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

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

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...

...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

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

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.

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...

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.