How to get from 0 to pregnant in 365 easy steps

No really, every boy needs a tractor.

2010-12-30T14:46:00.003-05:00

Yes, indeed, 2010 would not be complete without a nearly lifesize, or boysize, tractor. How the worm turns.

Happy New Year!

One Year.

2010-08-16T15:52:00.003-04:00

One year. A year. Already. I was prepared to be overwhelmed by the love I would feel for my little Adam. I was unprepared for what fear would feel like. Stark, paralyzing, heart wrenching fear that something, anything could happen to my little boy. It scares the hell out of me, but I've never felt so alive. To love like this...to have such a wonderful, funny, smart (oh, she can go on and on and on) little boy. And to think, it almost wasn't.

One year. On Wed. One year ago. My little boy. My funny little bad boy who warns me before he does something he's not supposed to..."no, no, no" (pronounced "nyah, nyah, nyah") with a shaking of the head and a wagging of the finger. Whose little eyes squint like his Mommy's and whose skin color is ridiculously tan like his Daddy's. My little boy who walks like a little Frankenstein with arms extended and points to every person, in every picture as "Mama." My avocado loving and paper eating sweet boy.

Sigh.

One year.

hey Baby

2010-07-10T17:46:00.002-04:00

Almost 11 months old. My little Adam is helmet free and if you look closely, you can see bumps and bruises and battle scars. He's walking and into everything. EVERYTHING. Behind him is a stack of newspapers; what you can't see are the weeks of newspapers on the floor. I'm getting better about not stressing about the constant mess, but years of OCD are difficult to shed. He's finally, finally consistently sleeping through the night.

Isn't he a cutie? Really, isn't he just a cutie!

My Big Boy

2010-06-05T10:13:00.002-04:00

My boy is not so little anymore. Almost 10 months old. Crawling, standing, babbling, almost just about there trying so hard to walk. Sleeping through the night. Although 6:30am like clockwork feels pretty damn early. He has his own little personality and eight little chicklet teeth.

So, so, so worth it.

Go Speed Racer, Go

2010-03-13T10:27:00.002-05:00

My little furry headed boy is now a helmet head. His torticollis and our slavish insistence that he sleep on his back (swaddled as tightly as a burrito) has resulted in a flat head. Parental guilt dictates that that be corrected, as well as the possibility that the bald is beautiful movement heats up in his later years. He has adjusted well; his parents? Not so well.

Our first experience with another little helmet head was at the plastic surgeon's office for Adam's consultation. I went over to talk to the mother (of said little helmet head) to find out how it was going and got a good look at her son. One eye was squinty, the other was as wide open as a cyclops. His skin around the helmet was red and scratchy and he looked, well, foul. She brought him over to see Adam, who eyeballed the boy and then looked up at me and said, "Ah Goo." "Ah Goo" is universal Adamese for, "what the hell are you getting me into." I assured him that he was too darn cute to get the permanent stink eye.

Take a look at the picture above. Yes, Ah Goo.

He's actually loving the helmet, though it's impeding some of his developmental milestones. For example, he's learned that crawling's more fun if he uses his helmet to propel himself forward rather than his hands. Look, Ma, no hands! I've caught him banging his head on the hardwood floors and deliberately rolling into furniture just to experience the inner helmet twanging sensation. The great thing is that he was helmeted during our viewing of the winter Olympics so he was able to bond with his own kind.

His sleeping sucks, truly sucks. I'm not sure if it's helmet related or teething related, but he's definitely regressed. Last night, he woke up every three hours. Crying, inconsolable. I can handle this much better now than when he was an infant and I didn't know what the hell I was doing. I still don't know what the hell I'm doing but I figure the child will sleep through the night at some point in his life. It now makes sense to me why people have children in their 20s and not their 40s; they're too young and dumb to have any expectations.

I hope all is well out there in blogland. More later.

What Happens When the Rents are at Work.

2010-02-23T21:35:00.002-05:00

Usually Adam and Rodrigez (the Rat) cage fight in the pack-n-play. Many, many times, I've glimpsed over at my child and Rodrigez

has pinned the poor lad. I was happy to see that, while I was at work, Adam and Rodrigez learned to play well together. Look at the handholding and laughter. I was also impressed that they were able to set up the camera and get such a good shot of them playing nicely. And Adam's only six months old. Rodrigez, no idea when he was manufactured.

Well lookee there....

2010-01-30T11:38:00.001-05:00

Two little toofers.

Imagine Whirled Peas

2010-01-23T12:48:00.003-05:00

Milestones for this week:

1. Did not detest peas. In fact, ate them all. What???

2. The tips of two little bottom teeth made their appearance. Two tiny little nubbins.

3. Reached out for his mommy. Reached his little chubby arms out for his mommy. Me. Melt.

4. Slept 11 hours last night. Hear the chorus of angels?

I am so tempted to go on and on and on about this child. I truly have become one of those women. I gush and rave and pontificate about this boy, this magical child. No one could have prepared me for how I would feel. I'm waiting for the moment someone says to me, "um, would you shut about that child, people have been loving their children for centuries." But, until then...

Is it ethical to give codeine to a baby?

2010-01-10T12:30:00.002-05:00

I KID, I KID. Really, the sleeping is getting better. In other words, the adult members of the household are getting more sleep, so functionality is definitely on an upswing. In the days of sleeping glory, we would put Adam down, swaddled, at around 10pm and he usually slept until 5am or so. Now, in our unswaddled world, we put him down around 8pm, he sleeps until 2am, and on a really, really fabulous night, he'll then sleep until 7:30am. Last night he was up at 1am and again at 5:30, but he slept until 8:30am. It's just strange how it's all changed.

But, then, he's changed. He's rolling over...and over...and over. Yesterday, he rolled all the way across the room. I asked him to roll to the fridge and get me a beverage, but that's sort of an advanced skill. Next week. He's fascinated with his hands, though he's chewing them until they're raw. He flexes his fingers and waves his hands in front of his face, simply mesmerized. You can hear his little baby brain thinking "wow, these are mine, look at the cool shapes they make." But the best, most delightful Adamism is the laughing out loud, "Dad, you're hysterical," stuff. Everything just delights him. And his mom and dad just stare, rapt.

On the non-Adam front, work is crazy and it's crazy cold here. I'm not a winter girl, I abhor being cold and it's damn cold. But, my little chunkopotamous takes the edge off...

To Sleep, perchance...

2010-01-01T21:21:00.002-05:00

My boy has always been a good sleeper. (I note that "always" refers to his mere five months of life.) Except for the last week. The last looonnngg seven days. He's teething. He's congested. And, he can flip from his back to his front and back again, so the pediatrician said it isn't safe to swaddle him anymore. No swaddle = No sleep. No sleep = pyschopath mom. I'm stymied on this one.

night one with no swaddle -- Adam slept on his side for 4 hours then woke up screaming. He slept in fits of 2 hours the rest of the night.

night two with no swaddle -- The nanosecond I put his sound asleep body in the crib, he immediately flipped to his belly and started crying. After three pick ups and soothings, he went to sleep and repeated the pattern from night one.

night three -- ditto. mom cries. yells at dad. surely it's his fault.

And so on.

So I ask, what the hell? How can a baby who's used to sleeping 8+ hours a night revert to a newborn?

Oh Come Let Us Adore Me

2009-12-24T09:36:00.004-05:00

My boy has had his share of love and affection these days. He's been passed from cousin to cousin to Auntie to grandmother to mother back to cousin. At first there was a bit of quivering of the bottom lip, which quickly turned into coos and smiles and displays of advanced babyness, you know, recitation of multiplication tables and the elements of various torts or tortes. He's a well rounded 18 week old. Truly.

A year ago I was pregnant. And today I have my happy, smiley, giggly boy.

Best Christmas ever.

What Kind of Mother Am I?

2009-11-25T16:37:00.002-05:00

I've learned many things about myself in the last 14 weeks.

For example, I will put a furry reindeer hat on my child and take him out in public. Even though he looks like a Russian oligarch and in spite of the look you see at the right.

I will physically stop a stranger from touching my child. Hell, I'll even stop a nonstranger from touching my child if said nonstranger hasn't washed his/her hands and bathed in Purell.

Babies fascinate me. My own baby. Other people's babies. I had no idea babies were so interesting. I always liked older children...preferably at the age when they could do tricks. But babies have turned out to be fascinating. Who knew?

I could never be a stay at home mom. Too hard. Much harder than boardrooms and corporate intrigue and class actions. I am forever amazed and awed by the power and majesty of the stay at home mom.

On the other hand, I've never been so happy to get home from work and see my boy. That big gummy smile. Those chunky little legs (his, not mine). Those little squinty eyes so similar to my own. Boy oh boy, do I love this child.

It was almost a year ago that I began the IVF that brought us Adam. I went back and read through the posts and was struck through the heart of how immensely lucky we are. So, so very lucky. Lucky that the cycle worked, finally, and lucky that we were in a position to keep trying. And very cognisant that he almost wasn't.

We have much to be thankful for. Happy Thanksgiving.

A new woman

2009-10-15T10:16:00.003-04:00

Two months.

Six hours.

A promise.

Two months.

Six glorious, splendiforous hours.

A promise kept.

Adam is two months old.

Last night he slept six hours straight. Merciful God. Six glorious, life affirming, eye bag reducing hours.

In exchange for those hours, I promised I would never again stuff him into a too small polo onesie, flip the collar and prop him up for a photo session.

He agreed.

I am a happy woman. Praise be.

Time Does Fly.

2009-10-05T10:28:00.002-04:00

7 weeks tomorrow. I've started several posts...one about the birth, one about the first few weeks, one as recently as yesterday and, while time has flown, my words have fallen flat. I lack the talent to articulate how my smiling boy has changed my life. How his little self has sent my spirits and my heart soaring and at the same time brought me to my knees. Rejoice at the milestones, the first smile, the first coo (oh yes, "ma ma" will be the first word even if it isn't); frustration at his cries (all your needs are met little boy, what could possibly cause your tears?); worry for his well being which will surely plague me the rest of my days; and acute vulnerability...how is possible to feel so much so deeply? It's true, nothing could have prepared me for this. All of this. The love, yes, absolutely. Joy, wonder, awe. And at times the frustration, the dizzying inability to figure out his cries on top of crushing fatigue. (Trust me, you can have an army of help and you will still be tired.) But always, always, the pinch-me-it-can't-be-true, this child is mine.

It was all worth it. Every. Single. Step.

In the Beginning...Adam

2009-08-20T19:40:00.001-04:00

August 18, 2009. 6 lbs, 12 ounces. 21 inches. Our Adam.

Sweet Time

2009-08-11T12:57:00.002-04:00

I saw the ob on Monday. I get the distinct impression he's tired of pregnant women because he never wants to talk about, well, pregnancy. My pregnancy. He measures, he waves the doppler, he checks my cervix, all while talking about the state of health care in America today and his last 18 holes. Golf, people, golf. Then I interrupt and ask the pertinent questions, like my glucose levels, strep test, and, of particular concern to me, what's happening down there??!! Strangely, I really like the guy, he's funny as hell, he's purportedly the best perinatologist in the city, but, he's amazingly nonchalant. He fails to understand that Adam is not the result of a wild drunken romp, but the result of life altering good luck, plenty of science and the financial equivalent of a Porsche Cayenne.

All that to say, Adam's taking his sweet time. I'm not dilated, but my cervix has thinned since last week. I knew this anyway because my little Alien is playing hammer time with my bladder. My hands and feet are swollen and strangely, the bottoms of my feet hurt. I'm sure it has nothing to do with the four, 5 lb bags of potatoes I've added to my frame. My largeness is becoming painful, particularly as it affects my fashion sense. Tentwear is so passe. So, I feel relatively sure that I won't be giving birth anytime soon.

That's all I know for now. Other than it's 1000 degrees outside and if my feet don't go back down to a 7 1/2 after giving birth, I will be cutting off toes and expensing the Jimmy Choos I have yet to wear from Adam's college fund. I'm not kidding.

The Final Lap

2009-08-08T03:26:00.002-04:00

I never believed I would be in this place. 37 weeks and 2 days pregnant. So very, very close to meeting my Adam. Like most people in a transition stage, I'm heart stoppingly excited to close this out and wrap this up, but also so very mindful of where I've come from, where I've been. The struggle, the heartbreak to get to this point has made me so very, very thankful for each day.

Many of the people I started out with got pregnant long before I did. Others lost babies. And others are still in the fight. There is no equitable treatment here it seems. Many times I have started to post and stopped because my joy must come across like sandpaper for many. I remember so clearly how difficult it was to celebrate and feel joy for others who succeeded while I stayed where I was, sometimes treading water, sometimes sinking under, but never making it to shore.

Who knows why or how this worked. For all the science, this is still mystery. We've learned a lot, but only a speck when you consider what we don't know. My greatest hope is that five, ten year from now, infertile couples will have more chances, more hope, and greater access. We were very fortunate to be in a place to afford the many treatments. Many can't, I know.

So I will say it. I have loved every minute of this pregnancy. Feeling him move, watching my belly undulate brought me tears and laughter and wonder and a secret kinship with my little Alien. I have been blown away by the wonder of all this and sucker punched with love, truly overwhelming love, toward a little human I haven't ever seen except in grainy ultrasound pictures. Could he really be mine? It has changed...everything. I am just awed. Awed.

I'm so very close. According to the doc, nothing's happening yet, which is good. I have an amazing amount to get done in a short period of time.

Almost there.

Failure and Redemption

2009-07-01T14:01:00.005-04:00

About two weeks ago, I didn't just "not pass" my glucose screen, I failed it. FAILED IT. No equivocation, no borderline result, no "let's just prick your finger again, sweetie." My screen was a 183. Cut off is 135. Three hour test is Monday. Three hours. I was advised to eat less fruits, sweets, starches, carbs; in other words, enjoy to your heart's content everything you have grown to hate. Asparagus or dirt encrusted vegetable dipped in mud? Have at it! Carrots marinated in vinaigrette of cow pasture? Enjoy! I could weep. Oh, and the piece de resistance? You really should exercise more. Does walking to my car count?

The three hour test was fine until the third hour. I was lightheaded, nauseous, irritated, uncomfortable and borderline mean. I spent the last hour waiting for my blood draw in my car with the seat reclined and window cracked to get some air because the waiting room was atrocious. Small, uncomfortable and occupied by another 3 hour test dummy who went out for smokes after each blood draw. I. kid. you. not. A pregnant woman who went outside to smoke. Cigarettes. There's so much to say about that one that I'll pass. What I will say is that the after smell of the cigarettes tipped me over the edge. No exaggeration, the worst I have felt my entire pregnancy was during and after that third after.

The good news is that my results came back borderline. Of the four numbers, only one was too high. The last number was precipitously low, leading the nurse practitioner to comment "you must not have been feeling too well." On the nose, honey. So, I was instructed to cut out sweets (NOOOO), reduce fruits (NOOO), milk and yogurt, and eat only complex carbs. I asked if a time consuming recipe for pasta with cream sauce counted as a complex carb. Um, no. Oh and exercise. I get tired walking to my car.

Strangely, I continue to feel really well. Adam's room is done and I love it. Light blue, chocolate brown and cream. And the overstuffed rocker and ottoman -- chocolate brown with light blue polka dots--cute beyond cuteness.

Not long now. Not long at all.

Orthodontia

2009-06-20T09:52:00.002-04:00

Meet my son. The son who removed his thumb from his mouth for exactly 20 seconds, which resulted in the above picture. The hand didn't move far from his face. I will be saving for his future orthodontial needs. My 30 minutes with him started with thumb firmly in mouth. His, not mine. Then fingers in mouth. Next, removal of hand and licking of arm. Then he spied his foot. I believe he thought for a few seconds about the possibility of foot in mouth, something of which his mother knows well. Finally, he smiled in the general direction of the ultrasound wand and his mother, father and grandmother melted. Thumb went back into mouth.

I now know why women are blind and dumb when it comes to their children. I think he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And the smartest. And funniest....

MIA and TKO

2009-06-14T07:38:00.003-04:00

Forgive me Internet, for I have sinned. Not only has it been weeks and weeks since my last update, I have no justifiable and excusable excuse other than WORK IS KILLING ME. Last week, I flew to Oklahoma City for a meeting from Tuesday - Friday, then Friday morning to Chicago, then home Friday night. Emergency at work right after landing. Home late. Pizza ordered. Alas, no pleasures involved in these excursions. No massages, pedicures, shoe shopping. No leisurely dinners in fine dining establishments and side trips to areas of interest. Work, yes just work. The girl is tired. Stress levels still ok (how is that even remotely possible???), but physically tired. Drained. Ready to take that brass ring and shove it up...

The good news is that my Little A is a trooper. He's kicking and punching and hanging out like a little champ. At one of my more contentious meetings last week, I swear he was giving me the universal sign of peace and humming "Give peace a chance." Tie dye onesies coming up. I have an ultrasound on Thursday and I'm over the moon to see what's happening. Actually, I'm more anxious to check out his environs. I feel certain that he's hung up a disco ball, playing twister and throwing back amniotic martinis. I like this kid. And I feel really good. No swelling, no real uncomfortableness, sleeping great. My only complaint is a week or two ago I had some slicing pain in my neck and shoulders, but heat wraps and hot showers have taken care of it. I attribute it to tension.

E and I went on the "Expectant Parents Hospital Tour." Our nurse guide referred to the group as "mommies and daddies." She demonstrated the squat bar and explained--in detail--the births of her five children at this very hospital, can you believe it, this. very. hospital. Oh, and all natural births by the way. My observation that a natural birth was any exit of a baby from a womb absent lures of baby ferraris and counterfeit $100 bills met with silence. We left shortly thereafter, but we do know where to check in. I haven't taken any birthing classes, which I was ambivalent about to begin with. I feel certain I can swing it without having to sit through class every Thursday from 5:30 to 8pm. Famous last words probably.

I am just so excited to meet this kid. I attribute a lot, most, all (?) of my relative calm these days to him and keeping him safe and protected. And knowing that my responsibility is his well being. It's put the rest of my life in perspective, I think. Work may be stressful and busy and maddening at times, but it's not the most important gig I've got going these days. I've got my Little A.

Almost 30 weeks and counting.

Best Laid Plans

2009-05-16T08:33:00.002-04:00

My plans, giggle, for this pregnancy were to take it easy. Certainly to maintain the full load I always have at work, but also to take time for myself, take a full three months maternity leave, transition back in, etc. In short, to relish in my role as a #2 at work...to thank the lucky stars that my wildest professional dreams hadn't yet been answered and I'm not the key decisionmaker. My corner office dreams were relegated to the corner closet. For a while.

Ah, best laid plans.

Now it turns out the big job is dangling right there. In fact, I'm Acting Holder of Big Job ("AHBJ") for the next 30-45 days. Completely out of the blue, due to exceedingly uncomfortable circumstances, but nonetheless, I've got a 45 day dress rehearsal for the Big Job. In the interest of full disclosure, I'm a close second to the front runner, an exceptionally talented (and likable) woman who's been promised a top job for several years. I've got the advantage in other ways, but I've still got to stretch to get this. I'm exhilarated, excited, nervous and, yes, a little pissed off. Of all the %$#@ times in my professional life to have the opportunity to reach for the brass ring, I've got my miraculous, belly kicking love affair on board and my stomach makes stretching for that oh so ellusive brass ring a bit awkward and unwieldy. Yes, yes, it's true that I've already got the brass ring doing jumping jacks inside me, but the other part of me, a big part, a part that must be nourished and fed and cared for too, needs to see how far she can go because that's who she is.

I'm exceptionally blessed that I've felt really, really good this pregnancy. And I continue to feel good. Surprisingly, I haven't felt overwhelmed or stressed. I've felt, feel, energized. And I'm trying to put this all into perspective. That either way, it will work out. If I get the Big Job, I'll be the first woman to have reached that post at my company. If I don't, I'll still have a satisfying career, a shot at the Big Job later and more time. I'll be disappointed, yes, but the gig I've got now ain't a bad one.

I have very much simplified what's going on and have probably, well certainly, glossed over my feelings about everything. I haven't simplified my feelings of calm though. If this had happened a year ago, I would have been stressed to the limits of human endurance. I'm not. I have never been happier in my life. Never. And it's not because of AHBJ. In fact, AHBJ is significantly less of a miracle than my Little A. Maybe it's because of Little A that I think anything's possible and that everything's achievable, everything being, I hope, the grace to accept whatever comes.

Best laid plans.

P.S. I will save the story of assembling the changing table last weekend for later. The changing table with 14 pages of instructions in Spanish and 4 ziploc bags containing a motley assortment of metal and wood thingies. I will also skip over the slamming of part A into my tender head which likely resulted in a concussion of which I haven't yet recovered, contributing to my unusually calm state of mind. But I'll save that for later.

First Saturday in May

2009-04-27T16:38:00.005-04:00

Around these parts, the first Saturday in May is a big deal. Fast horses and beautiful women. Fast women and beautiful horses. Mint juleps. Trifectas. And....hats. Big, over the top, match the dress to the hat, hats. My hat last Derby was so big I strained my neck. Because I'm a trooper (and my shoes matched my hat), I continued to wear the hat, just drank more to compensate. I love hats. Others' opinions notwithstanding, hats love me.

Until this year.

I will not be wearing a hat to the Kentucky Derby. I make this decision last weekend while posing in front of my mirror donning one of my favorite hats from yesteryear. I looked like a flying knocked up nun, a mushroom that had swallowed a dung beetle...I looked silly. I wonder if I will have to enter the track through the "non hat wearers" door, located so far on the backside that the powers that be hope you'll give up in frustration and go home to watch the races on TV? It's a sad story, I know.

In other news, the issue of "showers" has arisen. I'm very flattered and touched that dear friends and family have offered to throw me baby showers, but the thought of a shower makes me feel twitchy and itchy and rash-like. It would be different I suppose if I weren't 39 years old and not already scarred by the endless Saturday afternoons I gave up to guess the diaper containing the tootsie roll. E thinks I'm nuts, but this is the same man who wouldn't have to attend and count tootsie rolls and also believes that people give you cribs or free college educations at these events. Silly, silly man.

So, I'm holding firm. No showers. Especially the dreaded work shower, though for different reasons. I work with a bunch of male lawyers, and support staff and paralegals who are primarily women. The bunch of male lawyers part speaks for itself. And, as wonderful as the support staff and paralegals are, I can't bear the thought of them spending their money on me. Economically, times are tough and it's just not right to put people in the position where they feel compelled to contribute, so no work shower. I will take the bakery cake with lots of icing though. The men can pony up for that.

A typical visit to the Ob

2009-04-23T16:59:00.002-04:00

Scene 1, Act 1.

Nurse: Please get on the scale.
Melanie: Ok, I will get on the scale, but I would like it noted in my file there that I just had lunch.
Nurse: Duly noted.
Melanie: So deduct 5 pounds. I've got on heavy clothing too, so better make it 6.
Nurse: silence
Melanie: And I mean it, I don't want you to tell me my weight. And don't write the number really big so that when I try to read it upside down I can't.
Nurse. Ok
Melanie: Oh, and don't leave the file where I can get it. Because I'll read it and I don't want to know.
Nurse: Get on the scale.
Melanie: Ok.

Act 2, Scene 1.

Pleasantries exchanged with doctor. Fetal heart tone identified. Fundal height measurement noted. Doctor prepares to leave.

Melanie: Hey, where are you going? You haven't told me anything...
Doctor: Everything looks great. See you in four weeks.
Melanie: Four weeks? Well, wait. Let me see what you've written down there, but, eww, wait, I don't want to see my weight.

Melanie reviews chart with doctor's hand covering the weight section.

Melanie: You know I had a big lunch before this appointment, so that weight, whatever it is, isn't technically correct.
Doctor: silence
Melanie: Anyway, so fundal height's ok?
Doctor: Yes.
Melanie: Um, heart rate sounded a little fast. You know, kind of like the old Lone Ranger series. Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum daa Dum Dum....
Doctor: Heart rate's fine.
Melanie: So what else do I need to know? Anything?
Doctor: Really, everything's fine. See you in four weeks.
Melanie: Wait, shouldn't you be scheduling me for an ultrasound before then?
Doctor: Why do you need an ultrasound?
Melanie: (thinking to herself, Why wouldn't I? Duh.)
Melanie: It's been awhile. What if he's grown another limb? He could have learned how to make obscene hand gestures since the last one ultrasound. It's best to correct these behaviors young, you know.
Doctor: silence
Melanie: We won't know anything until we take a peak.
Melanie: Oh, come on.
Doctor: (Rolls eyes) See you in four weeks.

The end.

Eww, eww, eww, call on me, I know the answer..

2009-04-22T11:14:00.000-04:00

Q: When does the fear subside?

A: Never

Sigh.

I'm a devotee of milestones; a follower of "just get to point A" then, B, then C; a staunch believer in "just make it to X, then worry about Y." I haven't abandoned my cartography tendencies this pregnancy (yes, this, my only sustaining pregnancy). At first, it was the peesticks. Let them stay positive, double pink lines, a flashing "pregnant." Check. Then the beta. Let it be high. High and strong. Higher than my first failed pregnancy. Ok, next the ultrasound. Before December 2008, I'd never been invited to an ultrasound (my own, that is) which featured more than follicles, lining checks and ovaries. Let this one have, oh I dunno, a sac? Fetal pole? A beating heart. Oh please, a heartbeat. Two? Bliss.

Setback one. Only one beating heart at 7 weeks five days. It's ok. Little A is still strong. It's not unusual to lose a twin early on. I have my Little A. Now I need to get past that most magical of all pregnancy milestones...the first trimester. Much hand wringing. Multiple ultrasounds. And, on a wing and a prayer, we make it to 13 weeks. Whew. Next up: level one ultrasound, first sequential, triple screen, second sequential, quad screen, level two ultrasound. Movement, please give me fetal movement. Ah, movement. And then we got here...almost 22 weeks.
So at what point do I get to relax? When do I get to settle in with the certainty that this little life is going to keep on living? Will I be peeing on sticks as we drive to the hospital? Last night for example, my Little A was kicking up a storm. This morning, I've felt a few little nudges but no fetal gymnastics. Am I worried? Do I find myself poking my stomach and searching out month old chocolate to prod the child into action? Hell yes. Do I drive to the ob's office to have a visit with the doppler? Hell to the yes to that too. And what does my Little A do when I get in the car to go back to work...kicks up a storm. Sort of a "I am the boss of you, mortal" gesture.

On another note, I had a funny conversation with someone at work the other day. She said to me "so have you told your husband what present you'd like for giving birth?" I was stunned into silence. Not because the woman had asked something inappropriate, but because of the utter absurdity of the thought as it applied to my life. A present for giving birth? If I make it to birth, I will have been given the most astoundingly miraculous, magical bestowal of my existence. A bestowal that was over two years in the making and sheathed in tears and sadness and uncertainty and finally, unimaginable joy. And though it pains my soul to say this (as a girl who's inordinately fond of things that sparkle) no material object in the world is suitable to commemorate the, please oh please, birth of my Little A. Present, indeed. (I guess I need not point out that it cost a Mercedes to even get to this point.)

Hello Spring

2009-04-13T11:07:00.002-04:00

Ah, glorious, happy, delightful Spring. Where have you been all my life? Yesterday, I sat outside on my cushioned lounge chair, felt the sun on my face, ignored the screaming children from two houses down (whose parents bought them a trampoline for Christmas. Grrr.) and thought, yes, this is good. Really good. Nothing in the world regenerates my spirit like spring. Except maybe sitting in my comfortable lounge chair in Spring feeling my Little A kick and punch my uterus like a little welterweight. Bliss.

Finally, I'm feeling some action in my belly. I've felt little this's and that's for a few weeks but nothing I could distinctly categorize as baby movement. Then, last Thursday, my stomach turned into microwave popcorn. Picture the old Batman TV shows...BAM, Kaboom, POW, BOOM. I can almost hear his little gurgling wail now, "I wanna speak to the warden. GIMME out of here" (in an underwater voice of course). I'm having so much fun at his expense. Dare I also admit that sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes I'll eat a cookie just to get a little feel of the fetus olympiad. I'm having way too much fun at the child's expense.

Though I was planning on waiting until, oh about 38 weeks before I bought anything for Little A, I broke down. I bought bedding. And a matching teddy bear. And matching mobile. Dear God, I bought flippin' pillows too. And somehow, a miniature pair of cargo pants and polo shirt showed up on my dining room table. And not that anyone other than me has any interest WHATSOEVER in the bedding I bought a few weeks...months early, but if you are, here's the link. http://www.rhbabyandchild.com/rhbc/catalog/product/product.jsp?productId=rhbc_prod142237&navCount=2

I am weak. Weak, weak, weak.

So here's my pledge. My next post will deal only with adult issues. I will not mention teddy bears, mobiles, adorable cargo pants or other infantile subjects. Really. Global warming, recessions and Somali pirates only.

Happy Spring!

Quad Screen Results...

2009-04-01T15:20:00.002-04:00

...came back fine. Negative for neural tube defects, risk of chromosomal issues very low. My little A seems to be doing fine. I'm doing fine. Actually, I feel great. I always thought (back in the days when I thought I could go off the pill and *zippo* fall pregnant) that I would hate pregnancy, but I don't. At all. It's added a new dimension to my feelings about ART.

Frankly, title of my blog notwithstanding, I never gave much thought to pregnancy. itself. Sure, if you go the traditional route, you have to go through pregnancy to get the desired result. The desired result was what I wanted and why I endured the sado-masochism that is IVF. I always assumed that, well, pregnancy would suck, but it was worth it. I was wrong. There is a magic and a mystery and a joy to pregnancy I never could have imagined. I'm not sure if it's because it was so difficult to get to this point or because I truly came to believe that it wouldn't happen, but either way or neither way, I'm in awe of this process.

I wonder if my ultrasound addiction fueled this? Seeing my Little A stick his hand in his mouth and cross his little frog legs (tasty side of remoulade anyone?) and drape his little arm over his eyes just slayed me. I never expected to love carrying around this little, not yet a full beer in weight, soon to be human quite so much. I mean, we haven't really met or exchanged pleasantries or hugs or handshakes, but I would leap tall buildings for him. I would slay dragons to keep him safe. How very strange it all is. Very strange indeed.

We got our first two baby gifts the other day. One was a little onesie with ducks and a matching bib. So very tiny. My husband commented that "it wasn't very masculine." I reminded him that they didn't issue guns and camo until at least 18 months. Sigh. The other gift was a blue blanket, so incredibly soft with a satin edge. A little blue blanket for my Little A. At some point I will tell him about my blue blanket and Old King Cole blanket one day. I wonder where they are?

Pronounem correctus

2009-03-25T17:26:00.002-04:00

It's a boy! An 18 week boy child who looks mighty cute on an anatomy scan. I have been out of town and up to my eyeballs in work so I haven't had time to update like I want. But I will, oh I will.

One concern is that the ultrasound tech mentioned I have "marginal previa," which sounds ominous and scary. Dr. Google seems to indicate that most instances of marginal previa correct themselves. But, as one never content to view the glass as half full when it comes to my tenuous grasp on fertility, I will be grilling my ob tomorrow for the real skinny. My hope is to avoid full scale freakout until then.

If anyone is still reading this, thanks for sticking around. More substantive posts forthcoming. (Oh, and it was fun to type the word "skinny" because I am officially out of normal clothes. After my four safety pins imploded and impaled my tender belly I broke down and bought some big girl clothes. Bliss.)

12 Steps

2009-03-11T16:30:00.008-04:00

I post the above shameful display as proof of the destructiveness of addiction. And, as one who hasn't peed on a stick in months, as clear and convincing evidence that one can beat addiction. Yes, yes, it is true that I could have additional peesticks and pictures of peesticks I haven't shared, but I don't, so trust me. As I conquered the evil peestick, I will conquer the ultrasound. I will have faith that my Little A is growing and thriving and I don't need to eavesdrop every week.

I know I can. I know I can.

Next week, that is.

Below you will see my Little A, well the lower half of him or her, taken at today's ultrasound. At the upper left is a big fat tummy, measuring 16 awe inspiring weeks. And dangling below that massive belly you will see two plump, juicy frog, er, fetus legs, gently crossed...just screaming for some spicy chipotle dipping sauce. He looks just like his mama as she waits for Raoul her beach boy to bring her a beverage. Little A was uncooperative in the sex determination department...again. Tricky fetus! I did see him (so tired of typing multiple pronouns) put his little hand in his mouth, which made me giddy with joy. After the picture below, he scrunched his little legs and kicked off the side. Did I mention with natural grace and elegance?

Two roads diverged.

2009-03-08T17:17:00.004-04:00

I remember so vividly a year and a half ago, after my first IVF had failed, how desperately I needed someone to identify with. Living in a sea of fertiles, I didn't know anyone personally who had undergone IVF; much less someone who had gone through it and failed. I stumbled upon this community and was buoyed by the positivity, the encouragement and the belief that, maybe, just maybe, it could work for me like it had worked for others. Then it seemed like it was only working for others, not me. I got pregnant with my frozen cycle a year ago and then miscarried. Many, many of the women who cycled with me then have children now (real live babies!). Same scenario, after my second IVF failure. And there I was, one of those women. Worse than a beauty school dropout, I was a late (really late) 30's repeat IVF failure.

I found that I couldn't read many of the blogs I'd started off with for many reasons; well, for one reason, because I couldn't identify, I was left behind. I hope that I said the right words and kindly expressed congratulations, of course feeling envy and "why not me's" at the same time. I was staring at the fork in the road, except it felt like a fork in my heart. Originally, E and I said that we would do two fresh IVF cycles, no more. If those two didn't work, plus any frozen cycles, that was that. We would go on, we have a great life, it wasn't mean to be. Then, after the resounding failure that was IVF #2, I told E in tears--not the gentle, flowing, you'd look good in pictures tears, but the heaving, red nosed, hiccuping kind--I have to try again. I can't live with stopping now. In my secret heart of hearts, I can't let go now because I would always wonder what if, what if. And he hugged me and agreed, because that's the man I married.

I don't know why this one worked. I don't know why after a year and a half of infertility treatments, at two months before I turned 39, I had the best cycle imaginable. Why, after countless failures and less than stellar results (that was tongue in cheek) I've ended up here, a few days shy of four months pregnant with what appears to be a healthy fetus. It's not that God answered my prayer, because to say that drives home how many other worthy prayers have not been answered. (I remember reading early on a post written by a newly pregnant woman who said "God knew that I was ready to be a mother" and how it stung me; I was the less worthy one apparently.) I believe God's intervention is not to change the outcome, but to help us deal with the outcome whatever it may be.

All of this to say that I grew to believe that I wouldn't be in this place. That at some point I would close up shop on this chapter and move on. At least as of now, it appears that the outcome could be different and I hope very much that it is. It is disconcerting the powerful emotions I have developed toward the little 5 inch creature wreaking havoc on my body (and fueling no doubt my evil longings for all things confectionery). So I'm here. And I'm very much aware that now I find myself in the same sort of place I avoided for so long. And if you're here, and you know who you are, you don't have to a say a word or leave a comment because I know, oh boy I know, how very hard it is to come to a place that has been so painfully elusive. I won't throw out any of the standardisms, like "if it worked for me it could work for anyone," because, having been on the receiving end before, it doesn't help. Not a bit.

So I will try this week to just accept that things could possibly work out ok and I will see if I can wean myself from the ultrasounds. (Cue anguished cry and hair pulling.) I make no promises though. I have my next "official" ultrasound two weeks from Thursday. I will also try very hard to be charming and win over the front office trolls, er, receptionists at the ob's office and I will also stop throwing around the "do you have any idea how many IVFs I've been through" when they treat me like a fertile. I will try. Really. I will.

First, there were pee sticks...

2009-03-03T11:12:00.003-05:00

Now, ultrasounds. My name is Melanie and I am an ultrasound addict. Yes, I have had an ultrasound every week since I conquered the peesticks. When I try to wean myself off of the ultrasounds, I get the eye twitters and the body shakes and the 1000 thoughts of what could possibly have gone wrong since the last week. Then, hands shaking, eyes bloodshot, I pick up the phone, make the appointment and vow to be stronger next week.

Soooo...

Today's ultrasound revealed a fat fetus measuring 15 weeks, one day. Little A has a four chambered heart, a good looking, chain-like umbilical cord, a lovely spine and a huge stomach. He has really long fingers, one of which was in his mouth. No view of what we believe supports my continued use of the pronoun "he," but we'll know definitively soon enough.

I also learned from the ob that I'm anemic, which explains the headaches and shortness of breath. I just assumed it was a normal part of the process, but am thrilled - thrilled I tell you - that it's not. Though it takes away my excuse for lack of regular exercise, I'm pleased.

As for the nonfetus-carrying side of me, I'm doing really well. I still haven't told work but probably will in the next couple of weeks. I'm enjoying my little secret of secrets. We've widened the circle of friends and family who we've told, and everyone has been wonderful. Not, of course, that I expected folks not to be, but still. It just seems so new and strange and unexpected and foreign. I continue to live the infertile's mantra of hope tempered with realism coupled with "do wonderful things really sustain after so much heartbreak?" I hope so.

Good news

2009-02-26T14:22:00.002-05:00

The nurse called today about the results of my blood work (the one I incorrectly called a quad screen - and I call myself informed!) and NT scan. Downs risk is 1:1300; Trisomy 18 risk is 1:680. I'm relieved. But I'm also not sure I understand the Trisomy 18 risk. The average risk for someone my age is 1:333. The average risk for Downs is 1:85. So why is my Downs risk so much more remote than my risk for Trisomy 18? Or is it apples and oranges? Or maybe the real question is why can't I just accept a little good news and roll with it??

Oh, in other news, I had my second ob appointment today. I've put on 6 pounds. I'm in a whole new hemisphere on the scale. It's a good thing I hid the cookie in my purse before I was weighed. They probably smelled it though, which is why they gently "informed" me that I really shouldn't put on more than 15 -25 lbs during pregnancy. Bitches.

13w6d

2009-02-25T14:56:00.002-05:00

I had a visit with Little A this morning, which disturbed him greatly. He went from sleeping fetus to startled fetus, complete with hiccups and gesticulating hand motions, as in "buzz off, you." The bonus was the picture of his little face, complete with nose, eyes and mouth. Bliss, pure bliss. He continues to display his little protuberance, hence the many references to "he." No one is willing to check the "male" box in ink yet but they are willing to say they've never been wrong. Hmmm. Still don't have the official results from the NT Scan, quad screen, etc. yet, so I continue to feel the flutters of anxiety. My favorite nurse told me to get over it, I'll have those flutters for life now.

We still haven't shared the news with those other than some family and some close friends. Strangely, I really have no motivation to share our news with work or the world at large for that matter. I know they'll be happy for me, but I feel like the news will be incomplete, almost out of context somehow. Here, I've been working side by side, even traveling together in some cases with many of them and they don't know squat about the journey. It almost seems trivial to say "I'm pregnant," without also saying "we've been trying a long, long time, I've cried a thousand tears, I thought at many points my sense of self was in jeopardy, and you, coworker, bitched and moaned about trivial bullshit as I nodded my head and sympathized without hearing you, and then, on the Hail Mary pass, it happened, but not out of the blue mind you, but with lots and lots of science, and I'm scared to death that my hiccuping, gesticulating little apparently male fetus won't make it, so hell yes you should be happy for me because this is a flipping miracle."

I felt the same way when I got my ultrasound at the ob's office last week. Of course, I was just one of many, many pregnant women the ultrasound tech had seen that day, but I wanted her to know that this was different. Different I tell you. Special. I mentioned that this was my third IVF, fourth really. Did I mention that I'm 39 and this was my third IVF? That fetus you're wanding almost wasn't, but look, look, do you see how special, how amazing, how magical he is? No need to squint, it's there from the top of his too big head (lots of brain there) to his little kicking feet. See those fingers, linger a minute. Don't go so quickly. Really, when have you seen fingers like that on an almost wasn't to be fetus?

It's not that I want fawning and cries of joy and proclamations that my Little A is the second coming, it's that I can't get over the mystery and magic and wonder that my Little A is even growing and wiggling and hiccuping, here, in this place, at all. So I walk around with my little secret, my amazing Hail Mary pass.

The world just ain't ready yet.

12w5d

2009-02-18T12:37:00.003-05:00

And Little A is busting off the charts at 6.8cm, measuring 13 weeks. Nuchal fold is measuring 1.12mm (!!!) and Little A has a pronounced nasal bone. (A little Cyrano de Bergerac-ish at first until the ultrasound tech mentioned the shadow. Yowza.) I'm beginning to breathe a bit easier. I had blood drawn for the triple screen and will know the results next week. I'm beginning to believe (dare I say it?) that there's a good chance that things might work out. Dare I hope?

In other news, the ultrasound tech said that they wouldn't even opine on the sex until 18 weeks. A few minutes later, she circled a very noticeable protuberance between my little fetus's legs and said, I quote, "you can draw your own conclusions from that." So, either my little A hoodwinked the ultrasound tech and somehow manipulated a very long arm between its legs or Little A could very possibly be a member of the penis clan. As one who still can't believe that at 39 she's actually pregnant, and with a human, I am again at a loss for words. A little boy.

I'm less in love with the ob's office. We sat in the waiting room for 35 minutes before I asked when I would be seen. "Did you sign in? (of course.) Oh, you're here for an ultrasound, that's across the hall (that would have been helpful....35 minutes ago). " After developing such warm relationships at the RE's office, I'm now just another face. A slightly bloated face at that. In the grand scheme of things though, I have not lost sight of how very fortunate I am to be sitting in an ob's office at all, so bitch I shall not.

Dare I say it again? All's well.

What if.

2009-02-08T18:50:00.006-05:00

Today, February 11, I'm 39. Nearly 3 years ago, if someone has asked me (while I was popping a birth control pill no doubt) if I had any concerns about getting pregnant, I'm sure I would have quipped, "giving up wine will be traumatic." Silly, silly girl. When we found out we would need to go directly to IVF, I wasn't concerned. No tears, no hesitations, I knew it would work. And then it didn't the first time, or the second. My frozen transfer didn't work. My third attempt, when I became sure that my confidence was sorely misplaced, it worked. So far.

I'm having a tough time finding my peace with being pregnant. Anyone struggling with infertility or finding herself miraculously pregnant, particularly those of a certain age, feels that she's living with the "what ifs." I'm right there. Treading water in the what if pool. I'm nervous about the NT scan next week, the blood work. I'm nervous about having an amnio. I'm wondering if my little A has a pronounced nasal bone. I'm nervous about losing easy access to ultrasounds and wandering around the what if world for weeks at a time when I'm just another (hopefully) pregnant person in a huge office of obstetricians. I'm nervous in general because I eventually came to believe that I wouldn't be in this place. What if I'm found out? I'm not shopping for maternity clothes (I've just gone from 3 safety pins on the waist of my pants to four), I'm not looking at cribs, I have no opinion on burpees or bugaboos or bedding. Oh, but I hope I will at some point.

On a lighter note, I had another ultrasound at the RE's yesterday, after a long discussion about the ubiquitous octuplets. Enough said about that though. My stomach dropped when the dildocam was inserted because Little A was as still as a 2 inch mouse. Then, wham, Little A wakes up, spreads her/his arms and, like a mini Michael Phelps without the bong, pushes off with her/his little legs and extends his/her little arms, almost like pushing off from the side of a swimming pool. My heart swelled. I'm 11 weeks, five days today and everything appears to be progressing the way it should. And in another piece of gloriousness, I'm off the PIO shots!

It's turning out to be a darn good 39th!

Oh Baby.

2009-02-04T15:29:00.002-05:00

My little jumping bean is measuring 11 weeks and 4.09 centimeters. Still cavorting and moving and, oh my dear, shaking that little bootie. We got one picture where she ("she" is necessary in this context) is lounging, legs akimbo, arms folded up behind her head like a centerfold, shaking what her mama gave her. E seems to get a little irritated with me when I refer to Little A with terms like "brazen hussy" and "jumbo lima bean," but it makes me giggle. And I didn't want to bring it up again, but 2 1/2 years and $50,000 later, I'm entitled to a little levity.

Winter, Schwinter

2009-02-03T14:14:00.002-05:00

I was going to post a picture of the asstastic amounts of snow and ice peppering the area, but decided against it. Too lazy and too tired of this winterwonderland crap. I have every reason to be making snow angels and guzzling hot chocolate, sans Baileys, but alas. (Call me ungrateful, we didn't even lose power like so many others.) The winter blues have kicked me in my widely expanding ass. No sun and cold = lack of motivation and the blues. I'm embarrassed to even be typing these words considering the embarrassment of riches I'm experiencing in my abdomen area, please forgive me. (I'm seriously considering ordering those "light therapy" fixtures...maybe enough to turn my office into a grow house.)

Tomorrow is another ultrasound with the RE and then Thursday we meet with the ob-gyn for the first time. I feel fortunate that my RE seems to have no problem with weekly visits with the dildo cam, though I was told that as much as they enjoy having us, they couldn't deliver me. Seems a tad selfish. My bright spot is to see how Little A is doing tomorrow. (Seeing that little thing last week moved me to tears. Did I mention that we saw the blood moving through its umbilical cord? Unreal.) I hope twitching and growing and, well, existing, in a big way. It seems odd to even have an ob appointment and I continue to be afraid of jinxing things. (I find a healthy dose of obsessive-compulsive disorder works nicely with acute seasonal affective disorder.) For example, I won't put up one of those baby widget things because, well, first they creep me out a little bit and two, I'm afraid Little A will hold her/his breath indefinitely until it's removed, sort of like a hunger protest. I'm still thinking of this pregnancy in the abstract I guess. After two and a half years, it doesn't seem real or possible or explainable.

God willing, I'll be 11 weeks on Friday. There will be no belly shots on this blog, so trust me when I tell you I won't be one of "those" women. You know the ones that look hot and svelte and snappy, oh and they're pregnant. No indeed. I appear to be a bit jowly and paunchy already. Couple that with the string of safety pins I need to attach my pants and I'm sure my coworkers are snickering, Damn, Melanie's looking rough. Put down that bagel, girl! I also appear to be losing braincells. Yesterday I left E's keys in the back door overnight, after safely locking said door from the inside first. I also wore his scarf to work. Never noticed. If I show up in one of his suits, I'm going to check myself into a home for wed mothers to be.

Ok, enough. If you've made it this far, you must need light therapy too...come join me in the grow house.

Is it a Gummi Bear?

2009-01-27T13:54:00.002-05:00

Nope, it's Little A, looking straight at the dildo cam, legs tightly closed (no porn star here), arms at the side, head slightly dipped. The protruding protuberance is the umbilical cord, not the eh, other protuberance. Thriving at 2.61 cm. Measuring 9 weeks, 3 days.

I feel a thousand thoughts and I can't express a single one. Not a one.

Another of many thank yous

2009-01-23T16:28:00.002-05:00

A sincere, heartfelt, resounding Thank You for your many kind words. My RE mentioned at the first ultrasound that B's sac was disproportionately smaller than A's, which could be a concern, but that he had seen many successful twin pregnancies even with different sized sacs. I ignored the former part of his comment and focused exclusively on the latter, particularly because in my world, e.g., screw the bad news and give me a *%$& glimmer of hope asshole, hope is all I got going for me on the fertility front. I thought once we saw the heartbeat at 6 something weeks, little B would pull it together and thrive, notwithstanding the stress of having A, the undulating gargantuan fetus, showing off constantly. Alas.

I very much understand that B's problems were more than sibling rivalry, obviously, but I was surprised at how much I wanted, yearned, craved, hoped that they both would make it. Kind of seems silly to type that, considering how much effort has seeded my personal path of procreation, but still. It knocks me out that a little being with a heartbeat that resembled bad reception on an old Magnavox meant so much so quickly with so little effort. We have a pretty mighty capacity for love, wouldn't you say?

All that rambling to say that I'm ok, really. I'm thrilled to have A wriggling and cavorting away. And have to believe, with all my heart, that A will stick around for the long haul. On a lighter, or heavier note depending on how you look at it, I really must shave 1000 calories off my daily diet now (hello, two sausage biscuits and chocolate milk for breakfast, and goodbye).

Thanks again for your kindnesses.

The fickle hand of fate...

2009-01-22T15:55:00.002-05:00

My little B twin didn't make it. I feel such disappointment and at the same time such joy that A is thriving. The two emotions kind of cancel one another out, huh? How strange to go from really wanting only one child, to becoming so invested and, well, in love with the idea of two. No limits to our hearts, I guess?

A is still measuring one day ahead and continues to twitter about in its little sac. Kind of reminds me of those seahorses you could order from the back of Archie comics. 2.16 centimeters. I'm hoping for hearty stock with that one.

Inner strength and Fortitude

2009-01-21T14:53:00.004-05:00

Mine currently lasts 6 days. Let me explain. I can make it to day 6 after an ultrasound until I start "the process," which always involves a Dr. Google search consisting of [how far along I am], [twins] and [miscarriage]. (Last week I lasted 4 days, but let's discount that pitiful lack of will power while I move on with my story.) Dr. Google then produces 1,345,987,098 hits of women who have had miscarriages on [how far along I am], and grim statistics proving that women who have suffered infertility, who are over the age of 35, who have had a previous miscarriage and who have had blond highlights and split ends since age 16, a tendency to the occasional acerbic comment and a passion for shoes have a miscarriage rate of 79.8% at [how far along I am]. At which point I shut the office door (usually), fondle my breasts for any sign of tenderness and then feeling none, sulk until quittin' time and go home and sulk some more.

It is a sad, sad, sad story. I can completely understand why Tom dropped $50,000 on a sonogram machine for Katie.

Oh, one other factoid. I will be 39 on February 11th. It's actually quite a nice number until you start thinking about how old you are in dog years, analogous to fertility years, which makes me 273 years old.

Blame it on the hormones?

2009-01-20T10:19:00.002-05:00

Last Thursday, I felt fantastic. Really, really good. No headaches, no hung over feeling. Still would rather eat a cheeseburger than do 30 minutes on the elliptical, but that's par for the course (actually that's an eagle). So, I called my husband and said "I'm a little worried I'm feeling so good, maybe something's not ok." Silence. I could hear the eye rolling. "Everything's fine. We have an appointment on Monday. You'll see then." Silence on my part. "You're thinking about going for another ultrasound aren't you." Denial. "No, I can wait until Monday."

Fifteen minutes later, I'm on my way to get another ultrasound. Amazing. I could see Twin A moving. As in jitterbugging. The nurse pointed out A's little arm. Wow. A's an overachiever and is measuring a day ahead. Twin B is still measuring a day or two behind, but has a strong heartbeat. I think I saw Twin A waving at B, as in "wish you had one of these don't you sucka?" I'm concerned that A isn't learning how to get along well with others.

So, no ultrasound yesterday; I have to wait until Thursday. I'm digging this ultrasound on demand action.

If you're looking for proof that there's more mystery than science to IVF...

2009-01-15T12:43:00.004-05:00

Look no further than my infertility journey. Note to the Fates: This is not to suggest that this pregnancy is a sure thing, but rather to prove that you, Fates, have the control, certainly not me.

IVF #1 - November/December 2007
FSH - 6
BCPs, no lupron
150 units Follistim, 150 units Menopur
Ganirelix, estrogen tabs, estrogen patch
baby aspirin
No acupuncture
Retrieval: 14 eggs, 9 mature, 7 fertilized via ICSI
3 day transfer - one eight cell, one five cell, froze two blasts
Lining = 8
BFN

FET#1 January 2008
Cancelled due to thin lining (6)

FET #2 February 2008
both blasts survived the freeze, both transferred
lining 8ish
BFP, chemical pregnancy

IVF #2 August/September 2008
BCPs, no lupron
150 units Follistim, 150 units Menopur, after 4 days raised to 200 Follistem, 225 Menopur
Ganirelix, estrogen tabs, estrogen patch
baby aspirin
Acupuncture
Retrieval: 5 eggs, 4 mature, 4 fertilized via ICSI
3 day transfer - two eight cells, froze one blast
Lining = 8.7
BFN

IVF #3 (WTF cycle) December 2008 (Donor egg discussion until FSH came back at 6)
BCPs for less than two weeks
5 units lupron (during stim), 200 units Follistem, 200 units Menopur
No estrogen tabs until 2nd week of stims, no Ganirelix
baby aspirin
Acupuncture
Retrieval: 9 eggs, 8 mature, 8 fertilized via ICSI
6 day transfer - two AA blasts, froze 3 (all AB blasts)
Lining = 9 (WTF?)
BFP, so far at 8 weeks, twins (WTF)

I have no idea why, overall, my third IVF was so much better than the first two. Logically, it doesn't make sense. What it does prove to me is that if you have two negatives in a row, you have to change something. I don't know if it was the microdose of lupron that made the difference or if I simply hit the one good cycle of my life. No idea. I regurgitate this data only to point out that there really is hope even when it feels like it's all over.

Pass me a cold one.

2009-01-14T13:03:00.002-05:00

I started a post a couple of days about how I felt fine. Really, really fine. So fine, in fact, that I almost typed "this pregnancy stuff is a breeze." Cheeky words from a woman who's only in her seventh week of pregnancy. Today, 7w6d, I kind of don't feel fine. I feel like I've been on a 3 day bender of vodka, cigarettes and cheetos. I feel hung over. Kind of ooey. Headachey. Sour stomachy. Nothing too dramatic, just out of sorts. Sad that the best way I know to describe it is hung over, but that's exactly how I feel. Don't rat me out, but yesterday, I shut my office door, closed the blinds, redirected my phone calls, spread my coat out on the floor and slept for 30 minutes. I'm fairly sure I've never done that hung over. Did it help? While napping, sure. Waking up sucked. Bed time at 8pm was a dream.

What concerns me is the headache part. I've had migraines all my life except for the last five years. Inexplicably, they just went away. No idea why. But last night I woke up with a headache on the left side of my forehead. It eventually went away with a cold cloth and Tylenol, but I so hope that this isn't going to be a trend. Particularly because Tylenol is not my drug of choice in situations such as these. Demerol, yes; Tylenol, uh no!

Even more odd than the symptom watch is how strange it feels to talk about it at all; like an impostor at a costume ball. In my deepest heart, this last IVF, my third fresh cycle, was what I needed to let go. What I mean is that I knew that I couldn't walk away from our efforts to have a biological child unless I felt that I had given it everything I had to give and then some. This 3rd IVF was that for me. Not even my harshest critic--me--could blame me from wiping my hands and saying I'd had enough. I didn't feel that after my 2nd IVF failed. I felt that I couldn't walk away. Yet. This was going to be my--dare I say it?-- closure, one way or another. Unlike with any of my other cycles, this one was just going to be whatever the hell it ended up being. I was just going to take the outcome, the good, the bad or the ugly, and deal with it. Sounds like "just relax and it will happen," huh? God, I hope not. IVF, no matter how many times you go through it, is anything but relaxing. IVF #3 gave me acceptance, even before the outcome.

All this to say, again and again and again, the fat lady (who is actually looking a lot like me these days) hasn't sung on this one. Tomorrow is eight weeks, which is excruciatingly early. No plans have been made, no decisions, no material objects dealing with maternity hood have been purchased. Just coasting. Coasting and hoping.

Week 7, which consisted of 32 days.

2009-01-12T16:10:00.003-05:00

And still two little heartbeats, both around 170 bpm. A is measuring right at 7w3d and B is measuring 7w1d.

I asked the nurse practitioner how their cycles went this last time and she said they had an 85% pregnancy rate. Wow. As one who usually hangs around in that 15% "do not pass go" percentage, it's a happy day to be in the majority. (I single handedly ruined my clinic's stats for the 36-38 year old group for the last two years straight.)

So, we live to fight another day!

Knowledge Sucks

2009-01-07T12:31:00.003-05:00

For obvious reasons, I've developed a hefty envy of fertile people over the last couple of years. No invasive procedures, no regular blood draws and weigh-ins (Weight Watchers is much cheaper, but I've heard they don't let you blame the stims for the weight gain and there's no dildocam), no daily play by plays of the inadequacies of your and your significant other's reproductive parts. Not to mention the significant cash savings the fertile enjoy. Fertiles can say just about anything and the rest of the population isn't offended. "There are millions of needy children out there and you're spending how much on fertilty treatments? Just adopt." Or "I can't even sit next to my husband without getting pregnant." Or "I'm sorry your 4th IVF didn't work out, or was it your 5th? Anyway, I can't wait to see you at my baby shower. I'm registered at Pottery Barn Kids."

What I really envy is their ignorance, and I say this--truly--in the kindest of ways. Fertiles get a positive peestick, then a bloodtest, then, ba-bam, they pop out a kid in 9+ months. Generally speaking, fertiles have no idea that a thousand things can go wrong. I envy that freedom. Infertiles know that it's touch and go, day by day, and to not even dare say the "B" word or plan a baby's room or, for God's sake, wander into a Babies.R.Us too soon. Infertiles know that a heartbeat is only as good as that day's ultrasound and that the next week can bring devastation. And we also know that no matter how many times we say "it's too early to get excited," "too much can still go wrong," our hearts get wrapped up in that little grain of rice sized life or lives exponentially more quickly than the timing of our next appointment.

Oh to be able to disassociate. To compartmentalize the joy that bubbles under the surface until the grains of rice become babies. To capture that part of yourself that knew you were going to be ok whatever the outcome before the outcome eclipsed your wildest expectations. If only those little heartbeats didn't make your own grow and swell and burst. There I've done it. Again, I've exposed my pale, vulnerable underbelly to the fickle hand of fate. Six weeks, five days and a million more to go.

I'm beginning to like 2009.

2009-01-05T10:30:00.002-05:00

Two little heartbeats. Two adults sobbing like babies.

It's so, so early, but today I'm going to allow the joy to fill every nook and cranny and heartbeat. Like Scarlett O'hara, I'll worry about the next scan tomorrow.

My God, two little heartbeats.

And she waits.

2009-01-01T20:01:00.005-05:00

Thank you for your kind words. I didn't get my blood drawn. I was actually putting on my coat and leaving work to slunk to the immediate care center for a blood draw when my phone rang. It was my practical husband who, after I explained my soon to be slunking activity, laughed out loud. He said, it will either devastate you, leave you scratching your head, researching on Google for hours or give you comfort for a short period of time. Let it go. We'll know soon enough. He's right. Really. I'm going out on a limb on this one and certainly tempting that sadistic bastard Fate, but I feel something's cooking where it should be. (A side note to the lovely Phoenix: I found some old OPKs and peed on those. I find I've developed an almost Pavlovian urge to pee on white plastic cylindrical objects. Hide the spforks.)

That said, I've found myself in a strange sort of world these last two weeks. Too soon and too many unknowns to be excited. Tinges of worry, concern. Superstition, um, yes. (Do not say 'baby" out loud because that will cause the fates to zero in on me and realize that I wasn't meant to get knocked up.) Yes, even ambivalence. Not "I could give or take this pregnancy" ambivalence, but the "if I end up having to pick up the pieces of me, I want them to be large and easily identifiable, not a million tiny shards" self protection type of ambivalence. I feel a bit like the proverbial deer in the headlights. Between us, I had come to accept that this wasn't in the cards. Disappointment after disappointment after disappointment. At some point you have to pick up the hopefully large and identifiable pieces of you and move on. Now I find that there's a better than average chance that this could work out and, frankly, I'm at a loss as how to react and act and think and feel. (I guess that means cocktails are out of the question at this point.)

So tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. If there is something there (note I did not say the "B" word because obviously it wouldn't be yet anyway, but still) can I justify a bit of excitement? I'm not talking Pottery Barns Kids or What to Expect when You're Expecting excitement, but maybe a tinge of this could possibly work out, who in the hell would have thought it, contained as much as possible joy? If there isn't anything there, well, I'll deal with that too.

Dummy

2008-12-30T09:48:00.002-05:00

I. am. a. Dummy. I should have insisted on multiple betas instead of hanging on my initial 675 by the tippy tops of my fingers. Oh and my initial progesterone level of 125. 675. 125. That's all I've got. I should have realized that my mental well being hinges on numbers, levels, counts and data. I should have scheduled that second beta, dammit, instead of wondering, hoping, praying, wishing, believing that there's something inside holding on for all he/she's worth. At the risk of sounding like the very worst of the drama queens, this is the longest two weeks ever.

My problem is that I just don't have a lot of symptoms. Little tinges of nausea, which could be directly related to the 6 chocolate chip cookies I ate in one sitting. Lots of naps, which are most likely because of behavior similar to the aforementioned and because it's the holidays and it's cold and my bed is warm. Not a lot of breast tenderness. E thinks I'm more bountiful in the chestal region, but I would argue my whole acreage is more bountiful because of my less than ladylike eating habits and my bear-like hibernation tactics. A whole lot of not really symptoms. In fact, other than a four day bout of um, well, the opposite of throwing up, I feel pretty darn good.

So, lack of data, numbers, levels and counts + feeling pretty ok = concern that nothing's really cooking where it should be. Hence, I'm a dummy.

11dp6dt

2008-12-22T14:09:00.002-05:00

675! 675. Six hundred seventy five. At my clinic, they don't do repeat betas if your number is over 300. They gave me the option of having another blood draw on Wed. I've decided against it. It will be what it will be. My ultrasound is January 5. I'm going to remain positive until then.

675. I'll take it.

Stranger things have happened, right?

2008-12-20T13:47:00.002-05:00

It's entirely too early to celebrate. Maybe if this were my first attempt, or second, or third, if you count frozen transfers, which I do.

But still, I appear to have an arsenal of positive pee sticks. And what that gives us is a shot that this will work out.

I very much hope so. Very, very, very much.

P.S. My threats against the reindeer and elves still stand.

My name is Melanie and I am an addict.

2008-12-17T08:53:00.003-05:00

I hesitate to even post this for obvious reasons, not the least of which is that I'm killing my IVF street cred. I'm thirteen days from my hcg shot at retrieval (my clinic gives an hcg shot early morning of retrieval in addition to the trigger shot you give yourself), 6dp6dt and my tests are still positive. Not glaringly, line pops up in two seconds, you're carrying a litter positive, but consistently, that's a second line positive. I started testing on Saturday after my Thursday transfer and I never got a negative peestick...one very, very light one on Sunday, but that's it. To top it off, I have no symptoms. None, so I don't even get the secret self chuckle "Ah ha ha, I will proclaim ignorance, but all signs point to pregnant." Seriously though, shouldn't the damn shot be gone by now??

I feel like a messed up a science experience. Worse, I can't stop peeing on those damn sticks. I sneak away from my office, barricade myself in the stall, flip out the evil monster of technology and tiddle away. And each time I get a line. How am I supposed to trust the little bastards until I get a baseline negative, though? I can't. And time's slipping away. The positive from my FET arrived 8dp5dt, which can't be relied upon as a control because I DIDN'T GET A DAMN HCG SHOT. Yet, if I got a real positive under similar circumstances now, EXCEPT FOR THE DAMN TRIGGER SHOT, I need to get a negative in the next 10 minutes and then a huge positive tomorrow morning to be on track. Did I just say "on track." Yes, I did.

My husband's response to all this, "that's why they scheduled the test for next Tuesday so you can test then." Yes, he did.

That's it. Done complaining. Nothing I can do about it.

100 Posts

2008-12-13T11:48:00.003-05:00

I'm certainly not as prolific as other bloggers. Over one year of blogging and only 100 posts. Still, I will chalk it up as one of life's little accomplishments. This is where I am after one year and 100 posts.

I can handle anything. That's not to say that, off the bat, I will handle anything life deals me with grace and maturity and wisdom. Certainly, there will be times that I will scream and kick and moan and "why me". I'm pretty darn confident that I'll even act like a little shit at times. But I will end up in a place of grace, of acceptance and always good humor. Despite the tears. At some point when faced with the unparalleled unfairness of life, I will turn bitter cranberries into a darn good Cosmopolitan. I believe, despite everything, that this life has been a blessing and will continue to be.

I accept that people can be insensitive, self centered, clueless fools. That includes me. I used to spend countless minutes obsessing about the ridiculously imperceptive and tactless comments made by strangers and even close friends. The "you don't have children, so you don't know what I'm talking about" or the "don't you think you're taking this too far" or that I am somehow less of a human or a woman because I don't have children variety. I accept - now - that these comments and many others about a myriad other subjects will always be around for the "sharing." And other than the few minutes I will spend gleefully retelling the affronting comment(s) to my husband and others worthy of my skewering wit with attendant commentary about the unattractive physical attributes of the dummies who made the comments of course, I will go on my merry way. I continue to try like the dickens to avoid being such an obtuse human myself. (For example, telling a new mother that her child looked like a sweet little lizard. I actually said that. Jesus.)

I hope that I've learned to be kind. I don't mean milquetoast kind or pushover kind or honey dripping from your upturned lips kind. Just kind. Respectful of the differences of others. Mindful of how words can hurt.

As to my three days of notreallybedrest, bedrest....

Loved it. Loved it. Loved it. It could only have been better if Raoul my beach boy had flown his tan perky self in from the Islands to peel my grapes. (My darling husband tried very, very hard but his grape peeling skills are deficient.)

And I have POAS, but it looks like the trigger shot still isn't out of my system. I thought it was supposed to be gone in 10 days, but it's still showing positive on 11 days post trigger. Oy.

Transfer

2008-12-11T12:29:00.003-05:00

2 AA blasts transferred this morning. Looks like we'll have three to freeze. We considered transferring three, but the thought was that it would only increase the odds of multiples. Snicker. Regardless, it went well and we're well pleased with the quality of the blasts we transferred.

Despite the many disappointments, I continue to be awed by this process. If, by chance, this were to work out, how surreal to think that we saw pictures, pictures!, of a bunch of cells that because our future child. I do feel the spirit in all this.

Thursday, Thursday.

2008-12-10T10:42:00.002-05:00

Four morula today. Two stragglers proceeding nicely. Transfer tomorrow morning. Tonight, I tie one on. I'm thinking an evening of bourbon, a side of beef, a potato with my butter and sour cream, champagne, some cigars and a few left over vicoden. Those silly potential life forms will be too hammered to do anything but settle in for a nice long sojourn.

I kid.

Whilst I integrate my personalities.

2008-12-09T16:52:00.002-05:00

Screw positivity, I hate IVF. Today, I have 4 embryos at 14 cells, 1 at 10 and 1 at 8. One cracked under the pressure and elected to swan dive out of the petri dish. Now I'm pondering the unponderable...what if they all go belly up? In the interest of full disclosure, I was the one who insisted, absolutely insisted, on a blast transfer. I'm wondering, of course, if I did the right thing. (This from the dumbass who yesterday would have also insisted that each of the seven would be A++grade blasts by today: three to transfer; 4 to freeze. No brainer.) I was so sure. Today, less sure. And, overall, feeling like a dumbass all over against because it's out of my hands anyway.

I'm ready to get this party started; get the show on the road; put pedal to medal. I've got 8 books from Amazon, three movies, a fully charged laptop and Jim's Good Time Pizza Emporium on speeddial. My out of office message is ready to be activited, my voice mail message has been changed twice, I've got a stack of work I'll use as a placemat for my pizza. Good heavens, I've got new batteries in my remote control. Let's move.

I call tomorrow to see if the overachievers have made it to blast. If so, I meet for some sexy time with the RE, a nurse, an embryologist and a catheter. If not, I'll go in Thursday. Lining is hanging in there, but, to my utter dismay, did not develop into a cushion of plumpness and receptivity as I fully expected. Whatever.

Just the facts.

2008-12-08T11:05:00.003-05:00

At the risk of sounding too optimistic and setting myself up for the downfall (well 3rd downfall) of 2008, the petri dish colony is kicking embryonic ass. Of my seven fertilized embryos, 5 are currently 8 cells, 2 are 6 cells. Transfer is scheduled for Wed., at which time I expect them to line up according to height and weight, don Hazmat suits and flares and transfer themselves to the Uterus of Doom.

I'm hopeful, dammit.

Fa la la la la la laaaaaa

2008-12-07T13:23:00.002-05:00

Sadly, this picture doesn't do it justice, but up close it's a darn good looking tree. My holiday wish is that it's allowed to live out the season in its fir-like glory, spreading Christmas joy and good cheer to all, instead of being used to impale elves and reindeer.

This just in...

2008-12-06T10:34:00.002-05:00

Of the nine, there are now seven. Seven. An oddly comforting number, better than say .5 or, heaven forbid, 41. Of the nine, one was immature...like I would want that one for a potential child! One fertilized, but then arrested. I have to believe the sight of its seven petri mates lifting weights and discussing Platonic theory caused the poor dear to keel over. Better now I guess than when experiencing the chaos that is the womb. Seven it is. I will get no updates on this motley crew until Monday. I hope that their petri dish isn't situated anywhere near that 20 something that came in after me. They're too soon in this life to experience that kind of performance anxiety. Instead, I will picture them holding embryonic hands and humming Mozart's Requiem.

An early warning to all carolers, reindeer and jolly elves....Beta is December 22. Be warned.

Hide the elves

2008-12-05T12:51:00.003-05:00

Retrieval was two snaps in a circle. 9 eggs. I was a little disappointed because, typically, I wanted more, more, more. My little lottery tickets. The RE and embryologist were pleased, telling me that this was my best cycle so far on all fronts. I let those words swirl around a bit and allowed myself an atta girl, like a third grader who correctly completes a math problem on the black board. (do they still have black boards?) My atta girls are certainly tempered with a dose of reality. There's a heckofalot more to this process than what we can see and hear. In other words, it's outta my hands. Transfer will be Tuesday or Wednesday, depending on my lining.

This weekend I will stalk the perfect Christmas tree. Tall and skinny and fresh tree smelling. I will also stock up on books and movies and other bribes to keep me from moving about so much on my not really bed rest, bed rest. And then, if it turns out that this transfer does not result in a viable pregnancy and ultimately a pink, round, roly poly child bundle of childness, I will take said tree and stab an elf and at least 6 reindeer.

I'm not kidding.

Keeping on with the keep on

2008-12-03T13:06:00.004-05:00

If I ultimately go down in a flaming ball of destruction on this cycle, at least I will know my body did everything it could. My body, God love her, is doing everything she can to score one for the home team. E2 levels are awesome (3000), follicle development is stellar (as of today, around 14, all about the same size), and my lining, oh my lining, is 9. A 9 for crying out loud. My RE told me that I'm the overachiever of the week. We actually shared a hearty laugh looking at the ultrasound today. "What are you trying to prove?" he said, as he shook his head. Oh buddy, if you only knew. Retrieval is Friday.

So I'm optimistic. Yes, I'm optimistic, but with a healthy dose of realism. I recognize that typing these words now will do nothing to obviate the sadness if this cycle goes south, I know that. But I will also know that I did everything, everything, to make it work. If this cycle were like the last, which was touch and go from the first minute, I imagine it would be hard for me to walk away. I suspect I would always wonder if I had just given it one more try, maybe the outcome would have been different. Maybe my body would have responded differently. Maybe the timing was just off. Obviously, I've still got some steps to take...I mean, the follicles need to contain actual eggs right? But, this is good. Really good.

Because a girl always needs a plan, I've begun compiling my 39 for 39 list. You know, the 39 things I will accomplish in the year I turn 39. Uh hem, that would be in February. My list includes the exciting "visit Australia" to the challenging "lose those damn 15 *&^%$ pounds" to the philanthropic (TBD). I've still got 24 things to add. All suggestions welcome.

Monday Monday

2008-12-01T12:34:00.002-05:00

I'll be darned. Second Ultrasound: 13 follicles. Lining 7.7. Retrieval likely Friday. Approx. 11 days of stims.

Huh?

Let me recap. IVF#1. Second Ultrasound. 11 follicles. Lining 7. Stimmed 14 days. IVF #2. Second ultrasound. 3 follicles. Decent lining, but 3 follicles. Stimmed 16 days.

I offer this information as support only for my perky Monday mood. I, the UOD ("Uterus of Doom") know very well that an optimistic second ultrasound for one's third IVF is not necessarily a reason for overall optimism, but rather a beginning of the week pick me up. Solely. I am too far in this process not to understand that the proof is, well, in the pudding. That said, I've also learned to enjoy the little pick me ups along the road. So happy am I this Monday. Two Mondays from now I could well be a wallowing lump of pitifulness, but happy am I today.

As further proof that I'm not an optimist, I ordered another $1000 of meds last week to arrive today. Turns out I won't be needing the extra Menopur and I'll have nearly 400 units of Follistim left over. Why you ask? Because I have always stimmed longer than usual...much longer. So I jumped the gun. I ass-umed that I would need more so I went ahead and ordered them. Dumb. Let's do the Math. That's $530 for the menopur and $278 for the follistim I WON'T BE NEEDING. Dare I point out the types of shoe stock that'll buy?

Regardless. Good news.

Status Report

2008-11-26T14:18:00.002-05:00

Bad patient. Me. Bad patient. I was behaving myself in the examination room this morning. No, seriously. No glove shooting, no rooting through the drawers, no building of syringe animal figures, no playing with the dildo cam. (oh stop, I never did that even when I did play with it.) I was sitting on the table, pink paper bottom cover appropriately covering bottom, reading the Wall Street Journal. Yes, I did rearrange the crotch level heat lamp so I could see to read, but there was no clear and conspicuous warning and waiver of liability to sign indicating I shouldn't touch. And, ok, I did slightly have to pee, but I had been waiting for a while and I wasn't going to trollop out to the loo with the pink paper bottom cover barely covering bottom. Would you?

All this good behavior and I was chastised by the nurse because my bladder "was so full." Move wand to large mass, see there, that's your bladder. (If she thinks I'm paying extra for that...) It makes it difficult to count the follicles when your bladder is so full. Next time, empty your bladder even if you don't think you have to go. Blah blah blah. So, I had to press down on my ovaries (I expect some money back for that) to get a good shot of my 7 follicles. Even my left ovary was in the game. Not bad, full bladder or not. I'll take 7 at this stage of the game. Lining is less prolific, but there's still time.

And in other news, today (or maybe yesterday) is my ONE YEAR BLOGOVERSARY. Sadly, I don't have 100 posts for my ONE YEAR BLOGOVERSARY, but I like to think of it as quality vs. quantity. Indeed, I believe people all over the country should have a feast tomorrow of turkey, ham, gravy, various starches and winter vegetables, marshmellows and fruit pies in my honor. ONE YEAR. I am humbled. And to the one person reading my blog, I couldn't have done it without you.

Joking aside, Happy Thanksgiving. Despite the disappointments and the uncertainty, I, we, all of us, have much to be thankful for. And I'm thankful for every last drop of this wonderful, aggravating, joyful, heartbreaking life. Salut!

I heart IVF

2008-11-25T09:20:00.002-05:00

Fine people, if you have never allowed yourself to undergo IVF, hide the children, go straight to the closest RE's office, throw yourself across the threshold, drag yourself to the registration desk and cry "Please, for the love of God, l'm infertile and I must have IVF." (Please ensure right arm is helplessly crooked over weeping eyes, a la Blanche Dubois.) Seriously, IVF is a ton of fun, why miss out just because your ovaries and other procreating accoutrement work?

I kid, I kid.

Seriously, at least seriously for me, the process of IVF isn't so bad. Physically, that is. I continue to be amazed (what that it hasn't worked? That's another post.) how different it is cycle to cycle. This cycle, for example, I've already bruised from the subcutaneous shots. I never bruised my first cycle. Not really my second cycle. Maybe it's because I'm not paying attention like I used to. On Sunday, I gave myself a shot after inserting a meat thermometer in the leg of a free range chicken. Hmmm. And the menopur shot has never really stung like it has this time. Oh yea, I'm using three vials this time. Duh.

An interesting variation this time is that I'm not using estrogen in any form. My RE is holding off because of a recent study indicating that estrogen may inhibit growth of the endometrium. My lining has never exceeded 8.7, even with varying amounts of estrogen use. I'll be interested to see how or if this works. I will probably go to my first ultrasound tomorrow and find that not only has my lining not plumped up, it has folded into itself and *poof* disappeared, except for the faint outline of a middle finger, viewable only on ultrasound. Such is the luck of a three (four if you count the frozen) time IVF drop out. (It just felt right to inject some pity there.) My bet is that I end up back on the estrogen pill and shots.

So tomorrow we see what's the haps. I'm expecting my left ovary to remaining annoyingly recalcitrant, just like last time, and my right ovary to do its job, although less than adequately, see note about three time drop out above. Lining will be woefully inadequate, but I'm not going to get too worked up about that yet. If I'm on the mark about this, I'll be heading to the 7-11 for my powerball ticket. I'll come out a winner yet!

Back in the saddle again...

2008-11-18T13:33:00.002-05:00

I'm starting IVF #3. On time. In spite of my 58 day cycle. Who knew! We're already off to a riproaring start.

Meds arrived last Friday. I didn't unpack the box until I arrived home. Yes, yes, I know that Follistem needs to be refrigerated, but I also know...from experience...that they pack it nice and comfy with ice packs. Back off, would you, I'm a pro. I put the Menopur in the refrigerator. Funny, I don't remember it taking up so much space last time. I take the empty box to the garbage outside. In the alley. Behind the garage.

Saturday morning I decide to check off the meds I received against the packing slip. So responsible. Hmm, strange. Follistem pen, but no Follistem. Is it in the fridge with the Menopur? Um, no, but Menopur doesn't need to be refrigerated. Silly. Take nicely chilled Menopur out of the fridge. Smack head, holy smokes, big pharmacy forgot to send me $1500 worth of Follistem. Dumb pharmacy. Call pharmacy. Explain gently, kindly, patiently that of course I checked the box. I'm a pro. I've done this several times. Pharmacy screwed up, send me Follistem. Yes, yes, I'm sure you checked the packing list carefully, big pharmacy, but I wouldn't be so stupid to throw away $1500 of injectables. Yes, thank you. You'll send it next week? Great. Click. Pause. Silence. Put on raincoat, shoes, retrieve box from garbage behind garage in the alley. Remove $1500 worth of Follistem from box, nestled neatly under two ice packs. Call big pharmacy back. Tell them Nevermind.

Like I said, a riproaring good start.

I kind of like the idea of getting my third and final IVF on the road at the end of 2008. It's almost a year to the day since my first IVF. Almost exactly a year of blogging about it. And 2009, well, it will be a new road, one way or the other. And how often do you get to do a fresh cycle and potentially thrown in a blast on ice at the same time? Wicked cool. As a testament to this solemn occasion, I have made the following vows for this, my last IVF:

I will stop purloining latex gloves from the examination room. Yes, they are fun to shoot across the examining room. Yes, there is a thrill in gathering my pink paper bottom half cover and jumping off the exam table to retrieve the gloves and then shove them quickly in my purse to hide the evidence before the nurse comes in . If I simply need a pair of gloves to use at home to slice a jalapeno, I will buy them at the Kroger.
I will stop fiddling with the keys and controls on the dildo cam apparatus before the nurse comes in the room. And I will not retype my name to "uterus of doom." I'm the only one who finds it amusing.
I will no longer ask when the padded covers on the stirrups were last laundered.
I will never ask for my HCG shot to be administered in my thigh. Never, never, never again. I will never again refer to the nurse administering the HCG shot as Satan.
I will never again call the RE a weenie for giving me only two xanax. Along the same vein, I will not justify my comment by pointing out I have the tolerance of a Clydesdale.
Finally, assuming I make it to transfer, I will not suggest to the RE that this time he get the embryos in my uterus, which will be more hospitable then, say, my liver or bladder.

Yep, with this kind of plan, what can go wrong??

Spring Cleaning in November

2008-11-10T16:15:00.002-05:00

When I was a little girl, back before my eggs needed wheelchairs and oxygen, after an emotional slump I would rearrange the furniture in my room. Bookshelf moved to another wall, Shawn Cassidy poster thumbtacked to the back of the door instead of over my desk. I lacked the financial resources, e.g., a job, to pull up the bright orange carpet or create a meditation garden, but physical rearrangement of my space usually did the trick. Hence, the rearrangement of my little blog. It's not much considering the personal technological impediments I don't have the patience to overcome, but it's kind of doing the trick for me.

It has been an emotional slump around these parts and not for the usual reasons. If you haven't noticed (typed firmly tongue in cheek) it's an economic maelstrom out there. At my company, hundreds of people are being informed this week that they're losing their jobs. I'm not one of them. I'm thankful and yet, down in the dumps; shoulders slumping, corners of the mouth downturned, down in the dumps. So much uncertainty for so many people, well, for all of us. In my professional life, I've had to deliver difficult news before. This has been gut wrenching. It is one thing when someone loses a job in a healthy economy. It's quite another when there are no comparable jobs to move into. Makes me want to rearrange the furniture of the country.

Dare I even point out that winter is upon us? For some, this is good news. A change of season, gentle snow showers, hot chocolate, holiday cheer. Pheh. You see falling snow, I see chapped lips and malfunctioning water heaters. You see skiing and picturesque mountains, I see mangled limbs and a directionally challenged, blind St. Bernard with an empty cask. Reindeer? Roadkill. Warm fluffy sweaters? Socks with holes in the big toe. Did I mention I got on the scale this morning? Clinical Depression, take a left at the plunging thermostat. Fa la la la laaaaa....

What to Say, What to Say...

2008-11-03T09:25:00.001-05:00

I'm feeling like a one trick pony. A one trick infertile pony. What I mean is that I'm tired of talking about infertility. I'm saying the same things over and over, except sometimes, when I'm creative, I use different words. Sadly, I don't feel that creative anymore. Even worse is that I'm not only tired of my own infertileness, I'm tired of everyone else's too. It's just so damn sad and all consuming. And other times, it's the opposite of sad and I can't relate. I've run out of words.

Many of the women I started out with are now pregnant, or have made a decision to move to adoption or to live without children or to try more treatments. Many more women are just starting out with the same joyful naivete that I did. IVF: the final frontier. We have all or will soon combat our own immeasurable sadness and joy and uncertainty and soul searching and anger. We have all been or will be changed by our own unique experiences. My stroll down Infertility Ave. is close to ending. One final IVF and then the outcome. Of course an uncertain outcome but one I'm ready to meet. I've had enough. And I'm ok with that.

Lest I sound terribly ungrateful, I'm not. I have been buoyed innumerable times by the support I've received in this internet community. I've been the lucky recipient of sage advice and warm hugs and some laugh out loud moments. I've met some wonderful, dynamic people whose real names I don't know but whose most private lives I follow closely through words. I have been lucky indeed to have people rooting for me and sending kind words when the bottom drops out. But. But. I'm tired of infertility. No, I'm simply tired of defining myself by my inability to procreate. Of being a one trick pony.

All this to say that I'm in a quandary about what to do with this little blog. A part of me wants to print off everything I've written and have it bound into a tight little package to look at again...sometime...in the future. Another part says take some time and refocus and come back refreshed with a more interesting carnival. Maybe keep the pony for a little while but add a few elephants, clowns and a circus tent. (And always some corn dogs and an elephant ear.)

So off I go for a little while. Just need a little focus.

And a comma.

2008-10-29T09:40:00.003-04:00

In another ironic twist, I've been prescribed Provera to bring on my period. Silly, naif that I am, I had always assumed that the lack of a period in the baby-making process was a good thing. In this case, not so, not so. So I await my period. No "spontaneous" pregnancy for me. (How she did laugh when she realized that a "spontaneous" pregnancy in my case means one achieved without a doctor, an embryologist, a nurse and a catheter.) Even more hilarity ensued when I realized that, if all goes according to plan, my 2ww will fall during Christmas. (Or given my last marathon stim session, I'll be transferring during Midnight mass.) Fa la la la la la.

I'm ready to get this show on the road. In the last year, I've had two fresh cycles and one frozen. I never, never, in my wildest dreams expected to be getting ready to go forward with #3 (or #4 depending on how you look at it.) Other than my age, there are no significant issues that should preclude this from working. I don't get it. But slowly, I'm beginning to realize that I'm not supposed to get it or control it or force it into being, I just can do everything I can and accept the outcome. I'm working on it.

The last couple of weeks have very much driven home how little control we have. This economy is throwing many lives into disarray. Those who were secure in their livelihoods a year ago are now dangling in uncertainty. It's affecting our family and our friends. Ourselves. It's tough to get upset about losing money in the stock market when others have lost their jobs. Selfishly, it's a good lesson for a girl who many times in the last year has thrown up her hands and said "why me. Why pick on me??"

So, enough for this disjointed post. I blame it on the hormones. (Personal responsibility only goes so far!)

End of Sentence.

2008-10-27T12:26:00.004-04:00

The first day of my last period was September 21, 2008. Sunday. Today is October 27, 2008. I have had no period since September 21, 2008, which was one week after my last failed IVF. That's 37 days. I'm not pregnant because the peestick I christened on Friday says, most emphatically, I'm not pregnant. I have been instructed to take my last birth control pill on November 18 in preparation for my third and final IVF. One can't begin taking birth control pills until one's period arrives. I have felt crampy and headachey and blah-y for the last two weeks. No period. I wore white pants after labor day yesterday. No period. Seriously, what the hell?

Possible Reasons:

1. My body is on strike. Holding out for more favorable treatment and higher pay. No negotiations. No crossing the picket lines. I start eating my vegetables, exercising regularly and getting regular spa treatments, body returns to work. Normal bodily functions ensue. Body to Melanie: You're not the boss of me, scab. Melanie to Body: Uh, no shit.

2. Body and Mind are in collusion. Mind tells Body that shots are right around the corner. Mind reminds Body of physical effects of shots. Body points out that Body only recently healed from last round of punctures. Body reminds Mind how crazy Mind gets when shots ensue. Mind grows angry. Body follows suit. Body and Mind become co-conspirators. Melanie screwed.

3. The mighty infertility forces ("MIF") realize that lack of a period was never a factor Melanie factored in. With unbridled glee, the MIF punish her for making plans in advance and otherwise attempting to assert control over the MIF. Once sufficient angst and wringing of hands has occurred, MIF will allow the red surge. Cue evil laughter.

4. See previous post. Bitch slap from fate.

Tomorrow I visit the RE. More then.

On Hiatus and then a question mark.

2008-10-24T15:34:00.004-04:00

And now I'm back. Last week, I was at a conference in Austin, TX. The kind of conference where the lack of natural sunlight transforms you into a subterranean burrowing mammal with small covered eyes. And it was with a bunch of lawyers. I hate lawyers. Monday of this week more than made up for it. I played in a golf tournament at Valhalla in Louisville, where the Ryder Cup was held this year. It was spectacularly beautiful. Even the errant shots and occasional whiffs (okay and scattered F-bombs) didn't take away from the beauty of the day. Not to mention the guilty pleasure of playing golf on a Monday. And drinking a beer at noon.

I will be starting another cycle in November. That is, I will be starting another cycle if I ever get my period. No, no, I'm not pregnant. But I am 7 days late. I've never been 7 days late. I've been a consistent 29-30 day cycle-er for many a moon now, but for some reason, I'm 7 days late. I can't start taking BCP if I don't get a period. Strangely, I was never late after any of my IVF cycles either. I can't attribute it to stress or travel or weight gain/loss, so I guess I'm flummoxed. Or, I'm going through menopause. And wouldn't that just be the final bitch slap from fate? (I should just link back to my gazillion posts on how infertility always, always throws you a curve ball.)

Any thoughts?

High School Reunion

2008-10-08T15:11:00.004-04:00

Infertility gets old. One year into "active" infertility, which I define as seeking pregnancy with the assistance of at least three medical personnel at any one time and culminating in the insertion of a catheter, I find that I'm tired, oh so tired, of the subject of infertility. E2 levels and linings and number of follicles. The hope, the plunging defeat. And God love all of you who are just starting out, but I'm tired too of the "I just know the first one will work"optimism of the newly actives. The excitement and fear when the first huge box of meds arrives. The sense of accomplishment with the first successful shot. Give me a puppy to kick.

Infertility drives home the adage that too much of anything is never a good thing. I remember vividly, painfully my first love. I was 16, he was 18. He was the kind of boy your mother warned you about and the warning was delicious. He was often at arms length, sometimes tantalizingly close, but never mine. I was painfully, hopelessly smitten and he broke my heart. It took me years to get over him. Years to realize that the challenge, the "just this much out of my grasp" was the real appeal, not the boy. At that age, I didn't, couldn't, fully see the damage I was doing to myself in my relentless focus on something I couldn't control. We know, don't we, that the only thing you really lose is yourself.

Infertility is a lot like my first love. A lot, but not quite.

Unlike with my first love, my goal here isn't simply to win the challenge, cross the finish line, collect $200, ha, I showed you, fate! (Although yes, it does piss me off that I can't accomplish something I've worked so hard for, but that's another post.) The similarity is what happens when you lose yourself.

Infertility. Heartbreak. Desire. You set your sights on something and you work like hell to reach the outcome. Sometimes the desired result is firmly outside of your grasp, other times it's a whisper of a maybe; you can feel the possibility in you. Then it's gone. Leaving the inevitable "why can't it be me" or "what did I do wrong?" For some of us, the weeks turn into months and the months turn into a year and you find yourself sorting through the cupboard of your heart wondering what's missing. What part of you have you neglected in your pursuit of something over which you have absolutely no control?

I can offer no poignant or even insightful conclusions here. Just a dawning certitude that I've been neglectful of me. My unyielding focus on an outcome has crowded out some of the Melanieness that I need to feel whole. And balanced. And, well, sane. Ok, and not a bitch.

And by the way, I saw my first love again several years ago.

He was so not worthy of me.

Swing, batter, batter, batter

2008-09-26T09:10:00.003-04:00

My three day FSH is....normal. 6. Not high, as I expected. No flashing lights on the test results "Turn back now oh ye of diminishing ovarian reserve." My RE wants to change the protocol to microdose lupron, which he explained was for "poor responders" though he assured me I'm not technically a "poor responder." (Like I'm a tender flower at this point.) He is suggesting that we do another fresh cycle, go to blast and thaw my frozen blast for transfer as well. (Throw 'em all in, each and every one.) Nothing points to the need for donor eggs, according to the RE. In sum, I'm on the shit side of statistics. If I'm up for it, let's try again.

And this is why I love my husband. My husband has a child and a grandchild, both of whom he adores. He has me. And, if I do say so myself, which I will, I'm fun to be with, cute as a button, though a tad on the chubby side lately (IVF drugs and consolatory food and beverage) and financially self sufficient. What's not to love? We have a great life. Why should he complicate his life by adding a bawling, life sucking infant? Because I want one.

We had decided that IVF #2 was the final frontier. That is, until after 11 days of icepicks to my chest and barnacles on my heart, I knew that it couldn't be over yet for me. That I could not live with the "what if I had tried again?" If my FSH had come back high, if my RE had introduced the donor egg discussion or the "I'm just not optimistic that this will work" talk, I could walk away with assurances that I had done everything, but it just wasn't in the cards. So I planned my discussion, readied my arsenal and before I got the words out, my husband said "we'll try again." (And later, "please speak clearly into the microphone that the third time is it.")

So, we live to fight again. It is lovely to have a plan. To have made a decision. I mean, stranger things have happened, right?

Waterfalls my ass.

2008-09-24T10:06:00.005-04:00

This just in: "Kidman credits fertile water with pregnancy" http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/26867732/. Yes, according to Oscar-winning actress Nicole Kidman "swimming in Australian Outback waterfalls may promote fertility and might have contributed to her unexpected pregnancy over the past year." Sigh.

I don't subscribe to the notion that everyone, including public figures, must share every aspect of their lives to everyone they come in contact with. In fact, I think we, as a society, are too forthcoming about too many things (reality shows) and too quick to put it all out there (reality shows). I get particularly irritated with the arrogance of "it's my opinion and I'm entitling everyone else to hear about it." As if couching hurtful words in the form of an opinion makes it any less hurtful. But that's another post.

My point is that when you choose to share, you should be honest. Responsible too. Even if you're famous. Especially if you're famous. I don't personally know Jennifer Lopez. I've never met Nicole Kidman. I do know, however, that women of a certain age are exponentially more likely to have issues with fertility. I also feel certain that famous, driven women of a certain age who have also publicly expressed their desire to have children are very likely going to take steps to achieve that desire. Greater steps than, say, water ballet in waterfalls or simply thinking positive thoughts.

When I learned that we had fertility issues, my first thought was "ok, we just do in vitro." Solved that. It never entered my mind that it might not work. It certainly never entered my mind how emotionally wrenching it would become. And if I, a fairly educated and not naive type person, discounted the difficulties I would face as an over-the-age-of-35, trying-to-have-a-child woman, I feel sure many others out there do as well. Exacerbating this are those famous people who "unexpectedly" bear children in their late thirties and early forties, while denying any involvement at all with assisted reproductive technology. Hooey, I say.

I have told very few people in real life that I've had IVF. Not because I'm ashamed but because I'm private, the issue is hugely painful and emotional, and I also don't share info about bikini waxes or how much I've spent on shoes (unless I got a great deal and want to appear thrifty). When I do share my sordid reproductive history with someone in real life, I take care to share it as honestly as possible because the issue deserves so much respect. And maybe it will prevent that sharee from being insensitive to a fellow infertile.

I recognize that not every woman in her late thirties and forties must use ART to get pregnant. The overwhelming majority do though, and it's insulting to us, said majority, when famous people suggest that they were just blessed, God answered their prayers (not the rest of us heathens), fate shined on them, they were patient and it happened, twins just run in their families, and heavens no we didn't do in vitro.

Oh, and Nicole Kidman's never had plastic surgery either.

Sniff

2008-09-20T11:26:00.002-04:00

Thank you Anne. You have no idea how much this touched me.

A Time to Mourn

2008-09-18T15:09:00.002-04:00

Yep, I'm feeling it. The gray, olive green clouds. The quick temper. The raw, exposed nerve endings. Difficulty concentrating. Sprinklings of tears, always out of the blue, unpredictable but reliably so. A jellybean of loss, lodged like a splinter. Comforting words bounce off like raindrops, leaving me, well, feeling all soggy. Vacillating between wanted to be coddled and wishing for an impenetrable layer of People B' Gone.

E asked me if I needed to talk to someone. Of course, it set me off. "About what?" I asked? "I need to pay someone to offer me sympathy and tell me that I can have a rich, full life even without a child?" I know that. Of course I know that. I just need to mourn what could have been for a little of while. And if I'm snappy and short, well, get over it. (I thought I trained him better... just yes me and send me flowers.)

I really feel, with the assistance of Dr. Google, that physically it is over for me, even if I was willing to commit even more money and time. I've had two failed fresh cycles and one miscarriage from a frozen cycle. I'm 6 months from 39. Try as I might with the assistance of very creative Google searches, the odds are far from being in my favor. My RE, the doll, made it clear that ovarian reserve can diminish greatly in a short period of time. My response to this last cycle bears that out. But still.

In the vein of if wishes were horses, I just wish I knew. The humble comfort of certainty. Oyster, meet my world. Pack up the bags, hon, I'm taking that international job and we're moving to Spain. Or culinary school just for kicks. Why the hell not. I was walking from my car this morning and I thought, "you're just not going to be able to have this child," almost like some doctor somewhere had proclaimed it physically impossible. And it gave me peace. Permission to plan, I guess. For just a moment.

But I'm just not there yet. Maybe I will be after we meet with the doctor. Maybe after I try another frozen cycle with my one, freezing little blast. Maybe my issue is not so much having a child as it is dealing with the palpably bitter disappointment of failure. Failure and sympathy, frick and frack. Oh, yea, and just feeling so darn vulnerable and exposed. You know, the things that percoset can't touch.

The Cat Ate My Peestick

2008-09-16T13:04:00.003-04:00

I have no idea what I mean by that title, but sadly, even if a cat did eat, or pee even, on my peestick, the result would be the same. Negative. To add insult to injury, my box of peesticks contained two kinds of sticks: (1) the glaring middle finger type of peestick and (2) the subtle "you are so not pregnant, beeyatch" type. I did have my beta today but I told them only to call me if my blood work reveals tomorrow's winning lottery numbers. Funny, the phone has been strangely silent.

I feel ok, though. Sad, of course. Confused, well always. Contemplative, definitely. I have given thought to what this means for me, at least in the near term. I will definitely lose some weight and start exercising again. I'm going to buy some shoes. Probably some really expensive ones. I'm going to revisit my "10 things to do before I die" list, maybe expand it to 12.

Thank you for your well wishes and for the glorious lack of "I'm sorry's" and "It's still early's." I love that I read nary a one. And I very much appreciate you offering up your housepets for blame. The little shits.

Uterus of the Damned

2008-09-15T09:52:00.002-04:00

I'm about 99% sure this cycle is over. I bought pregnancy tests on the way to work this morning, snuck to the bathroom, orchestrated the test....and a bigger, more obnoxiously speedy negative you have never seen (ok, many of you have). It's 10dp3dt, so I'm sure it's over.

Please, no "I'm sorry's" or "it's still early's."

Shitty luck.

Denial Ain't Just a River in Egypt.

2008-09-14T08:26:00.002-04:00

I can feel the lightening bolts and pelting rain positioning above my head as I type this. Here goes: I don't want this two week wait to end. I don't. Really. I want to reschedule my Beta for sometime in October. Or January. I want to continue to live in the glorious netherworld of the unknown; of the maybes; of the "is that a tad bit of nausea brought upon by my powerful sensory aversion to the pregnancy hormone, or should I just not have had that 3rd taco? I'm living in denial and I like it here.

I haven't bought any pregnancy tests either. And now that I think about it, I don't think I've even scheduled a time to go in for my beta. Who is this interloper who has taken over my type A, "give me control or give me death" person? No idea, but if she's a good cook and can get me out of the office on time, she's hired.

Seriously, I had "the" conversation with myself last night. It went something like this: "Self, you have no control over the outcome, just how you handle the outcome. Your period of blissful ignorance is coming to an end so it's time to deal. It was a shit cycle, but you ended up with four fairly decent blobs of potential human life (did I mention that my last embryo made it to freeze?). This was a seriously good effort, but now it's time to deal in the here and now. And you can handle the outcome. You have before, you can do it again. So, put down the faux daiquiri and smell the noncaffeinated coffee. And lose some weight while you're at it." Bitch.

So that's where I am. I wouldn't say that I'm treading water, just that I'm floating on a very comfortable raft on a river in Egypt with no natural predators and a good book. And, self be damned, I get to stay here for just a little while longer.

What a Difference a Year Makes

2008-09-07T07:29:00.003-04:00

My herculean efforts to occupy my time whilst "resting" for 72 hours following transfer led me back a year to some journal entries (pre blog) I wrote during my first IVF. In them, I analyzed each and every "symptom", waned on about how "perfect" my cycle went and concluded, wistfully and between the lines of course, that I just knew it would work. I love the smell of naivete in the morning. I say this not with bitterness or irony, but, wow, what a difference a year makes.

This cycle ended up pretty well for being such a shitty touch and go cycle. But still, it's out of my hands. No "Dr. Google" for me on this one. I know, for example, that there are no symptoms during the 2ww, regardless of what anyone says or thinks or hopes. Any symptoms you have are a direct result of the HCG, progesterone and estrogen shots (not to mention the other substances you've been pumping in your body for weeks). Your breasts are sore not because you are a world class incubator of embryos or blasts but because of the aforementioned. Though I admit to drinking raspberry leaf tea, submitting myself to acutorture and eating copious amounts of pineapple (No hardship...I love the stuff), I'm not convinced it makes a hill of beans difference. (Couple that for this 72 hour resting nonsense I'm too paranoid not to follow...well as much as I can follow any kind of advice.) Nope, regardless of whether you do or do not believe in a higher power, make no doubt about it, this one's out of your hands.

I've also found that my support needs have changed dramatically since my relationship with the dildo cam blossomed into a long term affair. Three friends total know. I told these women because, well obviously, they're good friends but really because they asked. In a supportive, but refreshingly noncloying, genuinely interested way. Though the discussions have been brief, the support has been felt. I didn't tell my mother until after my first week of stims, not because I didn't want her to know, but because I knew her support was there, gentle and nurturing, and I didn't even have to say a word to get it. No tears this cycle, despite the ups and downs, and the very real possibility that it may not be in the cards for me. (Seriously, 38 doesn't seem old, but it's ancient in egg years.)

The last time, too too many people knew. Certainly, those who knew were interested and supportive, but when it came time for the fat lady to sing, the song was too much. For me, at least. I've absorbed a lifetime of I'm sorries. I find the sympathy clings to me like a wool coat in summer, the tag on the collar reads "you are to be pitied."

Not to say that the tears won't come if this cycle goes belly up. If so, I will surely exhibit a good bit of private wound licking, why me's, life's unfairs. I will probably lose my temper at someone who asks me if I know on which aisle the radishes are sold. But I've also found that with life's greatest disappointments, acceptance comes in time and hopefully grace enters the picture too. In time. Oh, in time and if you let it.

How about them apples?

2008-09-05T14:26:00.002-04:00

I know better than to get excited or even mildly optimistic, but my four little eggs really kicked some ass. I ended up with two eight cells and two seven cells for my three day transfer. Last time, I had 14 eggs, 9 mature, 7 fertilized, transferred an eight cell and a five cell and froze two blasts. We transferred three this morning and my darling husband was sweating bullets. It didn't help when I mentioned that I've always wanted quads so let's put the fourth in. Kidding, oh so kidding. So who knows? All I can say is that this is pretty good turn out for four little eggs that twice almost didn't get the chance to do the labamba in the petri dish.

For what it's worth, if this is my last cycle, I feel a certain amount of confidence that we put heart, soul, belly, thigh and both butt cheeks into it. And ears and feet if you count acutorture.

So we'll see. And absolutely yes I will be peeing on a stick long before the beta.

What a difference a cycle makes

2008-09-03T11:59:00.002-04:00

There's no comparing this fresh cycle to the last one. The last cycle couldn't have gone more perfectly. I responded immediately and quickly to the stims, my lining cooperated, the retrieval and transfer went swimmingly. Alas, it ended with a BFN despite the ease.

This cycle could not have had more ups and downs. I was on the maximum dosage of stims for 17 days. Intramuscular estrogen shots were also part of the regimen (still are), as are PIO shots. I came within a froghair of getting cancelled twice. And I don't remember feeling so crappy after retrieval. In fact, I called E at work after the retrieval to ask him if someone put an ice pick in my thigh or if I offended the RE and was kicked off the gurney. Not so. Apparently, I was complaining about how my hip hurt from the trigger shot, so they--at my request --gave me the hcg shot in MY THIGH. I remember squat about this, but feel sure I wouldn't have made the same request sober. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

The good news is that they retrieved five eggs, one a midget. The midget didn't fertilize, but the other four did. So, we'll see. I'll do a three day transfer assuming the fab four don't hatch a suicide pack in the next couple of days. I was pushing for a five day transfer, but that was before the world's most irritatingly long and expensive stim cycle. And, we're heading to Charleston, SC next week for some golf, sun and relaxation. A five day transfer would mean ta-ta sunny South. So we'll see.

Emotionally, I'm doing much better. I had some close calls with the threatened cancellations, but feel like I'm back to myself. I've been very selective about who I've told in real life, so many thanks to you for your unfailing support (and particularly for helping me with the rage and anger directive a few posts back. Boy, was that refreshing).

I leave you with this....never, ever, under any circumstances allow an HCG shot to the thigh. Trust me. Never.

You wouldn't be messing with me, would you?

2008-08-29T14:19:00.002-04:00

When I'm old(er) and gray(er), I hope I look back on this experience with gratitude. Not necessarily for bringing me a child (if that happens) but for driving home (again and again, ad nauseum) that the world does not revolve around me. That I simply don't have control over everything that I wish I had control over. I can't guarantee that I'll ever be that humble, but I most assuredly do recognize that I can't do squat if my body has other ideas.

That said, my lining is, again, fluffier than it ever has been. 8.5. Follicles are less prolific than last time, but hey, they're all roughly the same size and, well, my short term memory sucks at this point too. I recognize that when my follicles are forcibly sucked out of my body there very well could be little aliens inside giving me the collective finger. The good news for now is that this cycle is on track. After 16 days of stims. Nearly $5000 in drugs alone.

I'll take some good news for the long weekend.

This is a joke, right?

2008-08-26T11:47:00.003-04:00

File this under the category of "Never get complacent whilst undergoing IVF." I've mentioned before that in vitro is a vengeful beast. First IVF, you produce a great lining, pump out some decent embryos to transfer and a few to freeze, make it to beta and zippo...hello negative. Ok. First FET, you pump yourself full of lupron, dine on estrogen tabs, schlump along to transfer then...blammo, your lining sucks in like it's Oscar night and a size 0 Carolina Herrara. Cancelled. First FET times 2, you again pump yourself full of lupron and estrogen tabs, throw in some shots of estrogen to the tail and make it to transfer with 2 high quality blasts. You expect, based on your experience, a negative OR a positive. Turns out you should have chosen "c", all of the above, for a positive, followed by a negative. Alrighty.

So you start fresh. Your experience tells you that you'll likely get a decent number of follicles like last time, might have some lining issues, but the shots in the tail should take care of it like last time. You'll make it to transfer and this time, you'll get either a negative, a positive followed by a negative, or a real positive. Silly girl. Why should you put any faith in past experiences? The vengeful beast has other plans.

Last week, I was thiiisss close to being canceled because my follicles were slow to develop. My lining though had never been better. This week, turns out my lining thinks it should be wearing Valentino and my follicles are on the move. Eeehh? So, I'll make it to retrieval but not to transfer if my lining doesn't GAIN BACK THE TWO MM IT LOST OVER THE @#$%^&*! WEEKEND.

How can this be? How can this BE, I ask you? I was with my lining all weekend. There were no black tie events. No one, I assure you, was on a diet. No one was traumatized to the point of losing weight. How does this happen?

No "I'm sorries." I need answers. If no answers, then please help me find the appropriate person or thing to blame for this.

1000 Sorries

2008-08-22T09:24:00.006-04:00

Death. Terminal illness. Divorce. Infertility. Try as I might, I can't conceive (no shit) of four more stressful, devastating, isolating, heart wrenching situations one could face. I write this with confidence because my own fabulous therapist (8 IVFs) confirmed that indeed, infertility is part of the big four. The issue I have is how we respond to those of us facing one of the above. Drum roll please, that issue I'm specifically interested in is Infertility.

The support I've received in this forum has been wonderful and affirming. At times I have felt that the only place I can snuggle up with my like kind has been here, in this community. But I've also reached a point where I can't hear "I'm so sorry" anymore without cringing, or lately polishing off my hard exoskeleton and letting the words bounce right off. I know that every sentiment of condolence has been sincere and heartfelt, but I've reached my lifetime maximum of sorries, I'm not sorry to say. Perhaps I need more therapy, but the more "I'm sorries" I hear, the more I hear that I'm to be pitied. I can't bear that.

So I propose a new lexicon for those battling infertility.

When a cycle is cancelled because of an anorexic lining, the proper response is this: "Fucking Whole Foods for selling out of raspberry leaf tea; don't they know how many people are undergoing IVF in [insert geographical area]." Or "Dumbass RE couldn't figure out until too late that intramuscular estrogen shots are more effective than those patches that don't stick to human skin." "Bastards."
If your cycle is cancelled because you're follicles aren't developing, the proper response is: "Stupid nurse didn't know any better than to jam the dildocam into your left ovary, scaring your follicles into submission until next cycle?" "Bitch."
How about this for a BFN? "Moron embryologist should have know to do a five day transfer to weed out the weak little three dayers." Or "Your stupid embryologist should have known that the longer you leave embryos in a petri dish, the more they squabble and get discontented with life. That's why they should have done a three day transfer." "Idiots."

You get the picture. I recognize that this new lexicon is fairly low on the accountability ladder, but frankly my dear infertiles, I don't give a damn. All missteps, failures, bad news, uncertainty and unexpected events should be someone else's fault. I speak only for me obviously, but, please, I implore you, help me put the blame elsewhere. No "I'm sorries." No "My heart breaks for you." I want anger. I want rage. I want venom directed to some moron somewhere who screwed up my cycle, my pregnancy, my emotional wellbeing. And if I've done something to screw up my cycle, I want a steady stream of directed, red hot fire at the individual or situation who or which disrupted me enough to cause me to screw up, even if said culprit is not readily identifiable.

All this babble to say, I like me better when I'm angry. I'm good when I'm pissed. I'm worthless when I'm a ball of self pitying mush muttering insensibly to the wall "why me?"

As for my August cycle, which I've been loathe to talk about, it's been one big roller coaster of bullshit and it's someone else's fault. My lining is like a 20 year olds. Seriously. My follicles are behaving like someone's geriatric great grandmother. That said, it still continues. I thought it would be cancelled today, but my right ovary has decided to perk up (the right side? It pains my liberal soul.) So we proceed. Despite all those bastards throwing me curve balls.

Say it with me, "Bastards."

Talk to me.

2008-08-11T15:13:00.003-04:00

There are few topics as polarizing for those of us who don't have children as the topic of children. Let me shuffle back a few steps. After my first BFN and then my miscarriage, the topics of pregnancy and babies chafed. Justifiably so, I contend. Later, after a bit of time and some pretty darn good counseling, the topics don't bother me. Pregnant bellies and bumps and registrations for baby gifts don't bother me. Baby showers do bother me, but they always have, as have wedding showers. Thirty plus year old women are not meant to play pin the penis on the groom. I'm happy to talk about friends' and relatives' children, schools and such. I'll talk about nannies and preschool and the silly, funny child-like antics of child-people. I'll even endure insensitive fertility comments from those who should know better. But what really gets me are those folks who can't talk about anything other than their children. Those folks who aren't anything else.

I was at a work event the other day and spouses were invited. Several of my male colleagues brought their female spouses. I introduced myself to the wives and the discussion inevitably centered around children. Nannies, preschools, summer camps, teachers, funny child-like antics of child-people. And it never left. Not once. Any discussion of other interests quickly circled back to children and all topics causally related to children. I said my "nice to meet you's" and moved on. I wasn't uncomfortable or jealous, just bored. Certainly, an important part of friendships and social get togethers are finding common ground and interests, updating folks on your life...but at some point, hell, let's move on.

No doubt, having children changes your life, makes it different, fuller maybe, more complicated sure. I also know that serious life events, like children, deserve a fair amount of discussion. But I also know, with every thing that I am, that there's more to life than children. I say this as a person who wants a child and who will try again for a child, but who values even more than that who she is and how far she's come. And, for me, how astoundingly important it is to continue to have my own interests and pursuits. If anything, these many child centric discussions lately have made me thank my lucky stars for those women in my life who, lovely as their children may be, also like to dish a little dirt about their boss, share a perfect cabernet and hit a little white ball in a forward direction (god willing) on some well manicured grass. Not necessarily in that order.

Stick a fork in me

2008-07-29T13:47:00.006-04:00

Puerto Rico was not what I expected. The hotel was not what I expected. The beach was not what I expected. Sooo, Carpe Diem and screw expectations, we had a ball anyway. A ball, I tell you. For the record, Puerto Ricans have the right attitude.

The first day on the beach we were carefully encased in our fluffy lounges with a perfectly tilted sunbrella. I moved my book down a few inches from my face (my daily exercise) and noticed a woman walking toward the water. Not skinny, definately pudgy, more than pudgy actually and in a two piece bathing suit. My first thought, of course, was you've got to be kidding me. She surely cannot believe that that suit is weight appropriate. Please, no, that is not a good look. Book creeps down farther, more exercise. Heavens, it's been 15 years since I've even picked up a two piece at the store and she's got 50 lbs on me. Hrrmpf, what is she thinking?

I never found out what she was thinking, but I slowly realized that she wouldn't give two shits what I was thinking because she was having a good time. She was comfortable in her own skin, enjoying the beach, catching some rays and carrying the right attitude. And she wasn't the only one. I saw many, many women shakin' what their mamas gave them who in the U.S. wouldn't be caught dead without full cover pantaloons. Freeing actually. That's not to say that I skivvied down to a g string and nipple tassles, but it did cause me to think about how we Americans are so image obsessed. More than image obsessed, I think. We tend to define one standard of beauty, which is always skinny, skinny and impossibly young.

And speaking of skinny, I did some fine eatin. If you're ever in San Juan, ever I say, immediately exit the airport, head straight for Old San Juan and immediately go to Marmalades. http://www.marmaladepr.com/index.htm If the restaurant is closed, just sit patiently on the front stoop until dinnertime. My dinner consisted of three appetizers: (1) grilled peaches with lemon mascarpone and proscuitto; (2) paella bites and (3) gnocchi with braised beef ribs...don't know that I ever would have typed those two together in the same appetizer, but such is life's little blessings. I also got a little sample of love...the white bean soup. With thin scallions. Crispy pancetta. Black truffle oil.

Next week I'm off to Newport, Rhode Island for a company meeting. I've never been to Newport, so let me know if there's a sight I absolutely shouldn't miss. If it involves food I assure you I'll find it. My return should be greeted with a very large, expensive box of medicines. Sigh.

Did I tell you about the paella bites?

Oh Bother.

2008-07-16T11:07:00.003-04:00

Ah, a full pot of honey. Cool, summer day. Flower-filled meadow. Good friends. Melanie the Pooh. Or maybe Ee-yore without the "woe is me". I will admit this only to you, blog land, but I'm a girl without much drive this summer. Today for example I find myself longing for Friday because then Saturday will be the next day. And Saturday brings a good float in the pool, a nice spy trash novel, and later, a cocktail. I call it the Just Coastin' Cocktail, vodka, fresca and a splash of cranberry. Ahhh.

I haven't enjoyed summer this much in a long time.

E and I are going to San Juan, Puerto Rico next Wed. for a long weekend. It's his birthday and we wanted to get away somewhere relatively easy to get to. The place we're staying has a casino and a spa. And a bar. I doubt that I will lose the ten pounds I planned to lose before next Wed., so I go with a light heart and a slightly chubby physique. No worries. Those ten pounds will be around to lose after San Juan. And it's true, tan flab looks a lot better than pale flab.

And on the infertility front, I ordered my meds today. $2,800. Not quite the same event it was the first time around, but that's ok. Start sometime mid-August, so I've got a few weekends to go.

I'm going back to my meadow now.

It seems like ages, dahling...

2008-07-09T16:34:00.003-04:00

Goodness me, it's hard for a girl to escape the topic of infertility these days. I've counted no less than five articles on infertility issues online in the last week. For example, who knew that fertility in men decreases after age 40? (She types with a straight face.) And that's not counting the omnipresent pregnant celebrity, which I wouldn't know about anyway because I'm entirely too cultured to read about such things. Ahem.

I've very much enjoyed my fertility vacation. I've been keeping up with all of you, though I haven't been commenting as often. Sort of makes me a cad, I guess, like an "I meant to call, really" kind of blogger. In my defense, I've just needed to be away from it all. Dramatic sigh, back of hand to forehead.

I dipped back into the infertility pool this morning. Ordinarily, my RE's office is fairly empty. I show up, get wanded and get the flock out. This morning it was packed. With couples. Dear God in heaven, it was "results" day. First couple walks in, holding hands, anxious, I hear her tell the nurse at the reception area that the nerves are killing her. Another couple comes in, nervous smiles, gentle pats. And there I sit. Wondering. Trying not to make eye contact. Giving them their private hopes. Clearly, this is the first try for the first and second couples. The third couple that walks in looks a bit more road weary and time tested. I eventually learn that of the three couples, one is pregnant, the others are not. Could it be, finally, for couple #3?

There's always an easy familiarity at the RE's office. Jokes and smiles and hugs. My favorite nurse crashed her grocery cart into mine at the local Kroger. Crappy driver. I didn't stop to wonder until later if the couples noticed, hoping they would never have occassion to build that kind of rapport.

The appointment went well. Everything looks good, is where it should be, nothing where it shouldn't be. I have to take their word for it; I continue to believe that my uterus looks more like a rutabaga than a uterus on the dildocam. Hmm, maybe that's the ...? Anyway, everyone feels really good about this next cycle. Me, too. I feel good and strong and resolved. I really do.

Movin On.

2008-07-01T14:42:00.005-04:00

I was raped when I was 22 years old. Just home from college, living with my parents, stymied about my future. I was walking through the neighborhood on the street next to the railroad tracks. I had my headphones on, listening to Soul ll Soul, Keep on Movin. Time to lose the freshman 15. A sunny, hot July day. Not a soul in sight. A man came up behind me and put a plastic bag over my head. I had just walked under the highway overpass. We struggled across the road and, talk about things going downhill from there, fell into a drop on the side of the road. Deep brush hid it from the road. It was where the drainage tunnel ran under that street and the two roads on the other side of the railroad tracks.

I remember four things very clearly. One, that I couldn't believe this was how it was going to end. So much life to live and it's over, like this? In a drop on the side of the road? I didn't see angels. I didn't feel the presence of the spirit, any spirit. No fear anymore, just blinding carnal anger that it would end like this. I remember clearly the musty smell of damp earth; damp smells bothered me for many years after. I remember my ear bleeding from the impact of my ear and headphones hitting the ground and, strangely, the rapist expressing concern. Asking if it hurt. But my clearest memory is after the rape. Right after. He told me to crawl through the drainage tunnel and not to look back. He wouldn't kill me if I didn't look back. I didn't look back. The light at the end of the tunnel was, blessedly, just that.

The police caught the man who raped me. They told me that when he was arrested he looked like shit, bruises and scratches and scrapes. They told me that he looked worse than me. I think they were just being kind, but it made me smile. Take that! His lawyer (damn lawyers!) said it was consensual, then quickly dropped that claim. He pleaded guilty. He was 18 years old and ended up spending the maximum in prison for 1st degree rape, 15 years. Registered sex offender for life. I fought my demons and my anger for a couple of years after the rape, but got over it with help. And time. I rarely think about it anymore. Truly. Even on the anniversary, July 2. Today.

I've been thinking about it, please not for sympathy, but in the context of Movin On. Life moving on, people moving on, even though you're not ready to or you just can't, for whatever reason. My low point after the rape was after the trial, after the "My God, you're so strong's", after the "what can I/we do to make it better, safer, easier, more comfortable's for you." At the point when the world goes about its business, as it does, as it must, but you haven't. How can everyone go on living, happily living, when my world is falling apart and the anger is making me toxic, I thought? Ok, fine. Then stop the world and let me off. Just for a little while.

What does this have to do with infertility? Absolutely nothing. Everything. Infertility, like any major life event, has the power to knock you to the ground, fixate you, obsess you, tie you in knots, cause you to fling open your arms and scream to the world "Are you kidding me, why ME?" Indeed, I've found myself perilously close at times to doing just that and then collapsing on the floor in a self-induced puddle of pity, soft underbelly exposed to the world. Life can really, really be a bitch.

At 22 I learned that shitty things can and do happen to good people. Lesson: Life's not fair by any means. I was older when I learned that you can deal with anything, violence, sadness, divorce, joy, disappointment, uncertainty, anything...given time and acceptance. Sometimes you deal by letting the world spin for a while without you until you're ready to get back on gracefully. Othertimes you just fight it out. Take that world! But the key, I think, is Movin On. Keep on Movin.

One more cycle and I'll take the outcome, whatever it is. For sure, I won't be immune from sadness or disappointment or joy, whatever the case may be. But I am going to keep Movin On.

Tai Chai and Vitrification

2008-06-23T17:34:00.005-04:00

Experts in any field must feel the same exasperation when lay people try to be experts. Today, for example, the gossip website I was not reading during the workday reported in all caps that the celebrity defendant to a lawsuit "promptly filed an answer and counterclaim" to the plaintiff's complaint. Of course he did. The law requires one who's had their pants sued off to respond promptly, sometimes in 20 days. Silly. And today, when talking to the computer help desk attendant, "Why the hell isn't my wireless working?" "You want me to type what? Backslash, semicolon what? Yes, you have my permission to take over my computer by remote. (*&%$." Said help desk attendant, before taking over my computer remotely, was speaking to me in slow articulations, better for my mentally disabled, learning impaired self to understand I guess.

Same can be said for fertility "advice." This article, for instance, tickled me. http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/24777998/ Without question the article is written for women in their 20s who won't be reading it anyway because they're in their 20s and doing everything from modern science to voodoo chants not to get pregnant. That aside, I couldn't help but cringe while eye rolling through some of it.

1. "Luckily, fertility isn't a total crapshoot. And though you can't put off pregnancy indefinitely (despite exceptions like Marcia Cross, your odds of conceiving drop substantially after age 35), there's plenty you can do to help keep your body in peak baby-making form."

Eye rolling. Indeed, Marcia Cross would be a great example if she hadn't had in vitro. In vitro with donor eggs. The article should have cited Jennifer "twins run in my family and I knew it would happen in time" Lopez.

2. "Don't worry, be happy. Stress interferes with the brain's bulletins that tell your ovaries to do their monthly job of rolling out an egg, says Sarah L. Berga, M.D., chair of the ob-gyn department at Emory University in Atlanta. If you're a type A (for anxiety and angst), figure out a calm-down solution that works for you, whether it's practicing tai chi or thrashing around to the Foo Fighters, before you get ready to pee on the stick."

Eureeka! Smack head. You wily stress bastard! Had I but known, I would have built a yurt with meditation altar in my backyard years ago. Just think of all the little hippie children I would be tie-dying today. Certainly, I will practice tai chi or thrashing prior to peeing on a stick in the future. And I call myself educated.

3. "Freeze your assets. If sperm are the tough Gap T-shirts of the reproductive world, your ova are like gauzy couture dresses. Until recently, this meant that freezing your eggs was mostly out of the question (the ice crystals that form during the slow-freezing process used on embryos damages eggs). But a new method, called vitrification, involves very rapid icing that safely solidifies the eggs. It's pricey — $6K and up for a single procedure (and the number of good eggs you'll get varies), plus annual storage fees — and it tends to be most successful when you and your ova are young (in your 20s). Though there are no long-term data on the procedure, it's worth investigating if you know your antral count is low or if you're about to undergo a fertility-zapping procedure like chemotherapy."

Interesting, but ridiculous. Assuming that a 20 something would even read this article and isn't trying desperately not to get pregnant and isn't convinced that she'll meet her true love soon and isn't trying to develop her fledgling post college career and isn't paying off student loans and living in a studio apartment and trying to afford a social life and isn't living on ramen noodles and doesn't believe that getting pregnant is a snap anyway, this is great advice.

Sigh.

I recognize that I'm sensitive to these issues. In the interest of full disclosure, yes I did listen to much assvice in the beginning. Cut out caffeine, check. Monitor ovulation, check. Watch the alcohol intake, you betcha. And even got to the point of acupuncture, raspberry leaf tea, avoiding hot baths, baby aspirin. You name it. So it pains me now to read the silliness. In fairness, this particular article does impart some good advice, but the silly advice overshadows the good.

Sigh.

Falling out of Trees

2008-06-17T13:05:00.003-04:00

Growing up, I lived in a big old house surrounded by several acres. Lots of trees with soaring limbs...the kind meant for climbing. I gag at the thought today, but back then I could climb to dizzying heights. And when I had climbed as high as I possibly could, I would nestle back against the trunk, sap in my hair, and think this is the view I'd have if I could fly.

I didn't always make it to the dizzying heights. I remember once setting upon my usual climb but slipping; my foot stuck in a "Y" branch, dangling like a rhesus monkey. I was only about a foot off the earth, but I panicked and cried and screamed for someone to help me. No one came. I laugh now to picture myself, dangling from a tree, a victim of my own carelessness, pissed off at the world, pissed off at the tree. Stupid tree. Eventually, the tears dried up and I set about trying to free myself. I don't know how long it took (though I'm positive I couldn't do it today) but I twisted and contorted and, after what seemed forever, I dropped to the ground. Dusted myself off and set off to find some more trouble. And, yes, climb more trees.

How like life it is. You get in a pinch. Sometimes of your own making, sometimes not. You scream and cry and blame and accuse. Paralyzed by your situation, the utter unfairness of it all. Why me? Your plight certainly is worse than anyone else's. Why isn't someone making this better? Fixing it? Then the quiet and the soul searching. The tears dry up, the resolve sets in and you deal. One way or another, you deal. You climb more trees. Sometimes you make it to the top and soar with the birds. Other times, well you dangle like a rhesus monkey. But you always disentangle and get back up.

So I say, gently to myself: Honey, you're way more than your infertility. I spent a good many months yelling and screaming and sulking and crying and blaming and dangling time and time again and I find myself now changed somewhat. More than somewhat. I find that I like, like, like my life. I find that I like who I am and how far I've come, am thrilled to pieces with my husband, think my marriage is the cat's meow (It's two years today, by the way), have the wonderful good fortune of having good people in my life, have a job that challenges me, pisses me off, gives me an identity and also lets me enjoy nice footwear. And as to that baby thing, pardon the really bad pun, but it's not the only egg in my basket.

This next IVF will be my last. I will go into it with positivity and hope, but also with the understanding that I will have reached the end. Either it produces a live child or a new life path. I'm ready for either. My new marriage counselor mentioned a Harvard study showing that the three most stressful events a person can face are cancer, divorce and infertility. I've had two of the three. My goal is to skip the third and put the other two to bed. And keep climbing.

In the Summertime II

2008-06-12T17:59:00.002-04:00

I love, love, LOVE me some summertime. Last weekend, for example, was simply gorgeous. Sunny, hot, gentle breeze, all kinds of blooming things in the backyard, farmer's market on Saturday morning, plenty of food to be eaten (not sure that that changes too much season to season in my world but year round satiation is a good thing), cold adult beverages a plenty. I streamlined my weekend to-do list such that it would only contain the most critical tasks. Said tasks: (1) grocery to provide food for my family; and (2) pedicure. (I would take and post a picture of my poor pitiful feet but that could change our relationship.)

I accomplished: Neither.

What did I do instead? Went to Target (Oh, Mecca) and bought new summer rafts and floated in the pool all weekend. All Weekend Long. With plenty of sunscreen, but again, I floated all weekend long. I accomplished nothing substantive. Didn't even purchase some shoes.

I love me some summertime.

I did go to a new counselor recommended by my RE (my "marriage" counselor according to E). There was nothing wrong with my old one except that I wasn't feeling it. I don't want to talk about my childhood or what kind of mothering I received or who I resent or my anger issues (all provoked I must add), I just wanted help on "the" topic. My new marriage counselor had 8 IVFs, so I think she may know a thing or two about the "the topic."

I liked her. We got right to business. No foreplay in this relationship, which at $2 a minute I don't need to be held or caressed. Why do I want a child? Why do I not? How does E feel about it? What's my relationship like with my mother? Kidding. She did interrupt me at one point to tell me how refreshing it was to talk to someone going through infertility who has such a strong marriage. I assured her that E realizes he could never do better than me and behaves himself accordingly. Overall, it helped. She asked good questions that got right to the issue. At least I think she did, I was shlumped in awe over the 8 IVFs.

That's my weekly report. I'm still infertile. I'm still planning on one more try in the fall. I must go now and prepare my float for the weekend.

Love me some summertime.

Stupid People

2008-06-04T13:39:00.005-04:00

People say the dumbest things. Dumb, dumb, dumb. And because my mood is slightly rancid today, I feel compelled to share.

1. This is a true story. I was shopping in this adorable boutique near Kiawah, South Carolina recently. I bought a funky fun jacket there last year and was pleased to be back and see what other delicacies I could find. I wandered around a bit and noticed that things had changed a bit. Last year, the clothes were edgy and modern, now they were sort of upscale slut. A woman of my delicate years can't pull off navels, you know. So, I was walking out of the store and the salesperson said to me, no joke, "if you're leaving because you don't see any of your size, we keep the larger sizes in the back."

Self: Silence. Surely she didn't say that.

Self: "Excuse me?"

Stupid Person: "Yes, I didn't want you to leave because you didn't see your size. We keep the large sizes in the back."

Self: Silence. Incredulous stare. Finding self getting defensive. WTF? Yes, I could lose ten but I'm not ready for Kiawah Tent and Awning. I could snap you like the uncute twig you are, Stupid Person. I can't believe that was just said to me. Bring out a scale, you twit, and I'll show you I'm a respectable weight. And, you, you, shame on you, you perpetuator of distorted body images. And I'll have you know I graduated 8th in my law school class. Bitch.

Self leaves.

P.S. Self has returned to the gym.

2. Another true story. I was shopping with my adorable Mom not too long ago and we ran across a woman who used to teach me in Sunday School. It was Christmas time, right on the heels of my first BFN. She was wearing reindeer antlers. You see where I'm going with this. We were having a nice conversation, catching up on her children, my sister, my marital status. She asked me if I was going to have children. (Aside: Why do people feel comfortable asking these questions? I would never think to ask someone, so tell me, do you put the max in your 401k? Those shoes you're wearing, did you pay full price (chortle) or did you get them on sale? Is that really your nose?) I said, "I'm not sure about that one." Her response, no kidding, "well, you better get on it, how old are you anyway?"

Sigh.

What makes it all better?

Self loves shoes.

No seriously, I don't think I was so aware of the effects of our words until the infertility fairy came to roost. The first example above is just stupidity. The second example is stupidity and insensitivity... a lethal combination.

Next post: Stupid People and the Stupid Things They Do

Life is What Happens When You're Busy Making Other Plans...

2008-06-02T13:37:00.004-04:00

Mr. Lennon was on to something when he said that. And, boy oh boy, have I personified life passing me by as I plan, plan, plan. I've always been a post-it notes, list-making girl. I like to keep a running grocery/drug store list/any news shoes at Nordstroms list; overall to-do list; work to-do list; and then the Life Planning List (retire 3 years ago, invent plastic doohingy that prevents pizza box from smashing pizza, lose 10 lbs before I turn 30, 35, 38 and three months). I was fortunate to run into several of my lists this morning as I was switching purses (ok small leather countries) and careful review has revealed...I've planning myself out of Life.

I jest you not, below is verbatim from my "Life Planning List":

Lose 10 lbs no later than August 1, 2008.
Determine if I will attempt IVF again, no later than July 15, 2008.
Outline of great American novel completed no later than June 1, 2009.
Solve life's mysteries by January 2015.
Have X amount in savings and investments by December 31, 2008.

You get the point. I've lost myself in lists.

I very much want to blame infertility for this. I would like to say, well before I started infertility treatments I maintained a healthy balance between planning and living. Instead of just writing that I would lose 10 lbs, for example, I would also take daily steps to meet my weight loss goal. Actually, I can blame infertility. Infertility treatments make me hormonal and bloated and mean and then depressed so I eat and thus cannot meet my weight loss goal. Not my fault. Next.

Not a good example. My point is, I understand the importance of goals, but I've noticed lately that my goals and my obsessive need to plot my future are eclipsing my life. You know, the life you live every day. I'm not taking time to smell (much less plant) the roses. I'm wishing for Fridays Monday through Thursday. I have the discipline to sit and think and plan about the future; I just seem to be lacking the ability to enjoy the, well, dailiness of life. Or even enjoying the daily, weekly steps that make up the future plans.

Clearly, I need to find the joy of NOW. I need to luxuriate in the unexpected; cozy up to the out of the ordinary; appreciate the uneventful; and relish in the routine. I want to find myself one day right around the corner from one of my long time goals and say, "Well, it's nice to be here, Life's Mysteries, but the journey was kind of nice too."

So, this is my new project. No, no, I'm not putting it on a post it or a list, which is hard to find anyway in the smallish leather country I carry around. It's my new daily mantra. Live in the NOW. Live in the NOW. Live in the NOW.

Ommmmm.

In the Summertime when the weather is warm...

2008-05-27T10:52:00.004-04:00

I'm going on hiatus. I'm taking a summer siesta. A vacation. A furlough. A holiday.... From infertility treatments. I'm postponing IVF #2 until after Summer. August.

I need a break. I'm worn out. I want to be a normal person for a couple of months. I want to drink wine and work out (If I want) and play and work and travel and have fun and be normal. I do not want to think about my lining or the number of follicles I may or may not grow or the amount of estrogen I'm required to take or every other day visits to the RE or why or why not something does or does not or will never work.

I'm tired of the sadness and the sorrow and the uncertainty and, honestly, the pity and the I'm sorries. If truth be told (and I'm on a truthtelling rant) I'm tired of the lingo and the betas and the betas not doubling and every little thing that has to do with getting pregnant only with the assistance of two people in lab coats and a long clear tube and a petri dish. (Although xanax was fun.)

So, my plan to not turn into a bitter human involves a respite for a couple of months. I'm still going to stick around blogland, I'm just not going to be giving follicle counts and E2 levels for a while.

Whew. Thanks for listening. I feel almost human.

Away

2008-05-23T10:49:00.002-04:00

I've been away. Last week, I was mentally away. This week, I was physically away. For what I'm sure is the first time in years, I had no TV or internet contact for a week. Email of course, but no internet. We had to go to a funeral in Beaufort, SC. One of E's best friends, who died of a brain tumor...the same tumor that Ted Kennedy has just been diagnosed with. Then we went with friends to Seabrook Island, SC, where we golfed and beachwalked and generally helped the local economy. I'm really good at that.

So. I've been away. And, as much as I think you guys are simply the cat's meow, it's been nice. Really nice. I've given absolutely no thought at all to infertility or in vitro. In fact, I've rather enjoyed my childlessness (hmmm, childishness?). Freedom to travel and spend time by myself and with good friends. Nice dinners. Good wine. Thinking about what I want to do with my life. Dreaming big dreams.

I'm still thinking about what I want to do with my life. Actually, I'm thinking about whether I'm up for IVF #2 in a couple of weeks. I'm having trouble understanding why I'm hesitant. Certainly, it's because I'm happy and emotionally stable. Lordy, it's been nice. I'm loathe to submit myself to the all-consuming exercise that is IVF. I've been at it pretty consistently since November except for the last two months. And, well, the last two months started out shaky (I mean, how's a girl supposed to adjust without daily shots in the ass?) but the last couple of weeks have been bliss.

So I need to give serious thought to this. Am I reluctant because I don't want to go through the emotional fire drill again or am I reluctant because of bigger reasons? I don't know. I. Just. Don't. Know.

Supreme Goddess and Harbinger of Doom and Other Not Positive Events

2008-05-08T14:29:00.004-04:00

I met with my RE this morning and June it is for IVF #2. My protocol for stimulation will be the same as last time because, according to my RE, my stim was "perfect," lack of live baby notwithstanding. In fact the only issue they point to is my lining, which was 8.8 for my fresh cycle and 8.1 for my FET. So, I'll increase the estrogen and the shots will remain an actual pain in my ass. We're keeping it open whether we do a three day or five day transfer. If my lining's on the anemic side, it will definitely be a five day transfer to give my lining more time to fluff up. So there it is.

I'm not looking forward to it. There I've said it. I'm in a really happy place right now and I'm simply not in the mood to have my heart ripped from its moorings and stomped about by Clydesdales. I'm just not. What gets me is that I can't keep up with the varying cycles of potential emotional angst one suffers through with in vitro. First, my naive fresh cycle. I knew, knew, that it was going to work. I KNEW it. The negative from that cycle shook me to the core. So, going into my frozen cycle, I thought, ok it could be negative, which I have survived thus can survive again, or positive, which is wonderful. Negative or positive. Positive or negative. What I didn't count on was the Positive turning into a Negative. And that, my friends, not only shook me to my core, but screwed me up this way to Tuesday.

So I now can come up with four known variations possible for IVF #2. Negative. Positive, then negative. Positive turning into any number of horribles given time. Or simply Positive. I'm no mathematician, but it looks to me like I have a 25% chance of a good result. (All of this assumes too that my eggs haven't taken a final swan dive off the viability highdive in the last 9 months.) Hence, my ambivalence regarding IVF #2 and my new title "Supreme Goddess and Harbinger of Doom and Other Not Positive Events." Cue thunderclaps and scattering bunnies.

I want to be positive, I do. I want to be optimistic. Really. I just don't feel it. I feel like I've worked so hard to put myself back together after my Negative, and my Positive, then Negative. I've slayed dragons to get back to myself. I don't want to give that up, make myself vulnerable to the whimsy of the unknown. I remember so clearly when we started this process, I thought, you know, this isn't so bad. I can't understand why people would just "give up." Boy, was I stupid.

So, how do you enter a new cycle with a reasonable dose of hope tinged with a good dash of reality?* Is it possible?

*all advice other than "suck it up" or "take some prozac" will receive a virtual sugar cookie with lots of buttercream icing delivered by Raoul, my hunky pool boy.

Normal

2008-05-07T10:55:00.003-04:00

Results of the chromosomal tests on E reveal ... he's normal. (Only chromosomally, I reminded him.) My chromosomal and immunological tests are .... normal. We are collectively ... normal. Tomorrow I go back to the RE to discuss my new protocol, which I'm sure will be ... normal. Kidding. I won't feel like I'm getting any bang for my buck if they don't mix it up somewhat. So it looks like I'll be breaking out the box of meds again come June. And I've so been enjoying my alcohol and caffeine and puncture-free tail...

And in other news, I must share the most wonderful of wonderful news. Rebeccah from http://chasingachild.typepad.com/ is pregnant. Rebeccah, for those of you who don't know her, just had her second failed IVF (an IVF during which she studied for and passed the bar exam) and was moving on to donor eggs. Surprise, she's pregnant on her own (ok, I'm sure her husband helped) between cycles. I didn't know people could get pregnant without needles and 3 other people in the room. Please go give her well wishes!

Sex and the City

2008-05-04T15:24:00.004-04:00

Sex and the City was a deliciously entertaining caricature. Extreme personalities, over the top clothing (ahh, the shoes), superlative wealth, off the wall situations. The center of which was the strength of friendships among those so very different. Sure, in real life we would all love a Carrie. Quirky, earnest, kind, fun, dependable. Samantha? Not so much, I think. I sound like Charlotte, but her sexual escapades would be oddly disturbing to me. Puritanical? Not so much. The older I get, the more I value commitment and the familiar. It would be hard, I think, to relate to a Samantha at this point in my life. Miranda I would like in real life. Edgy, driven, blunt, sometimes too blunt. But loyal. Charlotte's naivete, though endearing at times, would get on my nerves. Yet, infertility gets anyone a pass in my book. Four very different friends who remained friends. But it got me thinking...

What is it about certain friendships that stand the test of time?

I've been thinking a lot about "friendships" on the eve of my 20 year high school reunion. Out of the blue, I got a call from one of my best friends from high school and, within seconds, I felt that sense of the familiar. I was talking to someone who knew me back then, the young me, with all my dreams still intact. We hadn't talked in 10 years, but it didn't seem like it. I felt that twinge of resistance when I realized that she didn't know that I had divorced and remarried and I would have to "explain." But I didn't really have to explain anything. I told her that my second marriage was with someone a good bit older than me and she said, "Well of course you married someone older. You were always an old soul. That doesn't surprise me at all." And just like that I nestled in to the comfort of the familiar, someone who knew me when.

The older I get, the more resistant I am to "new" friendships. Acquaintances and social friends I do very well. I can mingle and laugh and charm and relate, but the sharing secrets and joy and bitter disappointment friendships I'm loathe to invest in. I'm sure a good part of that comes from lack of time. I don't have lots of free time to invest in the nurturing and care of a new friendships. I have perfectly good friendships already in place, thank you very much. The bigger part is that I'm more private as an adult than I was back then. We've all been burned--sometimes scorched--by sharing too much, trusting too early. I'm much too protective of myself now to expose my pale underbelly to the world, willy nilly. But the bigger issue I think is that there's comfort in those who know your story, even if it's just a few chapters. Someone who knows you absolutely abhor the cold and get twitchy in crowds. Someone who knows you won't go near Gorgonzola.

Because friendship, like love, is a dance. Getting to know someone, finding areas of commonality, testing the waters, sharing your history, gauging if you'll be accepted or rejected, gradually sharing more, comparing core values, seeing if you fit, if it's worth the risk and the time and the commitment. It was a ten second tango in your early years. Now, at least for me, it's a long, slow waltz.

Gulp. 20 Years?

2008-04-29T19:26:00.005-04:00

I got home from work last night giddy from my successful presentation. "Oh yea," I thought, and probably, ok....did say out loud, "I rock." I was poised, articulate, appropriately funny. Heavens, I gushed, I'm so good. And I'm so young to be so good. I sauntered in the door and E said there was a voice message for me from a very perky person who said something about "high school reunion." Actually, the words "20 years" were somewhere around the "high school reunion" words. High school reunion. 20 YEARS. Same sentence. Not, you're "20," you won't have a high school reunion of any significance for 3 more years, but "20 year high school reunion."

I. Am. Old.

I remember so vividly, so clearly being 18 years old and graduating from high school, heading off to college. I remember the yellow leggings and long matching yellow t-shirt with decorative sparkles (it was the 80's, people) I wore on a date with my cute California boy fling the summer after I graduated. My gaggle of high school friends. Big Hair. My zippy little Honda CRX. Black of course. The promises to always stay in touch, to visit one another, the butterflies in my stomach about what was to come. Who would I be? And would I ever be 21? On my own. On. My. Own. An adult.

20 years. Graduation from college. Marriage. Divorce. Sadness. Guilt. Hope. Joy. Law school. Love. Marriage. Success. Travel. Float-on-a-cloud-happiness. So much life has been packed into 20 years. But yet, I remember it like it was yesterday.

I'm not nostalgic for my teens or twenties. From a very young age, I chafed at the boundaries of being young and dependent. I wanted to drive, to make my own money, to live in an apartment, to travel, to be the boss of me. I wouldn't trade me now for an 18 year old me in a million years, except of course for my 18 year old eggs. (I just chuckled out loud thinking of how immature I was yet utterly convinced of my maturity. Silly girl. )

But still, 20 years.

Well, hello there.

2008-04-25T16:43:00.004-04:00

It's fascinating to me how people have found my little blog and how I've stumbled upon blogs that touch me, move me, make me think, make me come back for more. I remember my bad place last year after my failed IVF, when, with what was surely the hand of grace, I stumbled upon Mel's blog, http://stirrup-queens.blogspot.com/. Holy shit, I remember saying out loud, there's a whole colony of us! Dear God, a herd of infertiles! Each comment (except for the two snarky ones), each click, each link has lifted me and supported me and, I do earnestly believe, has kept me from shaving my head and beating station wagons with baseball bats. For the lack of felony assaults on my record and subsequent disbarment, I humbly thank you.

Rambling preamble aside, it's always fun to find out how people find your blog. I share with you in no particular order my favorite google searches that led people here:

1. "How to buy alcohol underage in Myrtle Beach."
2. "How to shoot heroin." (I'm seeing a disturbing pattern emerge.)
3. "Fluff my pillow." (I need to meet this girl.)
4. "Getting pregnant too easily." (You're in the wrong neighborhood sweetheart.)
5. "injections butt." (Come into my parlor.)
6. "How can I stop myself getting stressed because I can't get pregnant." (If I only knew...)

And then, of course, there are the ones that make you want to reach out through Dr. Google and give someone a hug, like "early miscarriage betas not doubling" and "hopelessness IVF infertility." And I hope with all my heart, that like me they stumble upon someone in our herd who can give them hope and encouragement and support and sanity.

Happy weekend everyone!