that evening and asked him if he saw a line. He did, I confessed it was *my* line and he suggested that a bag of "celebratory Cheetos" were in order. I was pregnant.

*

This anniversary combined with the impending IVF cycle is, I think, what brings morose thoughts to my mind these days. Overlapping past feelings of elation and bounty with fears of failure, both immediate and ultimate.

I don't recall how I experienced this anniversary last year - perhaps the date passed without notice. I realize that I am now holding tight to these dates, keeping them closer to my heart than may be safe. And I wonder if it's my grip on them that prevents me from experiencing a full life. I know I cannot live in the past, cannot keep experiencing the same repeating cycle of hope and fear and loss. And yet I can't let go. What if this is my only chance at motherhood - what if those were my only babies? Isn't it normal to want to experience them fully, even if only in stained and painful memories?

Do I hold on to what might've been because I am not a mother? Or am I not a mother because I hold so tightly to what might've been? Or is it my tight grasp on the lost that *makes* me a mother?

*

"I'm looking in on the good life I might be doomed never to find." - The Shins

3 moments in smug fertility:

2008-08-27T19:17:00.000-07:00

1. While walking the hall that lead to my OBs office I would pass a door labeled "Houston IVF". I peered through the lead glass door and made note of the lush couches on which a single woman usually sat. On my way to another ultrasound to see my growing twins I thought to myself "well, at least I'll never have to go there." After all, I might've had a rough pregnancy so far and I wasn't placing any bets that I was going to make it out a mom. But I'd gotten knocked up on our 5th month trying! With twins! Obviously we were fertile. Almost 2 years later I was the woman on that very same lush couch. And this was my second RE. Oh the irony.

2. Shortly after my second chemical pregnancy my husband and I had a hypothetical chat about what lengths we'd go to if we found we were *gasp* infertile. I'd began to suspect that maybe I'd need assistance to keep hold of our next pregnancy and was dipping my toes in the emotional waters of Clomid, progesterone suppositories, etc. Eventually the conversation winded to more invasive procedures - procedures we knew we'd never need. I casually asked him if he'd ever consider donor sperm, immediately reassuring him that obviously we'd never need to go there. (I'd been pregnant 3 times now!) And so self-assured was I in my husband's virility that I cannot for the life of me recall what his answer was. 2 years, countless SAs and a failed IVF w/ICSI later the topic is now far too barbed to broach again.

3. When we found out I was expecting twins I was shocked. I had already had 2 ultrasounds showing a single glowing sac, so to suddenly find 2 pumping hearts was overwhelming. "Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh god." I repeated myself endlessly as the ultrasound wand continued to probe. My husband took the news graciously, but I was terrified. Petrified. He felt he'd been rewarded for his struggles in life. I felt I'd been punished. I could see the dreams I'd had of pregnancy, birth and child rearing evaporate before the pulsating screen. The nurse, when mentioning my due date assured me I wouldn't be allowed to go nearly that far. "She'll take them by 36 weeks." And thus my lifelong goal of a natural childbirth was shot. I'd never heard of a mother of twins breastfeeding: another hope dashed. The list went on and on. In those first few hours I couldn't see the gift of twins, just the fears. And so, while getting on the elevator after leaving the appointment, I turned to my husband and said "I wouldn't be too devastated if one of them didn't make it."

Within an hour my fear turned to giddy disbelief. Within 24 I found myself excited about the prospect of mothering multiples. And no later than 48 hours after first seeing those beating hearts I was a mother of twins in my own heart. I loved them both so much, couldn't imagine losing either one of them and repeatedly thanked a god I wasn't certain I believed in for giving them to us. To me. Two souls to love and care for - what a gift.

I've never shared this story, not with anyone. I wonder sometimes if my husband recalls that moment in the elevator. If he thinks less of me for it. If he even remembers. But I will never forget (and likely never forgive) that initial proclamation. "I wouldn't be too devastated if one of them didn't make it." I was smug. I was stupid. I had no comprehension of what devastation could be.

everybody's doing it

2008-08-26T15:10:00.000-07:00

Imagine if you will:

You've been eyeing a new Thing-A-Ma-Bob(tm) for 2 and 1/2 years. Whatever you do, you just can't get that Thing-A-Ma-Bob out of your head. Everyone you know seems to have one (some currently have their second(!) on layaway) and they just absolutely adore them. Owners of Thing-A-Ma-Bobs even belong to special clubs and groups in which only Owners are invited. It seems like these things are just everywhere and you want one too!

Most of your friends made their own TAMB's and they turned out perfectly. You've tried for years but it seems you're just not as crafty as your friends and family. Your Thing-A-Ma-Bob just never turns out how it should (no matter how many "helpful" tips other Owners might pass along). But you can't stop thinking about them.

After a while you start to eye others' TAMBs with trepidation, sometimes telling yourself that maybe you don't really want one anyway. But you can't kid yourself. You're so eager to get in on the fun all the other Owners are having. You're getting desperate.

A friend once confided in hushed tones that she wasn't very crafty either, but she "knew a guy" who could help. So you seek him out, hoping that he might be able to finally get you your TAMB. His shop is small and filled with other people, many looking quietly ashamed that they couldn't make their own Thing-A-Ma-Bob either. You keep your head down. You don't talk.

Your name is finally called and you sit down with a man who might finally be able to make you an Owner. You're elated when he tells you that there's no reason you can't get your own TAMB. He gets people new TAMBs all the time. You're feeling good, your hopes are up. But, he warns you, your path to Ownership? It's not going to be easy - as a matter of fact, it might be somewhat painful - and then there's the little detail of cost.

Yes, most people get their Thing-A-Ma-Bob's for free, but since you couldn't make your own it's going to get a little pricey. He tells you he has no choice but to ask you to hand over 12.8% of your annual income and he'll see what he can do about getting your TAMB ordered. He needs the money up front - 12.8% of your pre-tax income! - and although he's "sure it'll all work out", when you read the fine print you learn that only 65% of his clients actually go home with TAMB in hand. And if you're not in that 65%, well, sorry. No guarantees. No refunds. But you can always place another order next month.

Can you imagine what kind of person would hand over that money - that 12.8% of their salary - with only a 65% guarantee of getting what they paid for? What kind of a state-of-mind must that person be in, to make that leap of faith and give up so much without any promise of ANY return?

And we wonder why the Potential Owner is seriously considering a nervous breakdown.

death, taxes and parenthood?

2008-08-24T08:54:00.000-07:00

"What about Zuma? When we have a baby should we name it Zuma?"

This has been a common refrain in our household since long before we were even married. I hear an unconventional name (or a word that could become an unconventional name: Badger, anyone?) and turn to my husband and suggest that we use it. It's always a joke - obviously, I mean Zuma? We all know I'm not smoking anything that would cause me to think that's a good idea. - but I think subconsciously it's been an attempt to scare the hubby with names so outlandish that my preferred, slightly offbeat monikers will seem tame in comparison. Regardless of our current status we still play this little game on a weekly basis. I haven't even adjusted it to "*if* we have a baby" - not yet willing to vocalize that this whole parenthood thing just might not be in the cards for us. But for awhile now the phrase catches in my throat for a moment. "When we have a baby..." How can I be so sure?

***

I dreamt last night that I was 40 weeks pregnant and in labor. My stomach bulged unnaturally in front of me and on the right side I could feel individual fingers and toes. I brushed my hands along my belly, feeling odd ridges and bumps of knuckles pushing out through my skin. I remember thinking that it was a strange feeling, not entirely pleasant, but that I was determined to experience it to the fullest as I knew I was so lucky that I was in a position to feel it at all. I'd beaten infertility and recurrent miscarriages and was now finally about to deliver a baby. A doctor entered the room to assist in the home-birth I'd requested. He had me lie on the bed but didn't check to see if I was dilated. Rather he produced a scalpel and began to slice away at my full belly. I calmly asked him to stop, told him that I'd like to at least try for a vaginal birth. He shrugged his shoulders, said "to each his own" and put away the knife. For countless hours I labored, feeling uncomfortable but no real pain. Occassionally I checked myself for dilation (the doctor clearly wasn't interested in doing things the old fashioned way) and learned that I was progressing. After hours of seemingly endless labor I found I was finally fully dilated and my baby's head was flush with the opening of my birth canal. Even upon feeling my own child's hair, wet and matted to the top of her head I wasn't frantic or even excited that I had finally reached this point. Even now I didn't quite believe that the baby would ever arrive. Or arrive alive. I knew I needed to push and push I did, but it did little good. I didn't feel any contractions and couldn't time my pushes appropriately. For hours I continued (often on the floor in an empty room) knowing that it would do no good. My body simply didn't know how to reproduce.

Just as my dream-self had anticipated she never did deliver that baby. I awoke, leaving my dream; leaving her crouched on the ground alone, doing everything she could to birth a baby who had no chance of ever being born.

***

I've taken nearly three weeks of birth control pills now and will take three weeks' more before beginning stims. For over a week I've had consistent spotting and as of last night a bout of bright red bleeding, spilling over the edges of my pantyliner. I know it's normal to spot while on birth control pills and I'm not genuinely concerned. But I can't help but wonder if my body will ever (EVER) succeed in not bleeding for more than 3 weeks. Pregnancy never held the blood at bay, even when the babies were healthy and hearts beating. Medication eased the spotting some, but full-flow always arrived before the meds stopped. Perhaps PIO will be the key and in this next cycle I will manage to stay dry until after my beta. Maybe. Or more likely I will start to bleed again. Before I've even had the chance to hope.

beaten

2008-08-19T16:16:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the going gets tough and the tough get going. And sometimes the tough get tired.

Generally speaking, infertility doesn't beat me. It doesn't keep me home and night, wailing about my sad, barren womb. I don't cry at A Baby Story, wishing it was me begging for the epidural after 3 contractions. I usually don't begrudge celebrity pregnancies and am more often than not genuinely happy for friends/family as they announce their impending bundles of joy.

For some infertiles having a baby-based business would be excruciating (and I don't blame them). But I started mine at the year anniversary of the loss of my twins, about a month after learning of the MFI that meant IVF was in our future. I didn't do it to torture myself, but rather because I enjoy knitting baby items, enjoy giving baby items, enjoy seeing the glee on a new mom's face when she receives a handmade keepsake. And it allows me to feel just a little more included in that world; a world that is so distant in so many ways.

I like to touch pregnant bellies. Call the infertility police if you must, but it's true. I hate the movement among the bellied that shrieks about the injustices of the dreaded "bump bump". I can't get one of my own - is it too much to ask you to share yours? I even still like babies; still *love* babies. I especially crave the little ones, the moldable ones, the ones who ask nothing of you but a cuddle or perhaps a light bounce. I would happily sit in a maternity ward with a baby pressed to my body, gently rocking without realizing it. Admittedly there is a baby age at which I become completely inept: they aren't old enough to tell me what they want and I'm not experienced enough to know. But I still enjoy their company.

I'll be fine, happy, outgoing for months. And then, suddenly, when I'm not looking, I'll lose all my healthy balance and perspective and just want to live in a baby-free world for awhile. I'll dread a trip to Target, knowing that the bumps seem to congregate there. I'll wish my business was in knitting chemo caps, not baby hats, as cancer seems less depressing. And I'll wonder how in god's name I'm going to buy one more baby gift for one more pregnant woman for one more shower. I'll wonder how I'll force my feet to cross the threshold into a baby store or the children's section of a bookstore. I wonder how I'll wrap one more present in pretty pastels representative of the genitalia that is to come. I wonder how I'll manage to crawl through the door of another celebration for another woman who cradles her full and twitching belly as I watch the presents mount.

A woman whose early pregnancy I've happily cheered along at every step posted an ultrasound photo today of her beautiful perfect baby. She spoke of the bobbing and weaving her little one did, moving hands and feet and bringing her to tears. She's worked so hard for this pregnancy and lost so much along the way; I delight in these happy moments. But seeing the caption of the photo "9w1d" became too much to bear. 9w1d. A joyous milestone for someone with a happy ultrasound. But a terrible reminder for someone whose pictures at 9w1d weren't moving. A reminder of how beautiful those babies looked, how perfect and pristine and beautiful they were. And how still. How heartbreakingly still.

So today it is all too much. Today I am beaten. Tomorrow is a new day, a new beginning, a new hope. But tonight I'm just so tired.

****************************************************

I am hesitant in writing a post like this for although this is my space to say what I feel, I know that people who I love and adore will read it and wonder if I'm speaking of them. I'd hate them to think that my excitement for them has been anything but genuine (although if they really know me they'll know that I don't say things if I don't mean them). And so if you're reading and wondering, know that it isn't you. And even if it is you, it's me. But that it doesn't make *me* any less happy for *you*.

trial (transfers) and tribulations

2008-08-15T13:55:00.000-07:00

I have a pretty impressive bladder. So impressive, in fact, that I usually pee right when I wake up in the morning and then not again until I get home in the evening. Five days after I started work at an office building (about a million years ago) I found myself with my underwear deep in my crack and no safe place in which to extricate it. So I asked my boss where the restroom was. She simply could not believe that I'd gone an entire week without needing a daytime piss. (What is more amazing is that I'd gone that long without a wicked wedgie.)

Even a woman with a bladder of steel finds some difficulty on the day of the Trial Transfer, though. The words "drink 48 oz. of water in the 2 hours leading up to your appointment" strike fear in the heart of many, myself included. However, I cannot help but try and be an overachieving patient and so I dutifully down my 48 oz. And then some.

I took myself out to my favorite breakfast joint this morning, prior to my transfer appointment. On the way there I drank an entire bottle of Evian, filling myself so much that I was unable to finish my waffle. (Wait, did I say waffle? Me, on the no processed carbs PCOS diet? No. Surely I meant "eggwhite only omelet". Yes. Omelet.) Although I couldn't shove down that "omelet", I did manage to consume large quantities of coffee and a glass of squeezed-before-my-very-eyes orange juice. And not wanting to find myself with a bladder improperly inflated I requested another glass of o.j. for the road.

On the 45 minute drive to the doctor's office I had a sudden realization. I had to pee, yes, but I was also experiencing a certain "unsettled" feeling in a nearby region. Somehow I'd forgotten that coffee can sometimes make me "uncomfortable" and when you add in Metformin, well, terrible tragedies could result. By the time I arrived at the office there was a definite rumbling that I tried my best to ignore. I couldn't use the bathroom - I don't know if you ladies are more talented than I, but if I let loose on one area the other is bound to follow, and I needed that brimming bladder! So I crossed my legs and hoped for the best. If things go well there is a damn good chance that in 10 months time I will find myself crapping on a table in front of a team of doctors. OBs expect that sort of thing and I have no reason to suspect I will be immune. (Although remind me not to drink coffee (decaf, of course) past 36 weeks.) However, I don't think an RE is quite as accustomed to witnessing her patient's bowel movements up close and personal.

A few moments after I undressed and gingerly positioned myself on the table the doctor entered (which was welcome after I waited THREE HOURS with a full bladder for Dr. Who to bless me with her presence during my first Trial Transfer). The nurse accompanying her grabbed the ultrasound probe and while I would ordinarily be grateful for the abdominal u/s, as opposed to the vag cam, having a big flat wand pressed on your belly while you desperately need to pee (and in my case, shit myself) is less than optimal.

But I made it. I even managed to crack a joke about how well the spotlight shining on my crotch highlighted my ridiculously unshaven legs. (They told me they wouldn't have noticed if I didn't mention it, but that now my chart would be branded with a giant "DOES NOT SHAVE" stamp. I told them I didn't mind, I was paying them so I'd come as hairy as I liked. We all had a good chuckle.) After learning that my ute doesn't ask for a secret handshake to enter (I told you I was a whore) and that I am a textbook-easy transfer, I was finally allowed to head to the bathroom. And in just another example of why I love this clinic, they told me that the restroom was just around the corner and that if I was desperate I should just wrap the sheet around me and run down the hall. No one would mind. And they were serious! God, I love this place.

I do. I love this new doctor and her office and her staff. I love the personal attention they offer. Except when that personal attention means waiting outside the door to the tiny (stall-free) restroom so they could show me to the consult room when I was finished. Ordinarily that would be a welcome and thoughtful gesture, but when one plans to violently abuse the bowl and cannot control what sounds or smells might escape...well, a bit of space would have been appreciated. So I sat down and doing my best to contain the beast, I let a trickle run. That was the longest pee in history. I knew that if I forced it at all there would be no control over the nether regions, so I just let gravity do it's work. I swear it was 10 minutes before the last drop hit the water. But I escaped without any further breaches and the nurse dutifully waiting outside was none the wiser. Damn, I'm good.

********************************************

On a *much* *much* more exciting note than my bathroom escapades, guess who is officially knocked up?! My fairy godmother, Gretchen, had her beta today after IVF #2: 240! Two hundred and forty! At 14 dpo! That girl is so having twins and it couldn't happen to a nicer person. Go congratulate the new mom-to-be!

In other fantastic news, our dear Busted transferred a sibling of the Doodles this morning in her first FET. Send all the implanting/dividing/growing vibes you've got her way!

Let's make Spring '09 beautiful!

the drug den

2008-08-08T13:11:00.000-07:00

I think pot should be legal.

That said that I feel like a complete and total fraud even just saying the word "pot". It seems like a total square such as myself shouldn't be allowed drug slang, my vocabulary relegated to include only the word "marijuana". Or perhaps, when feeling particularly outspoken, "the wacky tobacky". Years ago an old friend took up smoking as a full-time hobby (even securing and subsequently losing a job at a bong shop). He had once been as innocent as I still am, but I knew we were no longer on the same playing field when the word "weed" flowed smoothly from his lips. And he didn't look like an impostor saying it.

I have smoked pot exactly once in my life and only in Amsterdam where the indulgence was entirely legal. We were in the beautiful city for four days, at museums and cafes. On our journeys around the town it was impossible not to walk past countless "coffee shops" and I knew at some point I would build up the courage to venture inside. It took until our last day in the city to finally cross a shop's threshold, asking the jovial man behind the counter to peruse the menu for me, as I couldn't begin to decide for myself which variety to order. He seemed thrilled at the possibility to serve a true virgin (in once sense of the word, anyway) and took great care in selecting a small bag of green for me. I was far too intimidated to smoke in public, certain that I would look foolish as I choked and sputtered on the first foreign smoke to ever enter my body. (To this day I have never inhaled even a cigarette.) So bag in hand we set off, back to our hotel room which I'd comically stocked with oranges and Pringles, in preparation for "the munchies". My (now) darling husband had smoked many times before (cigarettes daily and the other on various occasions throughout his youth), but it had been years since he'd fumbled with rolling papers and it took much time and copious cursing to finally construct a pathetic joint. I didn't cough, didn't look particularly stupid as I inhaled deeply and enjoyed myself thoroughly. I didn't get the munchies but did find myself suddenly very ready for some action (unfortunately it seems the drug sometimes has the opposite effect on men). I can say nothing bad about the experience and sometimes look back on it with a longing to replay that night. But I don't. I'm just not a drug do-er.

I do my best not to take medication when I am feeling unwell. Perhaps it was growing up in my father's house, surrounded by natural supplements and homeopathic treatments. I remember him treating a wart on his thumb by taping a fresh slice of garlic to it daily. (Gross in more ways than one, I know, but it's true and it worked.) Sore throats were attended to with hot water, lemon and honey (and occasionally a bit of whiskey), rather than nyquil or halls. Headache remedies consisted of nothing more than quiet, dark and sleep. It was better to let our bodies heal themselves, rather than cover symptoms with pills and liquids. And better still to find the source of the ailment and fix it.

Although I've never strapped a spice to my thumb and occasionally take advil to combat a headache, I still do what I can to avoid medication. I fight through illness without trips to the doctor or copious amounts of antibiotics. I still find quiet to be the best solution to a headache. I hope to someday give birth to a baby using no pain medication (although I will never say never).

And yet, at present I am taking 10 pills, one after another, every single night. And this is the easy part. In a few weeks I will start the shots: fsh produced in the ovaries of genetically modified hamsters, the purified urine of post-menopausal nuns, a synthetic decapeptide with high antagonistic activity against naturally occurring gonadotropin-releasing hormone. And then come the patches, to be followed closely by both progesterone suppositories and progesterone in oil, ensuring that both my crotch *and* my ass get in on the action.

I received a box brimming with this medication on Wednesday, not to mention the needles and syringes I'll use to administer it. I am so thankful to have it, to know that science has been able to compensate for the shortcomings in my and my husband's bodies. I even look forward to the first injection (much like I eagerly anticipated swallowing of the first of many birth control pills on Tuesday). But I would be lying if I said I don't sometimes look at that box and wonder how I got here. How I went from being someone who treats UTIs with cranberries to a woman who willingly (and sometimes gleefully) pushes the plunger on a syringe containing so many foreign hormones and synthetic substitutes, straight into her bloated abdomen.

Clearly I got confused along the way. How could I spend a lifetime passing on pot and ibuprofen only to find myself fiending for a shot of the good stuff: the nun pee?

comfortably numb

2008-08-06T14:32:00.001-07:00

I try not to be a materialistic person. I have no interest in name brands (and would frankly feel like a sucker if I spent hundreds on a purse, just because the label was shiny). Our house is modest and in no one's taste but my own. I drive a 7 year old VW Beetle which I love and will only trade in when necessity dictates - hopefully for my all-time dream car: a VW Passat Wagon. Anyone who sees my clothing must know I don't place a lot of emphasis on appearance. And yet, when I need comforting, I am so drawn to *things*.

I think it might be hereditary. My mom has a shirt she's always called her Wallowing Shirt. It's a (now) paper-thin XXL grey shirt emblazoned with the phrase "Shafton High School Wrestling Team". Whenever she's in need of some serious self-pity she puts on the shirt, climbs into the closet and wallows. She whines and "why me"s for as long as necessary, then crawls out of the closet, folds up the shirt and goes about her business. That shirt was there for her when my dad was blatantly cheating and through her subsequent divorce. She wore it when her second husband convinced her to move 1200 miles from her teenage children and again when that marriage dissolved. She's offered me the shirt on occasion and I've considered taking it, but I seem perfectly capable of wallowing in my own wardrobe.

I don't have an official shirt, but I do wrap myself in my baby blanket ("blankie"), which was sewn for me while I was still in utero. My husband always found this habit odd (even though blankie has slept with us every single night we've been together) until one day when he was doing some wallowing of his own. Curled up on the couch, feeling bitter about the unfairness of it all, I pulled blankie around him, shoved Puffy (my Puffalump - also around since my very early years) in his arms and let him be. Somehow he then understood why sometimes you need a tangible manifestation of grief and self-pity.

When the going gets really tough I pull out the big guns. I drag my king-sized quilt off my bed and huddle under it in front of the TV. It's clearly too enormous to fit comfortably on my sofa, but I can wrap and wrap myself in it. A thinly veiled metaphor for armor worn to shield myself from the world, no doubt. But it gets the job done.

I don't have a problem with finding comfort in these items. They bring me peace and calm, whether I'm needing it desperately at the moment or not. But I've added to my arsenal in recent years, and my new shields are a bit more disturbing.

I was under a general anesthesia when I had the D&C that pulled my twins from me. It was my first hospital visit, my first anesthetic procedure. I knew I would be stripped and put in a hospital gown, but I never imagined that I would trade in even my socks, exchanged for bright teal hospital issue slipper-socks. I wore these cheap acrylic socks through the pre-anesthesia interview, through the blood drawing and the IV* placement. And while the rest of my body was exposed during the procedure, my feet were shielded. Those socks forming a cushion between my limp feet and the cold stirrups.

I wore them home that day, not having the energy or will to switch footwear afterwards. (And I kind of felt like I should get something out of the deal, although admittedly I made a lousy trade in swapping socks for babies.) I wore them that entire day while curled in my quilt cocoon and gratefully numbed with vicodin and valium. The next morning, while still coming to terms with the fact that my babies weren't with me, I reached for my cheap acrylic hospital socks. Maybe for warmth, but more likely for the connection they seemingly held with my twins. I'd taken off my clothing for that procedure; my earrings, my wedding and engagement rings. The only thing that was with me in my final moments with my twins was those socks.

Yesterday, when feeling cozy and quiet as Edouard passed overhead, I donned those same socks. Not because I needed comforting, but because they have become a symbol of calm in my world. And surprisingly I find that the things I listened to/watched in the days and weeks following that loss also bring a sense of calm. The Jeffrey season of Project Runway, which was on constant repeat in the hours after the procedure. "Over My Head" and "How to Save a Life" by The Fray - a band which I ordinarily would've shrugged off - now find themselves on repeat when I need to ground myself and my emotions. Grey's Anatomy, a show which I'd never seen before my miscarriage but watched from start to finish instead of working shortly after, has retained some of it's intended levity. But if I'm feeling lonely and calm it's a go-to show. And bread pudding - the physical (and only) manifestation of my mom's sympathy for me - will never be "just dessert" to me. I still eat it with reckless abandon (when not on the cursed PCOS diet - argh!) but never without recalling those days when it was all I ate.

I understand the concept of grasping for things, finding solace in stuff. I've always fallen prey. But I can't help but wonder how healthy it is to find peace and comfort in that which surrounded me in my most uncomfortable times...

(*When I went to type "IV", my fingers instinctively stuck an F at the end. What does that say about me?)

H.O.V - High Occupancy Vagina

2008-08-01T12:11:00.000-07:00

I am a total whore. Seriously. The number of people who have been between my legs in the last two years is astounding. I've spread my legs in at least 6 different buildings (often with 2 or more people getting in on the action) and that doesn't even count my husband. Boys, girls - doesn't matter. I swing both ways. And not a single one of them has bought me dinner. I used to be a serial monogamist. I'd get serious with someone and stick with them and only them for months or years. But something has changed in me these past few years and now I swap partners nearly as often as I change my underwear. I don't even feel guilty about my promiscuity. I mean, if they're not giving me What I Need I'm moving on!

"What I Need" has changed over these years. First I needed to be able to get my feet in the stirrups without hearing the word "miscarriage". Yeah, I knew I was bleeding (although what I didn't know at the time was that in spite of the blood my progesterone was never supplemented or even TESTED) so why was she unwilling to suggest even a reduced work load? I think she figured a miscarriage would be *easier* than bedrest, but we had heartbeats - 2 of them! - so I needed just a hair of optimism. It's funny - she finally shared that optimism (and a flu shot) after a joyous ultrasound...just 3 days before I started bleeding for the final time. Dr. Doom and Gloom didn't even bother to return my call that morning. I didn't hear from her again until a few days before what was meant to be my NT u/s.

The morning of The Big Bleed I was so frustrated with Dr. Doom and Gloom that I called a different OB instead. I'd been planning on switching gynos anyway (I so obviously wasn't getting What I Needed) and when my call about the latest spot of red went unanswered I thought there was no time like the present. I liked how cozy the new waiting room was (although the Muzak blaring left so much to be desired) and was hopeful that I'd watch my belly expand along with the women sitting alongside me. But at my first meeting with Dr. Sunshine and Rainbows I learned it was not to be. She wasn't used to giving bad news and left her nurse practitioner to clean up the mess, but she was generous with valium, vicodin and ambien. At my post-D&C checkup 2 weeks later she told me that everything was great and offered a prescription for an antidepressant to "get past this stuff". Dr. Sunshine and Rainbows wasn't having any sadness, regardless of how much I'd earned it. I turned down the script and remembered not to cry the next time we met.

I didn't cry - even though she was diagnosing a chemical pregnancy (my second). I don't think I *could* cry through my shock. In a confused haze I was hearing her tell me that I would never have another miscarriage. "You only have to do that once," she said. Dr. S&R quickly realized that I'd already proved her wrong (as she'd been the one to break the news on 2 losses already) and corrected herself by saying "well, I mean, after a heartbeat and everything". She then assured me that my spotting (at least 5 days prior to AF) wasn't a problem and literally guaranteed me that I'd be pregnant in 3 months. I wanted to believe her, of course, and she was right about one thing. I was pregnant within 3 months...and unpregnant again just as soon. No, Dr. Sunshine and Rainbows wasn't giving me what I needed. Time to spread 'em for someone else.

I was hitting the big time now. I moved from the easy streets of OBs to the much seedier world of REs, hoping to find What I Need. In walked Dr. Shortcut. She listened, she talked, she expressed concern, but she didn't test - not the recurrent loss panel and not my husband - she didn't see the point. Let's get started and get pregnant. I didn't know any better, so I opened wide for Dr. Shortcut. After round one of Femara failed to stop my spotting she was ready to move on to injectibles. I suggested trying progesterone first, to which she reluctantly agreed. It stopped the spotting but didn't make a baby. She threw in Metformin, not believing I had PCOS but not wanting to dig deeper either. On the next cycle, as a last ditch attempt, I made sweet love to a catheter instead of my husband. And then we knew that Dr. Shortcut might've gotten lost along the way. My hubby's junk was fucked and the 4 cycles of meds were wasted. But we never could've known without thorough testing...

Time to move on. I Needed to skip the shortcuts and find the best. I'd like to call my next paramour Dr. Thorough or Dr. Test(e) but nothing stands out more about the man than the fact that he looked exactly like my brother. So as I listened intently to the results of SO many tests, I couldn't help but wonder if someone who so resembled my brother could really be competent. And when I looked down during the hysteroscopy and saw My Brother peering up at me from between my legs I wondered how long this affair could last. This guy was supposed to be good (and trust me, the bills implied he had to be the best) but this relationship was creepy...and our pockets were quickly emptying.

What I Needed now was someone who would get me pregnant and do it cheaply. I was so thrilled to learn after a battery of tests (including one in which I was incorrectly diagnosed with a bicornuate uterus - a diagnosis which was just as quickly dismissed when I mentioned the other doctors who hadn't agreed) that I was going to be admitted into a FREE IVF study. *This* was What I Needed and so we signed the papers and officially became patients of Dr. Who. I first spread 'em at this office in January and got my final failed beta on May 5. During those 4 months I experienced every procedure known to man and must've had three-quarters of my blood drained. I was in the office multiple times a week, and yet I never saw the doctor. I probably wouldn't recognize her if we passed in the halls. We didn't discuss test results or protocol or schedules. Dr.? Dr. Who? We finally did meet to sign the official consent forms - a brief encounter in an impersonal conference room. She had no questions for me and no time to answer those I had for her. I felt no better acquainted than I had before the meeting, but no mind. I wouldn't see her again until the morning of the embryo transfer anyway. On our third and final meeting she explained that she was sorry that my cycle had failed but they were awfully busy with the study and didn't have time to tailor individual protocols. Dr. Who Does She Think She Is might be a more appropriate name, but as I never got to know her (and never will) she'll always be Dr. Who to me.

I'm getting so desperate for What I Need. A doctor who takes me seriously, who will test me and treat me and respect me. And I think I may have found her. We've only met once, but it was a long, intense meeting. She listened to me instead of trusting the (fudged) paperwork Dr. Who sent along. She was all for using donated meds and wanted to retest my husband's blood before jumping to the "A" word. Her office is small and personal but not fancy. She wants to make changes to diet and exercise in addition to pumping me with drugs. Her (monetary) rates are pretty great and her success rates even better. I don't know that she'll get me What I Need, but I know she's going to do her best and that's all I can ask for. I'll get to know her quirks and faults over these next two months, I'm sure. And it's likely she'll earn a snarky nickname in no time. But for now I'm just going to call her Doctor.

I've been a whore these past 2 years. My feet have been in more stirrups than shoes. But I'm thinking about settling down for awhile...

**********************************************************

On another note, in proof that sometimes good things DO happen to good people, Gretchen had her egg retrieval this morning. She went in with ~13 measurable follicles and out popped an amazing THIRTY FOUR eggs! Go wish Gretchen luck with her brood!

Something Changed

2008-07-29T07:48:00.004-07:00

Three years ago today:

We're not on the road we expected to travel...but then again we never did follow the rules. We've gone through so much in these three short years and life has often been hard. We've taken it out on ourselves and on each other. We haven't always lived up to our potential as a couple.

But we've kept those promises we made, three years ago today, and we're stronger for it. These three years have sometimes felt endless and yet, thank god, they are only the beginning. The rest of our story is yet to be written.

bippity boppity boo

2008-07-23T14:30:00.000-07:00

I’m a crier. Full blown, mascara streaming, red nose and hiccupy breathing kind of crier. Everyone cries at Steel Magnolias or Beaches (everyone with a soul, anyway), but it takes a special person to cry like a little baby at Untamed Heart – a 1993 movie starring Christian Slater that left me hysterical for DAYS, although at this point I have no recollection as to what the movie was about. Songs bring me to tears on a regular basis, and not just sad ones. Fairytale of New York can usually get me going. On the Radio usually provokes a tear or two. Don’t even get me started on Fix You. But it’s not just pop music – even the right Christmas carol will have me whimpering (keep in mind, I’m not a religious person).

I don’t think I’ve ever attended a wedding without blubbering like a baby. Always out of sheer joy for the new couple, of course (except for that time my mom married that guy. But not to worry, the subsequent divorce brought joyous weeping from everyone involved.) I obviously cried at my own wedding: in mourning for my new husband’s sister who died suddenly a few days prior, in bliss at the traditional vows we shared, in frustration at the DJ who just wouldn’t follow direction and in embarrassment at a groomsman’s speech that I still get asked about.

And my miscarriages. Well. To say there were tears wouldn’t begin to explain. To say there still are tears gives you some idea of where I am…and might always be.

I knew my IVF cycle had failed a few days before the beta. I’d decided to test out the trigger but didn’t get around to peeing on a stick until 11 days past trigger. I was surprised at getting a faint positive, even then, but didn’t think much else of it. When the next day, at 12 days past trigger, I got a slightly darker positive I started Googling about super early BFPs. One more faint positive and I was convinced I was having triplets. Until they started fading. Soon I was getting clear BFNs. It was really too early for even a chemical pg (and I should know) – I was just a cautionary tale of letting your mind and heart run away with your sanity when testing out a trigger.

But I didn’t cry.

I got AF the night before my beta. I was still on progesterone but there was no mistaking AF’s nasty appearance. By that point the HPTs were starkly white and I *knew* without a shadow of a doubt that I wasn’t pregnant.

But I didn’t cry.

The next morning I drove 45 miles for the blood test that I had to take, even though I knew the result. The nurse tried in 3 veins before finally getting the sample she needed. I sat stoically as she explained that my number would be very low – it was only 11dp3dt, after all. And I told her not to worry; it didn’t matter; I wasn’t pregnant. The phonecall a few hours later confirmed what I knew to be true and the cycle was over.

But I didn’t cry.

I was sad. I was devastated and miserable. All my hopes seemed futile and all my dreams seemed lost. The faces of all the babies I’d lost, faces that I’d never see, came floating back to me in visions of a life unfulfilled. But I was ok, relatively speaking. My husband stayed home from work that day (more upset than me, really) and we sat with each other quietly. We ate McDonald’s. We even laughed some. And I didn’t cry.

That night I opened an email from a girl whom I’d never met face to face, but who was enduring her first IVF cycle as well. (A cycle that mirrored mine in too many unfortunate ways.) She shared with me how sorry she was that I wasn’t pregnant and confided that she felt she was headed for the same outcome. And tucked into the end of the email was the most generous offer I’d ever received: generous monetarily and generous in spirit. She had recently gotten a job with infertility insurance coverage, and therefore had a plan for IVF #2. Over her years of battling the infertile beast she’d done a number of cycles with injects which she had paid out of pocket for. Over the course of too many cycles she wound up with extra meds; lots of extra meds. And this girl (who was always so sweet and generous with kind words) offered them to me. No strings attached: she had coverage and I didn’t, so she wanted me to have all the meds she’d bought over the past year.

And finally I cried.

I cried like a baby at her pure, giving spirit. And I cried for knowing that she had given me a gift so much bigger than the thousands of dollars of medication. She was giving us the chance to try again and if things went as planned, she was giving me the gift of a child. I didn’t feel (don’t feel) that I’ve done enough good in the world to deserve such an offer, but she insisted. And so, like my life had been tapped with the wand of a true fairy godmother my day was turned around, my life was turned around and what had started with a morning of grief ended in an evening that renewed my faith in the goodness of humanity. Which is, of course, a gift unto itself.

This gift is the main reason we will be doing IVF #2 in September (before the meds expire), rather than waiting until next year…or the year after that. The meds I’ve been given will cover an entire cycle and maybe more. I still come to tears every time I think of what we’ve been given; and I will continue to do everything I can to pay it forward.

Thank you, Gretchen, for bringing me to tears the day of that negative beta. You truly are my fairy godmother.

(Go wish Gretchen luck. She's in the middle of IVF #2 and deserves all the good wishes we can muster! And more!)

the truth is out there

2008-07-18T12:11:00.000-07:00

It's been said that there is no such thing as "TMI" in the world of online IF chat. I'm not convinced of that. Sure, I may have discussed my sex life and mucous and pubes (oh my!), but there must be topics out there that are too much, even for the haggard, old ears of the barren. We show each other photos of 8 cell embryos and pictures of needle-induced bruises. We help one another interpret lines on sticks we've actually urinated on. And once initiated in the Success After Infertility club the braver among us might even discuss hemorrhoids - with people we've never met, in a forum that can be read by anyone on earth. We're a brave and open bunch, that is for certain.

So why, then, has nobody ever mentioned the Alien Ass Pods?

How many of you reading right now have been diagnosed with PCOS? Oodles, I imagine - it seems almost as common a diagnosis as MoTHerFuckeR. I've seen countless discussions about the symptoms, endless cycles, treatment options and diet suggestions. Girls are open about the side effects of the medication they're prescribed to combat PCOS, although the daintier "stomach upset" is a more common complaint than the more truthful "diarrhea from hell". And yet there is no talk of Alien Ass Pods.

I was first put on Metformin last summer. I'd had a few failed Femara cycles (O, but no BFP) but wasn't ready to move on to the big, bad world of injectibles. My RE and I powwowed and decided to approach the next cycle with a "kitchen sink" mentality. We were sticking with Femara but using Endometrin (over the possibly less-powerful Crinone of previous cycles). We were moving on to IUI over TI, even though my husband had managed to knock me up 4 times already. And we were throwing in Met. "What the hell," we thought. Why not. I didn't really show signs of PCOS (aside from a predilection towards moles), but Met was cheap and it couldn't really hurt.

I started my prescription on a Friday, just before leaving for a camping trip. I was diligent in taking my pills that weekend. I'd pop a few just before grabbing a beer and sitting my ass in a river with girlfriends. I spent all weekend in that river; laughing, relaxing and reconnecting after another failed cycle. When I returned home to my hubby a few days later I was dirty, tired and a bit hungover - the indoor plumbing was a welcome sight.

When I used the bathroom the next morning I thought I saw...something, just before it was swept out of view. I wasn't really certain I hadn't imagined it and tried to forget. I popped my pills and life went on. The next morning I knew it wasn't my imagination. There was definitely "something" in the toilet. Oval. Yellow. Big. Floating. I tried to ignore it, but my mind began to whir. The next day there were two - no, three! - of these objects, these Alien Ass Pods! They looked like eggs; eggs coming from an area that should not be laying eggs. And how big was the animal that laid eggs that size? What the hell had crawled out of that river and into my intestines???

I scoured the internet for answers, but how do you Google "big f'ing scary pods in my shit!"? I wasn't getting any relief and fearful that the aliens might that very moment be feasting on my duodenum, I asked my mom, who had accompanied me on my trip to the river, if she was having any "issues". Free of A.A.P.s herself but concerned about my insides she started Googling with me. Talking through it ("they're BIG") and dissecting the events of the week prior, talk turned to meds. And suddenly I realized - those pods looked an awful lot like my Metformin ER tablets. They were bigger and yellower, but there was a definite resemblance...

A little more interwebs digging and I had my answer. No parasite had taken refuge in my bowels (or in my uterus, for that matter, damnit!). I just had a very common reaction to a very common medication. The meds are absorbed but the outer casing isn't and thus, Alien Ass Pods are born. I was relieved to have an explanation and thankful to avoid another trip to another doctor. But I couldn't help but wonder why my RE didn't mention this? Why didn't the PCOS girls on my message boards warn me? Shouldn't there be a big, flashing neon light above the pharmacy counter that prepares patients for this terrifying side effect? But nobody was talking. Guess some things *are* TMI - even for the IF community.

A year later and I'm back on Met. Just one day in and the pods are back. All you silent sufferers of Alien Ass Pods, rest assured: You Are Not Alone.

miracle on 61st street

2008-07-15T14:41:00.000-07:00

There was a time when I was a frisky, frisky girl. My number might be quite low, but my unwillingness to go "all the way" (or even most of the way) didn't hamper my desire for a hot makeout session. My first high school boyfriend and I spent the first 2 weeks of our "relationship" talking about anything and everything, but the next 5 months our tongues were tied, literally, sometimes for hours. I was devastated when he dumped me and got over it by systematically breaking the hearts of all his friends. Anything for a (relatively tame but nonetheless) steamy afternoon.

My second boyfriend and I had a more intellectual connection than the first, but the kissing was even better. We found time for both by spending every waking moment together, smooching for hours wherever we could and then slipping each other long, heartfelt notes before saying goodnight. All the conversation without sacrificing any of the action! Eventually I suffered another broken heart, mending it in the usual manner: lots of flirtations, hours spent liplocked with the boy of the hour.

It turned out that breaking *their* hearts got me in the mood just as easily. I capped a 2+ year relationship (my most serious to date) with a series of makeouts in a hammock (harder than it sounds) with a hot but balding boy, who was anything but my type. Wine and flirtation followed by muscles and groping on a warm summer night. To this day I can't help but grin when I spot a hammock...

So imagine my surprise when approaching my 3 year wedding anniversary I, the Makeout Queen, find myself in passionate embraces...infrequently. Rarely. Almost never.

My husband and I kicked off our courtship with a long conversation in a basement bar. I was enthralled by his British accent - he was enthralled by my weakness for a British accent. Before the night was over we were entertwined in a booth, being overwatched by coworkers and the boy who until that night was the center of my flirtations. Five days later after our first date I sated my need for the makeout (while no doubt inflaming other needs for him) with an overindulgent goodnight kiss on his doorstep. We found ourselves seperated by an ocean for the next 2 months of our relationship, relying on talk to keep us afloat. When he returned we resumed the connection, although admittedly with less urgency than we started.

For the next 6 years our sex life was solid. We weren't exactly swinging from chandeliers, but we certainly had our moments - and had them quite frequently. And then we began Trying To Conceive.

It all starts innocently enough - "we'll only do it when we feel like it; we don't want sex to become a job." But the months pass, worries mount and rules get established. Positions are considered, saliva is out, and the timeline - the dreaded timeline - is adhered to. Before long we're doing it out of obligation, not desire. "Let's get it over with" became a common refrain. All that matters at some point is getting the goods where they need to be, everything else is superfluous.

But at least we were still doing it.

When the MFI diagnoses came in everything changed. Sex had long since become a goal oriented procedure and learning that the goal was virtually unattainable changed everything. After almost 2 years of sex-on-command we needed a break. We were still affectionate, but passion just wasn't in the playbook anymore. Not only were we not doing it, I didn't want to do it. At all.

It's easy to make excuses: we're tired, it's late, what's the point. But eventually I couldn't help but wonder what was really behind my "cold-fishery". Was it that the quality had suffered so drastically when the strict limits had been imposed that I simply wasn't physically getting anything out of it anymore? Was I so emotionally exhausted that the idea of feigning delight (or even experiencing it) was overwhelming? Did I harbor some deep, unknown resentment against his organs that failed us like mine already had and couldn't bear to face them? Any of those might be true (and to some degree I suppose all of them are) but no explanation really touched a nerve.

Until.

One day it occurred to me, in the middle of cursing the spotting that was now starting 7 full days before my period, that maybe I didn't even want the hope of pregnancy anymore. The 2+ years of wondering, of hoping, of optimism against all odds was exhausting. The roller coaster of infertility was unavoidable, and yet I was trying my hardest to get off the ride. I want a baby but I don't want to hope for a miracle anymore when no miracle is coming. It couldn't be a coincidence that the few times we did it in a month were nowhere near my (increasingly infrequent) fertile period.

There's no doubt that I want to be pregnant. I'm just tired of wanting to be pregnant.

************************

That was the post I planned to write.

Since before we went out of town those words were swirling in my brain. Makeout sessions of yesteryear would pop into my head; welcome reminiscing leading to wondering about the state of my marital bed. For weeks I considered this topic, and then:

we did it.

we did it again.

Next thing you know a week has gone by and more nights have been spent "on the job" than not. And more surprisingly, I initiated it every.single.time. Not out of obligation or some sense of wifely duties, but because I wanted to. Desire, longing, even a little passion. Where is this coming from, especially when I'm spending so much time mentally writing about my lack of interest? And then it hit me: after spending months with no real plans of how to proceed with IVF #2, suddenly things are moving. Doctor's appointments are being made, funding is coming together. It's clear that we're going to get to try again. (Try in a way that means something, not in the pathetic, desperate hope of a miracle.) Somehow the IVF planning has released sex from the chains of baby-making and returned it to the loving arms of a couple who ISN'T DEAD YET. We might not get our miracle break-cycle baby, but for the moment we've got our sex life. And that is a miracle in itself.

Can I get a HALLELUJAH?!

(by the way: longest post ever.)

I'm so tired...

2008-07-10T15:50:00.001-07:00

...I haven't slept a wink.

Sorry for the long silence. We went "home" for awhile, back to Wisconsin to visit family, attend a wedding and do our best to relax. But like so many vacations we've returned possibly more tired than when we left. My brain is barely up to laundry, muchless verbose musings about my vagina (a word I prefer to pronounce "vag-in-a", for the record). Hopefully I'll be back soon with a post about our sexlife, or lack thereof. I'm sure you're on the edge of your seat.

In somewhat exciting news, we might be moving forward with IVF #2 sooner than initially anticipated. If things go well, September could be a big month...

follow the signs

2008-06-26T18:26:00.000-07:00

For as long as I can remember my family commented on my hips. Big, wide, open. I don't think they came with puberty - I feel as though they've been there always. Being as my mother made snide comments about them through some very formative years, my self-consciousness always swelled and hovered around my full hips. Teenage years spent staring in the mirror, wishing for less. At some point, long before I was in a baby making place (long before I even did the deed that makes babies for most people), I decided to shed (most) of my awkwardness about my hips. They weren't big - they were "breeding" hips. And although this label was always said tongue firmly placed in cheek, this new mantra helped. To know that my body was built to do what my heart was born to do. Mother.

During one of my early experiences in the stirrups, in a routine well-woman exam, I finally built up the courage to ask about my excess of "discharge". I thought I was a freak, the amount of goo that sprung forth, and I needed the doctor to assure me that my junk wasn't broken. I thought I was probably the only woman on the planet to deal with the incessant wetness, regardless of arousal. Much like Peggy related in "Waiting for Daisy" I learned that my mucous wasn't a curse but a blessing of fertility. I believe the doctor even used the term "gorgeous". And she assured me I'd have no problem getting pregnant when I wanted to.

I've been lucky in our infertility in that ovulating was never our issue. Bleeding, miscarriage, sparse and stupid sperm, yes, but releasing eggs was something we were good at. Imagine my surprise when (at 28 years old with ideal b/w) I produced a measly 9 follicles with 5 mature eggs during IVF. I'd thought I'd be a freakin' salmon, producing enough roe to fill the rivers of Washington. But I settled for being a chicken, just a few eggs at a time.

I'm spotting now, no doubt the beginning of the end of my second cycle after IVF #1, and the gorgeous mucous that I was assured meant glorious fertility is nowhere to be seen. The same pasty whiteness every single day of this cycle, without a hint of the "eggwhites" I'd come to expect. I haven't temped or pee'd on sticks to look for the O - with MFI like ours it feels like an insult to spend the $30 on OPKs - but I'm beginning to wonder if IVF stole my healthy O in addition to my IF naivety. Or is it just my CM that IVF lead astray? Either way, oh Mistress InVitro, can I please have it back?

Did anyone else find their O or their EWCM go missing after a failed IVF cycle? Help?

Fine.

2008-06-23T12:43:00.000-07:00

Scene:
This morning I treated myself to breakfast at one of my favorite restaurants. A true hole-in-the-wall kind of joint in an undeniably quirky part of town. A place so tiny that tables are pressed together to make room where they can, resulting in meals that are practically shared with the strangers at your side. I brought a book, as I always do, and settled in for coffee and (truly) freshly squeezed orange juice. Three men were sat at the table next to me - imagine my surprise when they proceeded to discuss nothing but birth plans and baby names for the duration of their (exceptionally long and relaxed) breakfast. I wondered the odds of winding up sharing my meal with the only 3 men on earth who find c-sections to be an appropriate subject for their breakfast conversation? And yet even I, the ever irrational infertile, knew they weren't doing it *to* me. They weren't being rude and careless. They were human, discussing little tiny humans, and how could that be anything but ok?

Scene:
My stepmother called on Saturday morning. I admit that I've been mostly ignoring her calls for over a year now, but as we'll be staying with her and my dad next week I felt now was the time to pick up. Besides, it was only 10:30 am - she couldn't possibly be drunk yet...or so I thought. Barely a moment passed before talk turned to my fertility (a topic she's been sometimes inappropriately involved in), slurring as she asks how I am. Fine. Ok. Fine. These answers are truthful for now - our treatment plans are all on hold until we find the funds to fund them - but she's determined to get more. In the ramblings of a drunk I discern her desire to dig deeper, into an inner turmoil that is either not there, or not yet unleashed. But she is determined. She proceeds to remind me that all I've ever wanted in life was to be a mother, I was destined to be a mother, I would make a fabulous mother. Words that ring true but sting when being rambled at me by someone who is digging for emotions that I'm not sure exist right now. She asked how I was and I told her I was "fine". And it's true.

Scene:
On Friday I spent the day with a group who included a very-pregnant friend of the family. She is one of "my three" - part of a list that all infertiles mentally keep (be it one or a hundred names long). The list of people who simply CANNOT get pregnant before they do. I'd told myself a hundred times that I'd be ok, so long as A, B and C didn't get knocked up. But 2 out of 3 of them did. I collapsed in a heap on the floor upon learning this one was pregnant. (No one was there to pick me up, but thankfully that means no one saw me either.) How could she be pregnant - again! - with another oops? A shotgun wedding followed and now, a few months later she caresses her belly and speaks of "when she comes next month". I told myself I'd be ok as long as A, B and C didn't get pregnant before me, but they did. And yet I'm ok anyway.

And then:
I watched Regis and Kelly this morning (and yes, I'm admitting that in public) as they interviewed Chris O'Donnell. He talked about his new film "Kit Kittredge: An American Girl" - one that I don't doubt I would be seeing on opening day if I had a (half) American girl of my own. Blah, blah, blah, yadda, yadda, yadda. The typical press junket questions are asked and answered in a typical press junket way. A clip is introduced; something about a broken typewriter; and I listen half-heartedly as I put on mascara. In the scene our American Girl types slowly on an ancient typewriter, her frustration mounting as the keys repeatedly stick. She screams in irritation at the broken machine as her dad enters the room. "Don't let it beat you" he says. Don't let it beat you. This silly kid's movie (a movie I doubt I'll ever see) gave me pause. Don't let it beat you. That's what it's all about, isn't it? All of our struggles come down to that simple little line. The trick is in defining what it means to be beaten. I won't let infertility beat me. But that doesn't mean I'll keep fighting until I have a child. That doesn't mean I haven't won until a precious baby is nuzzled in my belly, in my bosom. The battle I'm fighting isn't against my uterus, but rather for my own heart - to remain pure and happy and loving. This is one battle I can win if I find the strength.

I've got to remember: don't let it beat you.

On The Radio

2008-06-16T13:35:00.000-07:00

I was a terrible babysitter. Have I said this before? Well, I'll say it again, just in case: I was a terrible babysitter.

I hated it. Hated every moment of it. I hated spending every Friday and Saturday on the job. I hated trying to figure out something fun to do that didn't involve leaving the house. I hated watching The Little Mermaid 50 times in a row. I hated making lousy dinners in a strange kitchen. I hated putting screaming kids to bed (but hated even more having screaming kids awake). I hated falling asleep on someone else's couch, waiting hours past their expected arrival time. I hated being woken up at midnight and dragged home. I hated being told OVER and OVER that "I don't have any cash on me, kiddo - I'll pay you next time, ok?" And I hated, since I nearly always babysat for family, that I had to suck it up and take it. (Maybe if I ask my uncle to make good on all those unpaid hours when I see him next month we'll have enough cash for IVF #2.)

And so I constantly ask myself, over and over again, why I think I want kids so badly.

This weekend, while watching my nephews (aged 10 and 2) I asked myself that yet again...but for once, while still in the presence of a snot-faced, whining baby and videogame obsessed preteen, I think I found an answer.

Driving home from the Children's Museum, all of us positively exhausted, I plugged in my iPod and stuck on Regina Spektor. I didn't think my nephews would particuarly like Ms. Spektor's odd phrasing and poignant lyrics, but I didn't think they'd mind her either. What I never predicted was that the elder boy not only liked, but knew the songs. Together we sang along to On The Radio while he drummed the rhythm on his lap.

It was a moment so reminiscent of my own childhood: driving in my dad's Plymouth Reliant as I ask him to see "what's on the rad-i-o, daddy-o" (him always jokingly correcting me: "what's on the radio, day-dee-o"). Or sitting at the dining room table, wearing his enormous green headphones, listening to his copy of Harry Belafonte's "Live at Carnegie Hall", knowing the record so well that the skips became as familiar as the songs themselves. Or standing on the bleachers in the pouring rain, my dad by my side, as we dance to Paul Simon and Ladysmith Black Mambazo at my first ever concert. My dad shared so many enormous things with me. He gave me life, he gave me lodging, he gave me the strength to be who I am. And although his love of music might not be the most precious gift I received from him, it's one I hold so dear to my heart (and ears). It's one of the countless ways he helped make me who I am; imperfect and strange and joyous and loved.

So as my nephew tapped along to that sweet little song, a song his mom had shared with him, I knew in part why I want to be a mother. I want kids so I can repay the debts I owe my own parents. Debts that can only be paid by someday helping to give my own children to themselves.

how's my hair look?

2008-06-11T13:29:00.001-07:00

Although we might not readily admit it, we infertiles probably think about our "naughty hair" more often than most people. (Well, most people, excepting porn stars, professional waxers and merkin makers.) With so many people digging around the area, it's only normal to want to keep things tidy. Usually I am no exception. Recently, however, I made a bold move in terms of a new, um, hairstyle and like so many drastic haircuts I immediately regretted it. And unlike a typical bad hairdo which can be tucked behind the ears, pulled into a ponytail or accessorized with hats and headbands, this haircut is always on my mind for one reason or another. ("Itchy" just wouldn't do it justice.) And so to pay tribute to this most egregious of errors, a list:

3 Moments in Pubic Hair History

1. On a public message board many years ago, a girl found herself unexpectedly (though blissfully) pregnant. She was thrilled with this new development, but terrified upon learning that her doctor wanted to see her right away. She shared with this board that she had recently gotten a brazilian wax and there was nary a hair to be seen. She worried aloud that the doctor would "wonder how she could possibly take care of a baby if she couldn't even be responsible with her pubic hair."

2. It had become quite obvious that my (now) husband and I were moving to *that* point in our relationship. It was clear that we would be naked and intertwined very soon and being that I was respectful of the new relationship I didn't want my paramour to know that I avoided even leg shaving like the plague. "Less Is More" was the latest trend in hair-down-there and not wanting my man to think I wasn't down with the cool kids, I gave her a trim. Nothing too drastic, just your basic landing strip to let him know I was a modern woman with modern grooming habits. Unbeknownst to me, this trend hadn't hit the UK yet and as he was spankin' new to our shores he had yet to witness the landing strip. As he couldn't hide his look of shock he confided rather quickly that he thought "only porn stars did that". Alas, my new man didn't think I was a hipster, he thought I was a perv.

3. Although my life resembles Mama's Family more than it does Sex and the City, I have been known to have an occassional Girl's Night Out. On one such night, the topic turned to grooming habits, the beer causing us all to be more forthcoming than normal. Being the delicate southern women we are we spoke in euphanisms, metaphors. One piping up "I've got a shag rug" while another discussed methods for trimming her "berber". Someone confessed she'd always sported "wall to wall carpeting" and inevitably the talk turned to "hardwoods". One of my friends who had remained silent until then lit up. "I have hardwood floors!" she shouted, glad to finally be a part of the conversation, and loudly expressed her preference for pine over maple. Poor thing - she always was the "Charlotte".

For the record I believe these hairstyles are cyclical, just like any other fashion trend. Everyone's shaving these days, but don't forget a few years ago everyone was wearing ponchos. Mark my words: the Joy of Sex bush will be back. I cringe when I hear someone has made the bold move of permanent hair removal. Imagine your junk being described as "so 2000!"

R&R not R&R

2008-06-09T18:44:00.000-07:00

My darling husband and I took a much needed break this weekend. I feel like such a fool when I admit I need a break, considering I currently work *very* part-time at a nearly stress-free job, but alas, sometimes even the most stress-free life gets overwhelming. And besides, the break *was* much needed, and much deserved for the husband, whose job is endlessly demanding, not to mention irritating.

We didn't go far, didn't even get on a plane and only used about a tank of gas, but somehow our little break was so restful and relaxing. R&R indeed. (And for once R&R doesn't stand for RPL and REs!)

I enjoyed the schmancy breakfast that was delivered to our room in a picnic basket each morning (sometimes enjoying his as well - gotta keep up that IF weight somehow!). He slept in. We window-shopped, shop-shopped and had our hands exfoliated. (You should've seen the look on his face when he felt his post-scrub hands. Boys are really missing out when it comes to pampering products.) We hiked and had a picnic by a hidden lake. Granted it would've been nice if said lake wasn't filled with water moccassins, but still pretty darn picturesque. We had sex because we wanted to, not because my mucous said so. (That mucous can be a bossy little son-of-a...) I don't even think I rolled my eyes at him once during the trip, at least not without a playful butt-pinch to follow.

It was wonderful. It was needed. It was deserved. And yet for every receipt signed, every dollar that exchanged hands, I felt guilty. $400 in hotel fees could have helped pay for that HSG I've been meaning to get. $60 in handspun yarn that I found at an artisan shop? That could've been a vial of Menopur. Even the ice cream cones (and there were many) could've been replaced with needles and sharps containers.

This weekend might've bought us a few months of blissful marriage and yet I can't help but think of all it *didn't* buy. But damn. That ice cream was good.

the energizer vagina...

2008-06-04T13:04:00.000-07:00

...it keeps going, and going, and going...

I began bleeding a week ago Saturday. I am still bleeding. My vag has been doin' it's thing for 12 days. If she plays her cards right I might make it to the two week mark - half a month of AF? Is there a Guiness Record for this sort of thing? Could I have an award winning vagina?

No doubt about it, I'm a chronic spotter. I'm so lucky that it's been controlled when I'm on progesterone (although not inevitably - I always get AF before I stop the meds). But how am I supposed to have a miracle spontaneous pregnancy with bleeding like this? Unless my pantiliners start resembling the Virgin Mary, I think I'm out of luck.

you gotta have faith, faith, faith (ah)?

2008-06-02T13:35:00.000-07:00

I spent my childhood as a holidays-only Catholic. Every Christmas Eve my mother’s giant family and I would trudge through the Wisconsin snow to St. Joe’s for midnight mass. If we were lucky the snow would’ve melted by the following Easter when we next returned. Other family members were much more devout - my grandmother doing regular readings, my cousins with their first communions - but after years of Catholic schooling at the hands of bitter nuns my mom’s faith was less sturdy, crumbling. (My dad, on the other hand, is a dedicated Scientologist ::insert Tom Cruise jokes here:: so church with him has never been exactly typical.)

One Easter I escaped mass early with a near fainting spell. It was hot, I was tired and impatient for the Peeps fueled sugar buzz I knew lay ahead, and as we’d arrived late (*always* late) our entire family of 20+ was standing. I had complained in church many times before and was never given more than a stern glance, so to be relieved of my holiday duties that morning felt like a very special treat. My favorite uncle and I went out to “get some air” and played tag on the brown church lawn.

(Regardless of my poor attendance, I’ve always been respectful of church traditions. I have never, to this day, taken communion. At every wedding and holiday I sit in the pew as people excuse themselves around me. I recognize that I haven’t earned that right – the bread and wine would mean nothing more to me than food and drink. (And boy, I can use a drink!) So I sit, quietly and alone, and wait for the devout to return to their seats.)

I have had brief periods in my life where I felt some divine presence, but I’ve never clung to any one church, book, strict set of beliefs. In more recent years my thread-thin connection with “god” has virtually disappeared. I don’t want to imply that our struggles (both infertility and otherwise) have caused me to “lose my faith”. I’m not angry with any deity and I haven’t stopped believing in retribution for the difficulties we’ve had. I guess I just never really believed in the first place and as the calendar turns I have less desire to convince myself to believe.

In some ways I envy the infertiles who rely so heavily on god to support them. I can only imagine the burden of loss and longing is easier to bear when their faith tells them “it’s all in His hands”. It must be a relief to know that “everything happens for a reason”. But I could never give up responsibility for my situation and I don’t think there’s a reason. Great good might come out of great struggle, but that doesn’t mean it was fated to happen that way. Sometimes life sucks because it sucks. Plain and simple.

I know there must be other infertiles out there who don’t Believe, but I so rarely hear about them. Maybe because proclaiming a lack of religion is less common than verbalizing your faith? I do wonder, though, how other “reproductively challenged” women handle their situation without their faith to comfort them…

self fufilled

2008-05-30T17:09:00.000-07:00

There was a time, way back when, when the blogosphere was merely a twinkle in many a nerds' eye. Sure, people were blogging here and there, but the community was much smaller, tight. No one was making a living of their random musings, as amusing as they might've been. There were no "comments". We even had to pay for the opportunity to share our private worlds (at least I did - was I a sucker?). the conquering of mt.cool was my outlet, my little corner of the interwebs. It was fun for awhile, writing whatever came to mind, sometimes autobiographical, sometimes just scribbles.

When I put pen to paper (or finger to keyboard) on March 8, 2002 and wrote "Ortho Novum 777" it never occurred to me that what seemed hypothetical would someday become fact. I never considered that I might be dooming myself with a self-fufilling prophecy of infertility yet to be unmasked. At 22 years old, unmarried and happy, I typed the following:

You were 17 and your mom finally discovered you had "gone all the way" with your boyfriend. So she took you to her OBGYN (probably a greying family man, one you didn't really want investigating your "area"), and got you on THE PILL. And every fourth Sunday since, you've gone to Walgreens and refilled that same prescription.

Imagine: years later you find yourself in a happy and surprisingly healthy relationship, and after a TV-land proposal (over dinner, ring in the champagne) you decide to take the plunge and dive right into marital bliss. But as time goes on playing happy married couple gets a little old, as it tends to, so you start thinking about the gene pool and the possibility of your top-notch contribution. Imagine your prescription running out and actually deciding not to go to Walgreens and refill it like you've done every month for 9 years. Can you fathom that first night of freedom? How dangerous you must feel, vulnerable and literally unprotected.

But now imagine that after countless nights of reckless abandon (or meticulously timed thrusts) your belly doesn't begin to swell and nothing is kicking inside you. You don't have the cravings you hear about and that spare bedroom appears more vacant than before. You begin to feel lonely at parties and empty at home. Can you fathom the frustration of finding that all this time you've been protecting against nothing?

Can you imagine how much money you've spent on useless prescriptions all these years?

I was dead-on, right down to the age the hypothetical me would be when she started TTC. My young and inexperienced mind somehow able to understand some of the devastation of infertility. But I definitely got one thing wrong. It's not the money spent on precriptions passed that gets us worried. $30 a month is nothing. But add up the tab for one IVF cycle...

Red Rain

2008-05-29T07:42:00.000-07:00

In third grade all the girls in my class were sent home with a permission slip. But this "trip" didn't involve a big yellow bus and the boys weren't invited (at least, not yet). No, this trip was different. This was a trip through the glorious female reproductive system!

One afternoon after school we all shuffled down to the school library and sat cross-legged on the floor among the copies of Corduroy and Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs. The school nurse, who had previously only been seen for headaches and lice checks (and possibly that time I’d forgotten to wear underwear beneath my skirt and someone had noticed as we climbed the stairs…), stood in front of us with charts, posters and an assortment of “feminine products” and explained to us about our bodies and the beautiful changes they were to go through. I don’t recall the metaphors she used – although it undoubtedly involved butterflies – but I will never forget The Pad. The giant, diaper-like hunk of cotton with a series of sinister looking clips or buckles connecting it to a belt. A belt! I couldn’t imagine how I could squeeze that belt beneath my clothes (clearly I wasn’t sure I could even fit panties under them) and was certain that everyone would know when Auntie Flo came to visit. I wondered that afternoon if I would know when I got my period. And I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to find out.

20 years later and I’m still not sure if I know when I get my period.

In addition to the rest of our cornucopia of fertility issues, I have a wicked LPD. The spotting is random and plentiful. The month I got pregnant with my twins I started bleeding at 2dpo. A fun fact: in four pregnancies I have NEVER had a BFP before I started bleeding (and we wonder why I always assume I’m pregnant). I even had what amounted to a full period from 10-15dpo that month. So while bleeding is no mystery to me, AF is.

Imagine, at 29 years old, explaining to a nurse that you don’t know if you have your period. You might, but is it red enough? Does it “flow”? How can you start meds on CD3 when you have no idea what CD3 is?

I started spotting last Saturday. On Sunday I thought AF might’ve made her official appearance…but then she tapered off. Monday there were moments of the illusive “red flow” but they were sandwiched between hours of dry pantyliners. And today, Thursday, I still don’t know if I have my period. I’m just about to give up on trying to find it.

I deserve a medal for not POAS already.

the laziest infertile

2008-05-27T16:24:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder if I want it badly enough. I want it, boy do I want it. My arms ache with the weight of their own emptiness. My house seems quiet and cold, regardless of the number of cats and blankets I cram into it. I yearn for the connection I see between mothers and their children - his fingers tangled in his mother's hair, her toothless grin as soon as mommy walks into view. But for all the wanting and waiting (and poking and proding) I sometimes wonder if I don't try hard enough.

I've done my time. I've crammed a thermometer in my mouth immediately upon waking. Over the course of any given month I've peed on dozens of sticks, oodles of sticks. (Sometimes I'd pee on random long, white objects frantically searching for lines of any sort. Good thing the hubby gave up smoking!) I've examined mucous of every texture and color and recorded their slipperyness or lack thereof in a color coded chart. We've screwed on a schedule, whether we wanted to or not. I even gave up saliva during intercourse to stop his sad little sperm getting stuck upon entry. (So not only is our sex not spontaneous, it's often not very good either...)

And yet, I am a lazy infertile.

* I refuse to make any sort of change to my diet. I quit reading Inconceivable and The Infertility Cure immediately upon learning that french fries aren't in the fertile diet.

* I gave up charting the moment I started seeing an RE, whether on a medicated cycle or not. The excitement of a temp spike isn't enough of a high for me anymore.

* I don't take my stims/Lupron/progesterone at exactly the same minute every day. I don't go hours off schedule, but there is nothing precise about my timing. I even did my IVF trigger 15 minutes late. (I needed that extra time to whine and whimper about how big the needle was!)

* We don't do it 3 times a day during my fertile period. Even before our MFI it just wasn't going to happen. We felt really proud when we were doing it every other day for 2 weeks. And these days the bar is even lower - if we do it once within 48 hours of O I feel pretty good.

* I go through phases of not taking my prenatal vitamins.

There. I said it. Even though I'm a MTHFR I don't always get my full dose of folic acid. Yes, I'm a terrible mother already. But the thing is, emptying bottle after bottle of prenatal vitamins has become a cruel reminder of where we are and what we've gone through. The pills laugh at me - sneer at me. With each swallow I hear them mocking as they travel my esophagus. "Who do you think you are? You're not getting pregnant, lady. Buy the geriatric supplements - at least you have an outside chance of needing those someday!" And I know I'll regret my disobedience if I ever do wind up with an off-cycle BFP. I know I won't need one more thing to wonder and worry about. But when it feels like my body controls so much of my life with no regard for my feelings and desires, I can't help but get some perverse glee out of exerting some control over it. Reminding that damn uterus who's boss.

And then quietly pleading with it to work.

sweet little lies

2008-05-24T06:49:00.000-07:00

I delude myself on a regular basis. I might claim to by 5'4" when in actuality I am 5'3", have always been 5'3", will always be 5'3" (...and a half). I like to tell myself I cook healthy food and that regardless of the butter and sugar content my peach cobbler is good for you because it has fruit. I might even claim that I don't watch crap tv (although that would be less delusion and more outright lie). But my number one delusion, nearly constant in my sad little brain, is believing I am pregnant.

Every infertile has talked themself into thinking they were pregnant in the 2ww. Boob squeezes all around! But I have the unique talent of believing I'm knocked up in the most unusual times - during my period, for example. Or because I haven't found fertile CM this cycle, I assume it's because there's a bun in the oven, not because I'm a dried up barren hag. And this morning, when on CD21 (with no aforementioned EWCM in sight) I started spotting, I didn't assume I was annovulatory or that this cycle is a bust. Nope, my first thought was implantation. Implantation of an egg that wasn't released that combined with one of his six retarded sperm to finally form our healthy bouncing baby. Maybe twins.

But wait - the delusion gets deeper and more twisted!

I did realize at some point that it isn't very likely that I'm experiencing implantation spotting. (Although we did have sex 8 days ago...) I know that at this point we need serious intervention to make egg and sperm meet. So the only possible answer is that I'm miscarrying again. Miscarrying after my IVF, which resulted not only in a negative beta, but a full, bloody, clotty period. Yet somehow those embryos stuck it out until now, when I'm losing them. If anyone wants to call the people in white coats to cart me away I will understand.

But wait...maybe all 3 of my IVF embryos implanted (late, obviously) and although I'm miscarrying now, maybe the other two are still sticking! Maybe I'm pregnant! With twins!

eternal not-quite-a-pessimist

2008-05-22T14:10:00.000-07:00

Believe it or not, I spend a lot of time trying to be ok with our baby situation. Trying to understand that while it's painful and so so tiring, we're really doing ok in the end and have a lot to be thankful for. I even try to see the good in our infertility sometimes, although let's be honest - it's not easy to think positively about a needle poking through your vaginal wall to assault your bloated ovaries...and paying for it!

I'd like to say that I try to keep an optimistic outlook so that I am a whole, complete human being. But mostly it's so that I'm not a hypocrite when I complain about others' incessant whining.

A girl I know (and foolishly considered a friend for a brief length of time) got knocked up, reportedly while on birth control. She has since spent every moment complaining about how miserable she is that she's pregnant. She's not breathed a single happy word about her pregnancy. Hasn't shared a single positive thought. I believe that unwanted pregnancies can be as difficult on the mother-to-be as infertility is on a woman who dreams of a baby that isn't to be. I understand being confused and scared. But at some point we all need to get a grip and accept what is instead of what could have been. She may not have made the decision to get pregnant, but she did make a decision to stay pregnant. Maybe it's time to stop resenting the situation. Stop looking at the pregnancy as undesired, such a burden, a parasite and start respecting the child that's growing.

And for crying out f'ing loud, maybe now isn't the time to say "I got really down about how long it could potentially be until we adopt". It's great that you dream of adopting. It's great that you have the resources to "just adopt". But for fucks sake - you have a child living inside you who you've done nothing but complain about. Can we not shift focus a bit? Can we not try and be a little glass half full?

So funny I forgot to laugh

2008-05-15T18:11:00.000-07:00

This blog is not turning out how I'd planned. I thought I would have witty commentary on the funnier bits of infertility. Feet in the stirrups, stim bruises shaped like the Virgin Mary, wacky bleeding - oh how the bleeding is wacky! But as it turns out, infertility just isn't that funny. Who would've guessed?

I used to find humor in nearly everything - often inappropriately. But more and more my life seems less humorous. I'm hoping I regain some sense of whimsy - and fast! - because if my husband and I get divorced from the stress of IF I'll need "great sense of humor" to beef up my personal ad. "Barren and bitter" just doesn't have the same cache.

not so merry unbirthday

2008-05-14T17:00:00.000-07:00

I feel like today of all days I need to write. Write about how much I miss my babies. About how hard it is to watch others move forward when I feel eternally left behind. Write about the regrets I have and hope I struggle to find. And yet I don't have the words to say any of this.

****************

My dear babies. I miss you so much. I wish you were with me and we could all celebrate your birthday together. I wish I could laugh with you, read to you, teach you how to clap and stand. I wish I could watch you grow and wonder who you'll become, instead of wondering who you *would've* become. I think about you daily and even when I think I'm doing ok there's always a lingering emptiness that only you two could've filled. I hope that someday your dad and I will have a child to hold. We're giving everything we've got to fufill that dream. But even if I have my baby in my arms I don't doubt that you will always be on my mind. I love you and I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.

for the greater good

2008-05-09T16:18:00.000-07:00

I had my WTF appointment this morning. You know the one - talk about what went wrong, why Mother's Day is going to be a f'ing nightmare instead of a blissful holiday and try to figure out what to do next if only we had the money. I wasn't expecting much, especially considering this was only the 3rd time I'd ever met the doctor (including my embryo transfer). I'm pretty certain she didn't recognize me and quite likely had never really studied my chart. Such is life when you're part of a clinical study.

I got about as much satisfaction out of the appointment as I'd expected (i.e. little to none) but I did get one thing I never anticipated: an admission that they completely screwed up my protocol right from the start. Talking a mile a minute the doctor announced that they've been really busy with the study and didn't take the time to tailor the protocols of the early cases. But don't worry - they've straightened it all out. Girls cycling now are getting individual attention instead of just random stabs in the dark. (Or rather, in the gut.)

And I'm supposed to be happy about this why? I know I signed up to be part of a science experiment, but I foolishly expected I'd get as much attention as anyone else. I'm glad that my failed cycle won't be repeated on other desperate women, but what good does it do me? We all know I'm a generous, giving soul, always happy to sacrifice my own needs for the comfort and well being of others, but, um...WTF?

In other exciting news, our sperm count on the day of the retrieval was 0.0001 million. No, that is not a typo. His balls have been revolting for some time now, but that? That is outright mutiny. And yet a month and a half ago at his most recent analysis we had 8 million of the little buggers. And to think, I'd been fantasizing this week that just maybe we'd get pregnant by having S.E.X. Looks like the nutsack in charge has something to say about that little delusion.

Back to the drawing board.

Cap and Hospital Gown

2008-05-04T11:05:00.001-07:00

I received an invite to a high school graduation the other day and I couldn't help but reflect on the fact that I've never actually graduated anything. I moved 1200 miles to Texas just before my senior year of high school and rather than be the awkward new kid (as opposed to the awkward old kid I'd been back home) I decided to get my GED and head directly to college. But after a year at university a job at a record store seemed more appealing and I quit to become a full time indie-chick. Yet another graduation thwarted.

I expected I'd do a bit of graduating tomorrow, from an IVF cycle-r to an IVF success story. With my history I knew that a couple of lines on a stick wouldn't mark me as a success just yet, but at least I wouldn't be a failure, doomed to sit at the back of the fertile class with a big pointy "Barren" hat on my head. Nope, I'd be a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, star student, concerned about doubling betas and yolk sacs. I could feel it. Things were happening. Things were growing. I was finally gonna graduate.

But after countless pee-sticks (ok, 9 pee sticks - so sue me) it appears that yet again, I am left behind. Girls cycling with me have already announced their BFPs, while I pray for that hail Mary: the + beta after a - HPT. But I know it's not coming. Regardless of what my fertile friends are saying, all the hope in the world isn't going to plant growing embryos firmly in my uterus by tomorrow morning. If hope did anything I wouldn't be doing IVF in the first place.

But on second thought, it looks like I will be graduating tomorrow. Not to the world of Success After Infertility, but rather to the rank of Infertility Veteran. Looks like I'm about to earn my wings. Somehow graduating isn't quite how I expected. And it sure ain't all it's cracked up to be.

The Holiday Season

2007-10-16T16:24:00.000-07:00

Apparently yesterday was not only National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, but was also National Shit Blood Day. I, being a good god-fearing American, chose to celebrate both!

Almost exactly a year ago I learned that my twins (identical, conceived "naturally" after only 5 months of trying) had died in utero at 9 weeks. Days, weeks (ok, months) of weeping, mourning, gnashing of teeth were to come. But before any of that I had a D&C and a couple of really handy prescriptions (ambien, valium AND vicodin - on doctor's orders?!). Only one thing snapped me out of my drug induced haze. 3 days after the D&C, on October 15th, I went to the bathroom, expecting a gush of blood from one orafice and was shocked to find it spurting from the other, seedier and generally less bloody one. For the second time that week I called the on-call doctor at my OBGYN, panicking about the mess in the toilet. (Apparently I was rewarded for my miscarriage with hemorrhoids. I have all the luck.)

Imagine my surprise when I went to the bathroom yesterday after lighting my Pregnancy Loss candle and found that for the second time in my life, I'd crapped red. How sweet that even my bowels chose to pay tribute to my losses. (Either that or this blog will quickly become less about infertility and more about colon cancer. Stay tuned!)