Baby Boy

To my few stragglers, I write for 2 reasons …

1. I feel the need to round out this blog with the birth story of my son, Ian.

2. Also, in re-reading my posts on this blog, I realize that it is an incredible log of my journey through IF. Like childbirth, the pain is easy to forget not to mention the order of events; and though I don't want to memorialize the suffering, I do find value in having recorded the experience.

I am finding the experiences of being a new Mom daunting; and for some of the same reasons I started my IF blog, I'd really like to record the fleeting moments of new and developing motherhood as well as record the growth and development of my little boy (So weird, MY little boy. It is still not real to me that I have a son) for friends and relatives who live far and wide.

So I am probably going to start another blog - if my little one will allow me the time (a la Lesley). Whosoever would like to read along, just message me in the comments below and I will send you a link. My one regret is that I won't have the freedom to be grumpy, graphic, and foul with the same lack of reservation I enjoyed through this anonymous blog. You, my IF friends, will know to "read between the lines."

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Ian's birth.

May 20th was a hot day. Too hot for May; even in the South. But I couldn't have cared less about the heat because it was my last day at work before taking a 2-week hiatus before my son was due. AND I had another OB appointment, so 1/3 of my last day was going to be whittled away in the waiting room. Glory!

I was due in the ultrasound office first to check my fluid levels which were low but still normal. They had been low/normal for 3 weeks and we were keeping a close eye on the old ute to make sure the fluid situation didn't get critical. Hubby was prepping for a last fishing trip with his old junior high buddy, so I headed to the doctor alone.

My US tech was one of my favorites. She was always offering additional information about the baby who we could no longer really see clearly except for snippets of nose and chin or feet. We chatted about weekend plans and due dates a little as she looked around as per usual and then she interjected, "I don't think your husband is going fishing this weekend."

I knew in that moment that I was going to induced that day and that I was going to meet my little boy in the next few hours. Ready or not. And no, I was not ready. I had A BUNCH of grand plans for those last 2 weeks out of work to organize and clean my house that, literally just 2 days before, had been in the midst of minor renovation. No such luck.

I called hubby and broke the news to him that a third fishing trip was going to have to be cancelled (which was mentioned far too often in the labor and delivery room as a "joke") and I called my parents to tell them that their trip to Houston wasn't going to happen either. Then they basically wheeled me to the admission desk at the hospital, checked me in, and started me on pit.ocin. All in the space of about an hour and a half.

The next day and a half went completely awry and, though it was puzzlingly against my nature, I was so glad that I did not get all OCD on my birth plan. I think the possible scenarios for how the birth would progress were too varied and that that, paired with my complete lack of reference for what childbirth would be like and how I would personally handle it, meant that I found the creation of a birth plan completely impossible to wrap my head around. There were too many factors to consider. So I didn't think much about it; I just knew that I would probably (definitely) have an epidural at some point. I didn't need the "natural birth" gold star, thank you very much. Do I get a tooth extracted "naturally.? Ummmm- no. So why a baby, pray tell? Just sayin'.

So pit starts and I'm feeling fine and apparently having contractions that I can't even feel. I feel smug and all supermom-ish. Like, "what contractions? I don't feel a thing. No sweat."

Then the doctor comes in with his torture stick to break my water (which is supposed to jump start dilation 'cause I am not dilated one ittty bitty bit. We are starting from zero here, folks). Apparently, my cervix was sitting way way way posterior, so they had to reach what felt like THROUGH my fucking back to get to the opening of the cervix and nick the sac. Sooooo painful. First time … failure. So we waited a while, hoping the contractions would begin to dilate the cervix and move it to a more accessible location . Second attempt … failure. Wait some more. Third time, gritting my teeth and moaning in pain … Doc finally nicked the bag and I experienced severe PTSD, continuing to cry and shake with hopped up nerves and pain even after the procedure was finished.

I prayed for my fluid to gush because I didn't think I could handle another probing by the doctor with his torture stick. And it did finally, about a half hour later all over the floor after I'd gone to the bathroom. It's funny to think about now, but I didn't know what to do. I just stood in my small puddle of amniotic fluid and called the nurse in to tell her "it broke." She thought I meant that I broke the IV machine that I was standing next to ... until she saw me standing in my own mess.

After that, we fully expected the dilation to start in earnest and for the show to get on the road. My body had other plans.

Around 2:30 in the morning and at only three centimeters, I called "uncle" and asked for the epidural. I wouldn't have changed how I did things, but I definitely think that the epidural interrupted the dilation process. My contractions immediately got weaker and my progress slowed. I chalk it up to the disconnect between brain and body cause by the epidural; there was definitely a feedback loop between the pain experienced by my brain and the labor process of my body that was interrupted by the epidural. By the next morning around 9:00 am when the doctor came back in to visit me, I was only at 5 centimeters.

It was at this point that the term "C-Section" started to be bandied about; and after laboring for almost 24 hours (not hard labor the whole time, but I still get to claim it!), I was long overdue for a meltdown. In all the scenarios that went through my head, C-section was the furthest from the realm of possibility. Why would I have been "blessed" with sturdy birthing hips? Why would my baby have sat fully engaged for weeks before his birth - so low down that absolutely everyone, without exception, who stuck their hand up my junk would exclaim how low he was - if not to give birth vaginally? How was I going to hold him after he was born?

My meltdown was sufficient enough that both doctor and nurse wanted to give me every opportunity to give birth vaginally. As long as I was progressing every couple of hours, we would hang in there. In the meantime, the nurse turned me every half hour from one side to my other, hopefully encouraging the baby's head to change position such that it would better dilate the cervix. By about noon I was still 5 cm. And by that point, after 2 hours of tears, 24 hours of labor (and starvation), exhaustion, and time to consider - I was ready to meet my baby no matter how it happened.

The rest is par for the course and my little man was born at 1:04 pm on May 21st, 2011. 6 lbs, 10 oz and 18 3/4in long.

He is now 5 weeks old and giving me a run for my money. He's not an inconsolable baby, but he sure does need a lot of consoling. We also had some initial challenges in the breast feeding department (does that ever go smoothly for anyone?), but those have ironed themselves out after an effortful three weeks. And the little man ended up in the hospital for three nights due to a high fever. It turned out to be a regular old virus, but they had to keep him in hospital while they ruled out other more nefarious bugs.

So here I am, a mother. A tired, bleary-eyed, aching-bodied, raw-nippled mother. In the beginning, I found myself asking the universe what the hell I'd gotten myself into! Nowadays, I ask Ian what the hell he wants from me! I am encouraged by others who tell me it gets easier and that I will eventually feel less resentfully-shackled and more emotinally-bonded. If you have similar encouragement, feel free to pass it along!!!!!!!

Denouement

Hi friends,

It has been a very very long time; part of my process, I suppose. I am going to spare you all any efforts at literary suspense to say that baby and I are fine. He is 25 weeks yesterday - and yes, it's a He and he has all his chromosomes in the right number and configuration.

As you all know, the CVS procedure we planned at 11 weeks had to be cancelled, so Jason and I were left in excruciating limbo - we had to wait 4 weeks till the amniocentesis procedure and then a remaining 4 days to receive the FISH results (a test that targets a few key chromosomal defects rather than the full gamut analysis which takes 2 weeks). The wait was going to be difficult, but we were relieved that we were going to find out either way before we left to visit Jason's family in Georgia over Christmas. While there, we were either going to 1) reveal our good news or 2) desperately force our grief deep deep deep down under a sea of mind-numbing substances till we could get back home and properly lose it.

Have you guessed what comes next? If you are a seasoned IFer, you probably guessed that - whatever came next - it went every which way except the way we planned.

The amnio procedure was actually fine - no fluid leaking, no fever, not even cramps. I was terrified to laugh or sneeze for fear that the sac would burst like a water balloon; but all in all, not a bad experience. I remember being pretty functional during the 4 day wait for the FISH results; but I slid down the slippery slope of hysteria soon enough.

My reserves crumbled on day 4 when, that morning, I was practically hyperventilating in the parking lot at work as I left a message with Maternal Fetal Medicine to get the results ,or remind them that my results should be in, or generally beg them to throw me a bone because I was barely holding my panic at bay. When the doctor called me back, I was not at all pleased. Doctors only call when it's bad news. Which it was.

The bad news was that the sample they collected for the FISH processing did not grow properly … so no results for me. Instead … another 2-week-wait for the full chromosomal analysis.

WTF?! As if I had't had more than fucking enough of those.

None of which I said to the doctor. I just sucked up my dismay while he explained that they had attempted the FISH twice, after which they didn't want to compromise the rest of my fluid sample which was needed for the full chromosomal analysis.

This really really fucked up the big Christmas Miracle announcement we were hoping to deliver in Georgia. Not to mention the fact that we just couldn't believe how fucking unfair this was. Yet another hard lesson hammered home once again; the "F" in IF does not stand for "fair."

So here we were, being asked to wait ANOTHER 2 weeks for results we were hoping to have a full month and a half ago. It was truly truly unfathomable, ladies. I couldn't wrap my head around the cruelty of it all. Time was becoming crucial since, given chromosomal unviability, we would have considered terminating the pregnancy. And since we'd had a baby with chromosomal anomalies once before, it was no long stretch of the imagination to consider that we may have to grapple with some excruciating choices. My biggest fear was that I would begin to feel the baby and that … well. You know. Suffice it to say, the farther in I was, the more ruined I would be - at least that's how I figured it at the time.

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We did tell Jason's family over Christmas - not indicating that we were still waiting to see if the baby was healthy and viable. We just announced it like, as per tradition, he was going to come into this world for sure. We soaked up all the joyful tears and congratulations with our fingers crossed behind our backs.

It was on the drive back home that I got the call from the nurse informing us that everything was all right and that the baby was a boy. Holy shit. A real boy. Not only was I stunned with the news that everything was OK, but I was strangely panicked by the fact that I had no idea what the hell to do with a boy. Though honestly, I probably would have had the same thought if it was a girl.

Since then, it has been a whirlwind of coming to terms with the fact that this might actually happen. My anxiety has shifted somewhat from concern about his health and well-being inside me, to his health and well-being on - impossibly - the outside. As you all know, it would have been reckless and irresponsible to think about the baby actually being born. Baby steps - no pun intended - are what's called for. Literally one day and one fetal heartbeat at a time as you inch toward 5 weeks, then 10, then out of the first trimester, etc etc. Finally, when it looks more likely than not that things might progress normally, you can finally attend to the Things You Couldn't Think About Before … like maternity leave, daycare, living arrangements, career, newborn care, baby clothes (the attraction to which I have never understood until my baby became a reality to me … now I get it.) All the things which, under normal circumstances, I would have begun thinking about the minute I took the pee test. But having lost four-five months to squelching hope, I am feeling very behind-the-ball. I do it happily and excitedly, but I am utterly overwhelmed by the impending seismic shift in my identity. It is strange and scary, but so exciting.

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As I type, he is kicking against my basketball belly. I felt my first honest-to-god kick at 19 weeks, and he is a reliable little mover and shaker. He's had 2 great anatomy checks and tests in the normal range on all things. As for me, besides heartburn and wicked lower back pain if I over-extend myself, I seem to be weathering pregnancy with blissfully few side-effects.

I am not sure what I should do at this point with respect to this blog. I'm not ready to take it down altogether because … what if I need it again? God help us. But I don't anticipate I'l be blogging much; hopefully some updates here and there but I don't want to misuse this space to prattle on about my day-to-day worries which now revolve around the fact that I will most likely quit my job and try and find part-time work after he is 3 months old. (After visiting the day cares, discovering how much of my salary will go to his care by a stranger, and reading my newborn books, I feel more comfortable sacrificing my career and my salary (such as it is) for the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to watch my baby grow up, at least in his first year. It is a HUGE leap of faith because my anxiety around money is EPIC.) For those of you who continue to post after becoming, and remaining, pregnant, please don't think that I am criticizing your blogs; I actually love reading about your pregnancies as they progress. It's just that the kind of support I personally need and the kind of support I can personally provide seem to belong less and less in the IF domain … personally.

I want to thank all of you who took the time to comment on my blog and offer your support. You all were instrumental in anchoring me in a reality that was utterly unfair, but sadly common. The very fact of our shared experience and suffering in the face of something so inexplicably unfair helped to ground me in functional coping mechanisms. By acknowledging the universality of harsh and unfair reality, I could deal with the inevitable pain of being alive rather much better than if I had given in fully to despair, hopelessness, self-flagellation, and anger.

Perhaps it is easy to say this from the comfortable distance of 25 weeks; in fact, I know it is.

But I have learned a lot about resilience, humor, and honesty in the face of adversity from reading your blogs. THANK YOU.

My day-before-Thanksgiving-boss-is-gone-and-I’m-totally-slacking Update

Been feeling much better lately. Which, I am finding, is wonderful in terms of my motivation and mood; but –SURPRISE-I also worry that perhaps it means something else. Having the fatigue and nausea sucked, but I also felt pregnant.

Monday will mark 13 weeks. The time at which I lost the last pregnancy and the farthest I’ve ever gotten in a pregnancy. I’m a little nervous.

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I have been meaning for a long time to clear up a post from several months ago. My father, trying to be helpful and using some numbers I gave him from our RE (that Jason and I had a 75% chance of success with no intervention), incorrectly assessed our successive chances. Here is what he wrote:

"Suppose you decide to try 4 more times, in future (Hope you are willing to look that far ahead).


What's the probability of success in at least one of those 4 times?
Probability of first failure = 0.35
Probability of first and second tries failing = 0.35 x 0.35 = 0.1225
Probability of 3 failed attempts = 0.35 x 0.35 x 0.35 = 0.042875
Probability of 4 failed attempts = 0.35 x 0.35 x 0.35 x 0.35 = 0.01500625
The probability of at least one success in those 4 attempts = 1 - 0.01500625 = 0.985"

It seemed a little fishy at the time since, in all my book and blog reading, the statistics definitely did not parse out so optimistically. But I thought, what the hell do I know about probabilities? His math must be right.

Anyway, the human body does not bend to such a straightforward probability model. I was confirmed in my intuition by some materials that Misfits posted after returning from her fabulous trip to Chicago where she met experts who had written books specifically about RPL. One of the books came with the table below, which corrected my father’s assumption that each “event” is independent from the other. In undiagnosed RPL – that is not the case; from occurrence to occurrence, the probability of success does NOT stay the same.

I have also included a seriously shocking graph depicting the estimated survival of human conceptions by gestation. They say that human reproduction is incredibly inefficient, and this graph certainly presents it as such.

Though not quite so optimistic as my father’s calculation, I think the RPL landscape (if the losses are unexplained) still presents a hopeful picture. Happy Thanksgiving.

No go

We didn’t do the CVS.

It never even occurred to me that there would be a situation in which we would decide NOT to undergo the procedure; but as I should know by now, there are no guarantees in this game.

So I got to the maternal fetal medicine clinic on Monday morning with a VERY full bladder (as per instructions) and was in a foul mood because 1) Jason and I had had a fight the evening before, 2) I was very uncomfortable because of my bladder, 3) the doctor was late, and 4) I was fucking nervous.

So by the time we got into a room to measure baby etc etc, I was fit to be tied. Even though I had seen the fetus just a week before, I burst out crying when we saw the baby moving. My sobbing was so sudden and so contradictory to the happy situation we found ourselves in (baby alive, heartbeat there, measuring correctly, blah blah) that Jason was, I could tell, having one of those moments men have when they are completely kerflummoxed by a woman’s emotions. I surprised myself, so I know he was completely baffled. He just grabbed my hand and asked, “What’s wrong baby? Everything’s fine!” All I could say was, “I know.”

It felt like a release to cry and I am sure I was crying for a variety of reasons – relief that everything looked good, PTSD from the last time I had an ultrasound in that office (when we did the NT quad screen and everything looked fine, only to find out a week later that our test came back positive for chromosomal problems and then we subsequently miscarried at 13 weeks), and anxiety about the CVS procedure.

When the doctor finally arrived, I had had some time to collect myself, though he could tell I’d been crying. He was very kind AND he let me pee for 15 seconds – so I fell in love with him.

After looking around for a bit, he got up and, using the ultrasound picture on the monitor in front of me, pointed out the position of all my organs and then proceeded to explain how the position of the organs and the uterus increased my risk of miscarriage from the procedure. As you can see from my brilliant reconstruction of the ultrasound, my intestines were blocking the path from my stomach to the villi – that meant that entry through the stomach was 100% not an option - and the path from the vaginal canal would have required a risky 90 degree turn to access the villi.

He recommended waiting till week 15 when we could do amniocentesis; we agreed.

So, after another emotional roller-coaster ride, guess what I did? I went to the maternity store and spent $233 dollars on pants and some summer dresses and shirts that I MIGHT need if I make it to the summer. The pants I was OK buying (I need those); but I felt foolish and naïve for buying the summer clothes. Yet hope and excitement definitely triumphed. I haven’t even reached the date of my last miscarriage and I’m buying clothes that I can’t wear for another 4-5 months. My only excuse is that they were discounted significantly and my frugality (and, yes, hope) won the day. I will burn them if I miscarry.

I love the maternity pants and don’t know why we don’t wear these fabulous elasticized, stretchy pants ALL the time. They are so comfortable and have made my life about 50% better already. My gas-filled intestines and teeny-tiny uterus can hang as far out as they want – yay for elastic.

Drama Rama

Ladies – to know that you are thinking of me and wondering how I am. Well it warms my heart. Thank you for checking in B and Roccie.

I am doing much better this week. I am amazed at how much better my outlook on life is when I don’t feel like the walking dead with indigestion. Feeling rested and being able to eat with a modicum of comfort have made a big difference.

I also broke down and bought some Metamusil this week since the intestinal backup was becoming urgent. Just FYI, when you see any pregnant woman in the first trimester rubbing her “pregnant belly,” she is basically giving her swollen, jacked-up bowels a good stroking. I was wondering what the hell was moving me into my size 10 pants so quickly, never having suffered from constipation before. I’m ordinarily suuuuper regular and thankful for that. Doc told me that it was my digestive organs moving further up in my abdomen as the uterus expands. I had no idea. I don’t know how I missed that the first three times, but I thought all that bloating was a swelling uterus. Nope. So all those stupid ladies who are 6 weeks pregnant and rubbing their bellies are just grabbing their stomachs and large intestines. I’m sure you all knew that, but if you didn’t – now you can take pleasure in their ignorance. I have been very “anti belly-rub” this whole pregnancy except when I grab my stomach out of a fit of mild nausea. And now I am so glad because how stupid would I have looked!

Also, I think it is no coincidence that I am also feeling better this week because I got to verify on Monday that the fetus is still alive and kicking. I was not due to check in on the fetus until this coming Monday (the day of the CVS procedure) and I could not fathom showing up for that very scary procedure to be told that there was no reason to do the procedure. So I called my doc on Monday and he saw me that afternoon. While we couldn’t find the heartbeat with the Doppler thingy (slightly distressing- so glad I haven’t gotten the fetal monitor yet), we were able to see the fetus with an ancient ultrasound machine. The little heart was flickering. It was also waving what I have brilliantly identified as its right arm/hand/bud.

So I was reassured, my system seems to be settling down, and I am only three days (one work day) away from the next big hurdle. So I feel very fine today. Very fine.

I am trying hard to avoid thinking about the CVS procedure. As you all know, it comes with a risk of miscarriage. That’s as far as I’m willing to discuss it. I will be flat on my back for all of Monday, and Tuesday as well if I feel any inkling that my uterus is twinging. Shit, I won’t even go in to work if I have a bad case of gas. I am completely horizontal next week for as long as I need. What else is there to say except if I ever needed your positive energy, it is on Monday at 10:00 am CST. Thanksverymuch.
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In other news, this weekend, my insensitive friend, Belle, called me while she was making a long interstate drive; this is when we usually chat, during her hour trek on I-10. This tends to imply to me that she has no idea that we may need to have a "special" conversation as opposed to “the usual.” On the other hand, she has not sent me any other emails and this is the first time she has been in touch since she sent that dreadful email during the summer. I missed the call and she left a message. I had to have Jason listen to the message; I absolutely couldn’t face any number of things she might have had to say. Turns out she was just checking in on me, seeing how I’m doing etc.

So now I need your advice. I don’t know what to do with her. I have not called her back and feel absolutely no desire to. Even if I did decide to talk to her, I certainly couldn’t do it at this point while she is a few months away from pregnancy, clearly incapable of protecting my feelings, and while I am on the precipice of finding out if my pregnancy is viable. The most I could possibly do is email.

Secondly, I don’t think I am willing to carry on a charade of a relationship where I stuff my feelings down and simply protect myself from her in the future. I just felt that the situation was mishandled so miserably and my trust in her as a friend was so damaged that I wouldn’t be able to have any sort of relationship with her without addressing my feelings. It would almost violate my integrity.

I would love to just ignore her calls and emails and pretend like she never existed. Yet, despite what I FEEL, I KNOW it would be much more adult if I could acknowledge my feelings to her and clearly address why I have not been in contact. It is the fair, adult thing to do that gives her a chance to explain herself. It would appropriately honor the 16-year friendship we’ve maintained.

So what do I do? How do I address this? I could just ignore it and never speak to her again; but I don’t think that’s feasible. So do I send her an email that explains that I can’t talk to her now and, by the way, she really damaged our friendship? I don’t want drama; I want it to go away. But it feels wrong to so completely burn a bridge. I still feel some inkling of loyalty and duty to the friendship. Help.

Off My Game

Let me preface this post by saying that every time I think about writing, I get a little spurt of anxiety – whether it’s performance anxiety or whether it has to do with the subject matter, I’m not sure. At any rate, I get a nice shot of adrenaline that lands square in my very upset stomach, precipitating a surge of nausea that makes blogging completely out of the question. I can’t even read your blogs. I get through work, drive home, and collapse on the couch in a teary ball because I’m so tired and my back hurts and and I’m hungry and turned off by food at the same time.

I am sooo off my game.

It was a week yesterday since my 6 week ultrasound. A horrible horrible surreal experience. I don’t think I have ever felt so keenly how my life can turn on a dime. It wasn’t a “what if” moment. This was an honest-to-god fork in the road and there I was laying helplessly on a table, legs spread, U/S wand invading my space – you know the drill. It really felt like a life-or-death game of Russian Roulette. Bullet or no bullet.

As you all know, this was the moment in which I found out if my husband and I were going to give up the dream of parenthood or whether we got to play more of the “waiting game.” I was at the mercy of the ultrasound tech who – irritatingly - didn’t seem to realize her pivotal role as the messenger of the Rest of My Life. Those ultrasound techs have no idea what an enormous impact they have on our experience and memory of these emotionally-laden moments. Little do they know they become very strong characters in the narratives of our fertility journey. I remember every one of my techs. Every one. Not what they look like, but how they delivered the news. How they reacted to my grief or my joy. I was pretty underwhelmed by the gal that told me she saw a heartbeat.

I couldn’t look at the monitor. I looked at my husband and made him look at me and just tell me over and over that we were going to be all right. No matter what. The ultrasound tech took too long for my comfort to tell me that there was a heartbeat. I’m sure it was a matter of, like, 15 seconds. But when she didn’t say something right away, I was halfway to me and Jason in a beach house we could now afford as a 2 person family.

So obviously, very good news. Heartbeat was 136 or 139 b/m and the fetus measured at 7 weeks. Bonus week! That is one less week of worrying. Turns out I ovulated really really really early. Like 3-5 days after the last day of my period. Guess my body wanted to get this whole mess over with as expediently as I did.

I am now at 8 weeks and our next hurdle is on Nov. 15th when we have the CVS procedure. In the meantime, I am treading water and I will try to be a better support to you all.

One of the Boys

Jason just left for a fishing trip; his buddies picked him up and they are on their way to the Gulf to tuna fish.

Jason was telling me yesterday that both fishing buddies weren't even married last time they fished together and they are now both married and pregnant ... well, their wives are. I asked him how it made him feel and he said he was happy for them and wished them well.  Typical Jason. We didn't talk any more about it.

Well just now, when they picked him up, I congratulated them on the good news and there were thanks all around. Then his friend said, "And congratulations to you!" I hardly knew what he meant and it dawned on me (too slowly for my comfort) that Jason had told them! Which was fine with me, I've decided to be open about this pregnancy. Not that I took out an ad or anything, but I'm not in my dome of secrecy anymore. Being that Jason doesn't share much, I assumed he hadn't told these friends; and it took me way off guard because he's not particularly close to these guys. But who am I to know what constitutes "close" in manland.

But this is what killed me. After his friend congratulated us, Jason excitedly said, "Yeah. It's weird. last time we went fishing, only one of us was married and no one was pregnant, now we're all married and all pregnant! How far along are we now, babe?"

"4.5 weeks," I said.  "Very very very early."

Oh my god. My heart sank because he is excited, he's hoping, and he wants so badly to be a part of the tribe of fathers. He wanted to be able to chime in proudly with how far along we are. I want him to get it; I want to be able to give it to him. I need my body to perform.

Thank you

Thanks everyone. I guess I actually DO feel better after receiving y'alls thoughtful responses and encouragement. I feel complete after having shared the story, and now I will try not to dwell on my ill will. I will admit that every time one of you indicated your disgust for her behavior, I felt a warm fuzzy glow inside. She's not such hot shit after all.

Sharing the story clearly doesn't change how I feel about her and the pain is still there. But I do feel like I have taken a little of my power back by standing up for my hurt and indignation. Perhaps she didn't intend to hurt me, but goddammit she did! And I have to stand up for my belief that she - unlike other friends who might not be able to parse the finer points of IF etiquette because they have no previous context for it - has almost no excuse.

One thing in her defense - I really really nailed the "I'm so happy for you" act. It was an act, and I was fully aware of it at the time. But there was no way to express the complexity of my feelings after having been ambushed like that. So I stuck a smile on my face and was peeerfectly charming. For that reason, I suppose that I bear some responsibility for being included on her U/S email list. But I made a firm decision that I was not going to playact any longer at my expense. So I did not email her back any response. And I think that sent a pretty clear (and yes, passive-aggressive) message that that was not gonna fly. I know she knows the sex by now, and I don't - so mission accomplished.

In sum, there seems to be no better place, except perhaps for a therapists office, to unload your demons than an anonymous blog. And I guess that's what we are all here to do.

Roscoe and Duke

My dogs. They are a handful. Before I came along and whipped them and my future husband into shape, they had a very bad reputation around our rural neighborhood. 

The escaped multiple times, once killing a rabbit (some poor child's 4-H project) and they were accused of killing some sheep. Jason even got a visit from the Sheriff and the owner of the sheep. It was all hearsay mind you, no one witnessed the marauding. But our dogs were accused and probably rightly so.

I repeat - this was before I came along. I will be generous to Jason and just conclude that he was going through a learning curve with the dogs - learning that they like to escape ... and disappear for days at a time   ... and kill things while they are out roaming.  It's not the dogs' fault for being dogs; it was Jason's for being a negligent owner, which he readily admits. He's lucky they are still alive since according to the "law of rural America" they could have rightly been shot several times over.

Anyway, did I mention this was all BEFORE me? When I knew I was in the picture to stay and was going to have to worry about those dogs, all that (most of that) escaping stopped and there have been no more 4-H tragedies.

We now try to spend their endless energy at the dog park ... in the city. It is a ludicrous situation to have to drive your dogs to the city from the country so that they can run free. But there it is. The picture is them at the dog park.

They are wonderful, sweet creatures - Roscoe and Duke (son and father). But they are ALL black lab - full of energy and instinct.

Taboos

WARNING: very long post; time required: 15 minutes

I have been thinking a lot about jealousy lately and wanted to see what sort of input you all had. The following post may seem very judgmental, and I really don’t mean it to be so. I am having some personal struggles and know that you smart ladies will have some perspective on this topic and I need to voice my doubts to see if I can make sense of my discomfort and guilt regarding jealousy.

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In general, of course, we are taught that jealousy is bad. We are taught not to give-in to jealousy and envy nor to express it. It’s a hallmark of weak character and misplaced values, breeding dissatisfaction and resentment when one should more appropriately express gratitude for what she does have. Hence, all of the hair pulling we do in these IF blogs about feeling like horrible monsters for the intense animosity we feel towards pregnant women.

Despite the guilt – or maybe because of it - we all seem to dive headlong into the cathartic release of our pent-up resentments. We seem to revel in it, in fact; not just engage in it. It’s an orgy of frustration, characterized by its intensity as we all FINALLY feel safe to express taboo thoughts and feelings. It’s a wonderful supportive safe place that allows us to express with very little reservation emotions that may otherwise eat us up from the inside out.

But here’s what I am wondering …. while I desperately want to continue engaging in self-righteous and indignant rants against the injustice of IF in general and I’d love to tell you all about the affront of my inconsiderate pregnant friend in particular, I feel unsettled about it. It’s not that I’m afraid that anyone is judging me, because I know you all feel the same way I do and none of my IRL friends know about my blog. So there is no fear of being caught or being judged. But I still don’t feel right about it.

Why?

Why do I feel uncomfortable with it? In the first place, it makes me feel bad about myself. I will admt to you that I am an unbelievably jealous person, I’m not just jealous about fertility. I constantly compare myself and my life those of others I admire, though it usually isn’t expressed through anger so much as self-flagelation. "She has such a beautiful house and beautiful kids and smart husband. She’s so accomplished and popular. What happened that I’m not more like her?" I’m jealous of what "she" has, and I blame myself for not having it. So that’s the first thing, being resentful of someone else’s talents or good fortune ends up actually damaging me because I feel that I am either incompetent (I control my destiny) or unworthy (the Universe/God controls my destiny). Either way, I am “less than.”

Secondly, as I gorge myself on indignation and self-righteousness and am supported in these feelings in the blogospere , I feel distance growing between me and people I used to feel more connected to. I also judge them very harshly for … whatever. I am very easily offended by lack of attention or “incorrect” attention. The “us and them” divide is growing and I find myself becoming one of those tiresome people who is always expecting others (in my head at least) to be totally PC about infertility and not offend me in any way shape or form.

And then I wanted to ask – does jealousy have a positive function at all? Anger definitely does; even though anger is arguably something that must be carefully managed, we still recognize it has a valid place within the constellation of expressable emotions. But jelousy is usually completely off the table. There is just no context in which it is OK to express it? Why?

Just so that you know I am not “above” basking in indignation, I will unload what I've been holding in until now about my horrible awful friend.

My Horrible Awful No-Account Friend

So this friend of mine (I’ll call her Belle) - she was the source of intense jealousy before she ever got pregnant. In the first place she is gorgeous. The effect she has on men AND women when she walks into a room is remarkable; I have honestly never seen anything like it. People offer their seats, buy her bottles of wine, remark on her beauty – they are enchanted by her. Even me. I can hardly look at her without constantly thinking how goddamn beautiful she is every single second. Really, to look at her is just distracting because all you can think about is her beauty.

But she’s not just beauty – she’s brains too. Big, double-wide brains, she’s eloquent and analytical and is on the cusp of earning her PhD in psychology.

She is also extremely personable and popular and friendly and she is one of those people who strangely doesn’t gossip about others. She talks about people, sure, but there is never that edge of maliciousness that I know sneaks into my tone of voice when I talk about some people. Her approach is if you don’t have anything nice to say, then don’t say anything at all.

And she is going to make an extremely comfortable living once she gets out of school. She is a very, very hard worker and has worked hard for everything she has, but I can’t help including in my list of complaints that she will soon make at least 4 times what I make.

There are aspects of Belle’s life and her personality that I find distasteful. For instance, she is inordinately focused on her looks in a way that reveals that much of her self-worth is wrapped up in it. She presents the conundrum of being very comfortable walking around with unwashed hair and jogging pants, but still self-conscious enough that she got liposuction in her fucking twenties (she’s not skinny, but she is certainly not overweight and didn’t need liposuction at all). For someone who could literally step out of bed and in front of a camera, her obsession with her looks is confounding. It’s also irritating because she knows she is beautiful and will use it to manipulate people.

And she talks a lot. She talks too much and it’s irritatingly self-promotional about 90% of the time. For someone who is going to get paid to listen to other people’s problems all day, she is awfully bad at it. She constantly monopolizes a conversation and interrupts you with ways in which she has experienced what you are talking about or things that she has done or accomplished that trump yours.

Plus, she places a lot of value on money and appearance and all of those surface things. I, while not beyond wishing I had more money or was more beautiful, obviously don’t care enough to seek a higher-paying job or put on makeup. So with respect to how we live our lives, we are very different and now live in 2 different cities and had generally begun to drift apart anyway. But she continued to be one of the few women in whom I confided because I could trust her, and she can be a very caring person with a great deal of compassion when you need her to be.

Cut to late May when I told Belle over the phone that I had just had a miscarriage and that it was my third one. She knew about the first one, but not the second. I generally glossed over the second one with everyone so it wasn’t weird that I hadn’t told her about it. We talked a little on the phone and I wasn’t very emotional about it at all. I was matter-of-fact and full of information, but didn’t really express my sadness. I’m not sure why, but that’s how it was. She told me that she and her husband were still trying (which I knew) and we talked a little more about being older and trying to get pregnant (she is 38 or 39) and that was that.

Then a month later, she wanted to arrange a dinner date with me and some of our mutual acquaintances (who have no idea about my RPL). This is something we do periodically and it wasn’t at all out of the ordinary, so you can imagine that I was not at all prepared when our mutual acquaintance showed up to dinner 20 weeks pregnant with her second child (she’s also 39) and then Belle promptly announced that she was 12 weeks pregnant.

I was reeling. Just spinning. I couldn’t believe that she had done that to me. I just couldn’t imagine how she could be so out of touch with the fact that that might be incredibly painful for me. She explained in the bathroom that she was afraid to tell me over the phone and wanted to do it in person. Really? In person? At a table with 2 other people, one of whom you knew was going to make a simultaneous announcement that she is 20 weeks pregnant? REALLY? You don’t think it would have more appropriately been a private conversation!!!???? I know she’s not stupid, so that leaves self-involved or so scared of my reaction that she PLANNED it that way - in public with 2 other people who had no idea about my RPL so that there was no way I could express my true feelings without revealing my losses to 2 people I had no desire of informing.

And then, of course, the ENTIRE dinner conversation revolved around pregnancy; and this was about a month and a half after I lost my third pregnancy in a row. If this is a reflection of how able she is to muster empathy for people, then she will SUCK as a psychologist. Clearly she is way more self-involved than I originally suspected.

Here’s something even more incredible. Her older sister went through YEARS of IF and Belle knew as much as anyone can know without actually having gone through it themselves the brand of pain that IF brings. Her sister and her husband tried for years to get pregnant via IVF – I don’t know how many failed attempts there were, but it was more than 2. They finally did get pregnant and lost the baby late in the pregnancy because the umbilical chord had wrapped around the baby’s neck and asphyxiated her. Following that loss, they decided to adopt and chose a mother who backed out at the last minute, AFTER they had paid for lots of medical bills. They did finally manage to adopt a beautiful little girl, but what went before was heart-wrenching. So to think that Belle was so selfish and clueless, having walked that road with her sister, just really confused me.

But there’s more. I apparently did such a good acting job at dinner (thanks to popping a Clo.nopin as soon as I could) that I convinced her I was emotionally resilient enough for her to email me GODDAMED ULTRASOUND PICS, gushing about how miraculous it was to see the baby moving etc etc. This was a 13 week ultrasound. The same week I miscarried. I did not respond to that email (which was addressed to several people) and have not talked or heard from her since.

God. After writing all of this, I really don’t know why I would ever consider continuing a friendship with her.

I feel complete after having told this story and slightly avenged; but I do not feel better.

And another

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=130332188

IVF in the News

FYI everyone. 2 article on IVF.

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=130332035
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/10/05/opinion/05Henig.html

Interviewing my Husband

It’s been a grumpy day because I didn’t feel pregnant.

Also, blogging is TIRING – lovely and enriching and satisfying - but tiring nonetheless. So I am grumpy that I can’t just blog and read blogs all day instead of having to do it at night when the last thing I want is to sit in front of a computer after a full 8 hours of doing so. But I HAVE to do it because it is such a life-saver for me right now.

I’m sure I’ve made the process much more cumbersome than it needs to be. I am an extremely organized person and operate much better when things are in their place – then I know where to find them when I need them and life proceeds efficiently. So my approach to blogging has been predictably systematized. I should have been a robot.

Point in fact, as I get deeper into the blogosphere, I realize that consistent interaction (both posting and commenting) is necessary in order to reap the benefits of blogging. So I am trying very hard to leave thoughtful comments and remember at which point each of you is in your journey (even those who don’t even know I’m reading yet). But I have started getting confused with the CD’s and MTHFR’s and IUI’s etc. etc. on top of the piecemeal way I have to sneak in a read here and there at work, maniacally minimizing and maximizing my internet browser all day. So no wonder I can’t keep straight which one of you works for a Jewish school, which one IS Jewish, and which one is exploring Judaism. This can only end badly. I just know one day I will post a great chicken and sausage recipe on a vegetarian’s comment area and feel like a total ass.

To avoid feeling like an ass, I have, in my overboard (aka thorough) way, started to keep notes on each of you so that I can scan them during those times I get lost or have to remind myself of some detail of your situation. It’s kind of ridiculous and insanely time-consuming, but kind of cool. Maybe I’ll share my synopses one day. It’ll be like playing your blogs in fast forward.
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In other news:

I got the digital voice recorder from UPS (they sent it from Los Angeles to Louisiana via ….. you will never guess …. Ottawa. WTF. Needless to say, it did not arrive while my mother-in-law was still here). It is the cooooooolest and I feel like Ira Glass who I have a total crush on - although I think he may be a tad arrogant which would be a turn-off. I love love love radio programming and listen to it religiously. If I had a religion, it would be National Public Radio.

I decided to interview my husband, and since it was just 2 days after we had gotten the BFP, I thought it would be good to document our thoughts and feelings. The interview went well, aside from the interference that my cellphone created because it was lying next to the microphone. You’d think I’d have learned basic lessons about double checking recording equipment in the 6 years I studied cultural anthro. Total newbie mistake, man.

Because we have been talking the fertility issue to death, there were no new revelations on that front. Same old same old, you know, talking big talk about not letting ourselves hope too much while knowing full well we are hoping our hearts out. But Jason did reveal something that I have been thinking about a lot since the interview.

You see, on the exterior Jason looks like a bouncer. He’s tall and thick with a shaved head (sometimes he sports a Mohawk which I think is ridiculous because he hardly has any hair and it’s all thin on top and thicker in the back and he just ends up looking like he’s growing a stripe of hair down the back of his head. Plus it makes him look so mean and he’s so not. But whatever, he thinks it looks awesome). He also doesn’t say much most of the time; strong, silent – you know the type. But he is the deepest pool of love and loyalty I have ever known. He loves his family and friends fiercely. It is easy to forget that his emotions, because they are not evident, are very strongly felt. Part of our breakdown over the summer had to do with me underestimating the toll that the miscarriages have taken on him.

He shoulders everything so silently and pushes it to a place I can’t see – and he apparently does it to protect me. In fact, he spends a lot of time worrying about me and protecting me emotionally and his distress over my unhappiness is sometimes so intense that I used to think he was transferring of all of his own grief into worry about me so that he wouldn’t have to deal with his feelings. For someone with a less attentive husband, this may sound heavenly, but it was very often irritating because I didn’t feel like I had permission to express my very appropriate grief after each miscarriage. He didn’t want me to be sad, he was desperately worried about my sadness; and I just wanted him to let me be sad and by the way, Jason, you could be a little sadder yourself since it was your baby too, thank you very much.

But that wasn’t the revelation. The revelation was that the reason he gets so twisted up when I start to spiral downward is because when I was admitted to the psychiatric unit after my first miscarriage, it scared him like he has never been scared before. Given his exceptional loyalty and love, I realize now that he was prepared to stick by me till my dying day and was scared to death that I might mentally disintegrate to the point of psychosis or something. Not to mention it’s just fucking scary to see someone you love in so much pain that they have to be admitted to a hospital.

I can’t believe that before he pointed it out in this interview, I never ever realized how very much that episode in our lives scarred him. It’s like he has PTSD and every time I start to show signs of the person that he knew before I went into the hospital (depressed, raging anger, hopelessness and epic anxiety) he is revisited with fear that I may end up in that place again. Obviously, post-miscarriage me is very very hard on him and probably has a lot to do with why he really needs this attempt to be our last.

As we grow together, I think he might become more comfortable with the rhythm of my depression and realize that as long as I am appropriately medicated, the depression is totally manageable. I have never felt like I was on the edge of my sanity –desperate, sad, hopeless and angry, trapped by a brain that can only provide painful thoughts and feelings over which I have almost no control, yes - but I have never felt in danger of losing screws. My time in the hospital was very perfunctory (3 days) – we just needed to get me stabilized on medication again – and the healing was slow but steady.

I never considered, however, that he wasn’t in my head and so couldn’t know that the danger of me crossing the line of sanity was slim, nor did I consider that he had no historical context for my breakdown like my parents had (this wasn’t their first rodeo though it might have been the worst). Those were extreme circumstances and as long as I have access to SSRI’s , it never has to be repeated. But he didn’t know any of that.

You can imagine, then, after putting myself in his shoes, how amazed I am that he is still here. And I definitely have more empathy for the amount of time he spends worrying about me and my moods.

Proof

My abdomen feels heavy and achy and I love the discomfort because I am reassured that something is going on in there. I imagine for women who have had an easy time with pregnancy, the discomfort is an irritation. But I am so thankful for it.

I'm not loving, however, the "outbreak" I am having due to a compromised immune system; but it's more proof so I won't complain about it one single solitary second more.

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I have decided to take some Fridays off to give myself a few long weekends and short work weeks to bide the time till the ultrasound. Tick tock tick tock tick tock.

Office Politics

First I want to thank all of you that offered your (whisered) :) congratulations on my news. I was surprised by your good wishes; I don't know why except that I am always taken-aback that anyone cares or that anyone else might feel hope where I mostly feel dread.  And I certainly worry that I will lose you. I don't think this is the first time I have expressed that I am surprised by comments; I think I said the exact same thing. Sorry.  But I LOVE them.

I also still LOVE my new OBGYN. The day I called to let the office know I was pregnant, he called me personally and wanted to go over my care plan with me again - just to make sure he was doing what I needed him to do. At first, I had contemplated not even measuring HCG because it wasn't going to alleviate any worry on my part; all three of my former pregnancies featured normal HCG levels. But I decided to go ahead and do the blood work so that I would get a heads up if there was a potential problem. He had some fancy clinical term for it, I can't remember what it was. But basically, normal result indicates nothing, abnormal result indicates potential problem.

I got the official confirmation that I was pregnant that same day (HCG 144) at work.  As I was leaving the office I stared at the wall for about 10 seconds, trying to decide if I was going to tell my boss (who shares an office with me). This would have been my fourth pregnancy announcement to her - she has been there for all of them.  

My boss is a very kind understanding woman and has been very good to me through some of the lowest points in my life. She has never balked at giving me time off and offers just the right amount of concern and privacy. But she is my boss, bottom line, and I am in an extremely vulnerable position emotionally. I hate having to reveal such intimate details of my life to my boss. I want to be Super-Capable and Together employee, not flakey, grief-stricken liability.  These cracks in my armor just leave me too exposed; and my boss, while always kind to me and someone I do honestly believe is my ally, has a very very sharp tongue when it comes to people she does not respect. She will rip someone up and down behind their back and then be totally normal to them to their face. It's pretty vicious and  unsettling because I do think she has a tender heart and that she's compensating for this tenderness by being unnecessarily aggressive. Not one of her better characteristics, obviously. It's the one thing that stops me from completely relaxing around her because I don't think I'm magically beyond her displeasure.

Secondly, while Jason and I were going through our rough patch during the summer, I had decided that I couldn't stand my life any longer and something had to give. So I began to seek other employment and revealed my plan to my boss (against all my friends' advice ...  I just didn't know how to get around the issue that I need her as a reference).  So, always favoring honesty over any kind of deception (cause I suck at it), I told her that it was unclear whether Jason and I were going to try again and that if I wasn't going to be a mother, then I would be "rich and famous." That was said with the appropriate amount of sarcasm, by the way, because I am so not going to be rich and famous - but I would like a job that pays more. She was cool about it and we had a nice little heart to heart. But now I just feel like a total flake for yanking her chain (though not purposefully) about seeking other employment and then turning around and laying another pregnancy scenario on her.

Finally, knowing how clueless  people can be with respect to the pain IF causes when they havn't experienced IF themselvees, I was concerned about how to express in an appropriately dry, business-like manner  how much this is going to FUCK ME UP  if it ends in another miscarriage. That if I need to fall off the edge of the world, or I bite her head off, or have to spend a few more days in inpatient psych care, I'd sure love it if I could do all that and know that I have a job waiting at the end of it. 

I told her.

My announcement went like this: "Well, I know I'm  like to give you whiplash, but ... I'm pregnant again." (cause that's how we talk in the Dirty South). And then, with all the not-so-subtle nonchalence I could muster, I explained that this was our last time trying and outlined how I might have to take my remaining vacation and sick days. As usual, she was understanding and accomodating and a perfectly good boss. And I almost immediately had a wave of regret; I wasn't ready to tell.  But I suspect I wouldn't have been ready to tell for months.  And I needed to go get blood drawn on Thursday after lunch .....  soooo ...

I did get my blood drawn today (Thursday) and my HCG has more than doubled. Not really surprised. First ultrasound scheduled for October 18th so I will be an increasingly awful employee. I sure hope she understands.  

Here we go.

Hubby said: "We'll see."

Cause "pregnant" doesn't mean "PREGNANT" Pregnant means, "maybe." I have nothing hopeful to say-I just don't want it to hurt. I don't want to be hurt.   

Memory and Forgetting

DISCLAIMER: I was reading ginger and lime's blog and was interested in her entry on pain. It inspired me to think some more about the issue and put my two cents in. Later that evening, I was reading through a new blog and reached the last entry. The topic was on Pain, and suddenly, I realized that I was reading the post that had originally inspired ginger and lime! So there is definitely a weird infinite loop happening here. All that has to happen at this point is for Tertia to read my post below and be inspired to write a follow-up on Pain, and we will have come full circle. 


All that said, I'm not going to waste a perfectly good post that took me way too long to write. Enjoy it for all its redundancy!


P.S. DISCLAIMER: If egghunt ever runs across my post below, please know that even though our thoughts are eerily similar, I wrote it before reading yours. So that must simply mean we're kindred spirits!

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I read ginger and lime’s post and was inspired to continue the discussion because I have had similar thoughts about my own pain and have felt similarly guilty about enshrining, sanctifying and even idolizing my Suffering as proof that I am “special” - for lack of a better word. By elevating my pain to such significant status, I somehow look down on the world from my pedestal of pain with a certain amount of disdain for the petty concerns of “normal” people. I love to think, “You think you have it hard, try losing three babies in a row … lightweights. Pffft.”

Perhaps it is a way for me to eek some meaning out of my pain – a way to have it function as a vehicle by which to gain social or moral superiority in a situation in which I more typically feel broken, abnormal, punished and generally “less than.” We all know the unfortunate statistical position in which we fall, and when you are struck by that unlikely meteor, understandably, you want to invest it with some positive function.

But then, on the precipice of gloating, I remember that there is always someone who has it worse than me, who could argue that their suffering is more acute and deserves more attention and pity. And there I am, on my mark, ready to sprint in my own personal Pain Olympics (a term I love. Who came UP with that!?) – the desire to legitimize my pain competing with my guilt for claiming too much suffering.

Objectively, you might be able to get a cross section of people to agree on what situations are for horrific than others. (The following exercise is just a philosophical exercise, I mean no offense and am making no judgments). For instance, I tend to think that time spent in a concentration camp trumps a miscarriage in the first trimester. What about finer-tuned differences? I find cancer and miscarriage hard to parse out (I think they both have to do with facing premature mortality). And I suspect that I’d much rather lose a baby in the first trimester than in the second or third. What if I had never gotten pregnant? Is the pain and disappointment greater or lesser losing a fetus vs. never having been pregnant at all? I could keep unraveling, but I have to stop myself here and think hard about what I just typed because I realize how presumptuous it is of me to assume any pain is greater or lesser than any other – even my own. It’s easy to dismiss my pain, particularly in hindsight. But really, when I was in the middle of that pain, it was just PAIN. Sometimes the pain was a 3, sometimes a 10, then down to a 5. But when the pain was a 10, it didn’t matter what caused the pain. It was excruciating no matter what. And once in a while, I can experience that 10 again – out of the blue. But those episodes are farther and farther apart – the erosion of pain by time.


Fact is, as soon as I start trying to make distinctions between pain, I realize the fruitlessness of such comparisons. It’s dehumanizing and useless. Pain is pain, awful is awful. The Pain Olympics, while a juicy new item to throw on the pyre of self-flagellation, is just, in the end, not useful. Some people will look at my pain and think, “I am so lucky.” And some people will look at my pain and think, “She doesn’t know what suffering is.” It’s all a matter of where you are standing and who you are asking.

My therapeutic approach to my suffering is that I seek comfort from those who can understand my particular flavor of suffering (other IFers), which serves to validate and acknowledge my pain. And when I am in a bad place emotionally and want to scream at everyone who is demanding something from me to please-give-me-a-break-because-I’ve-got-enough-to-bear-and-if-they-knew-what-I-had-to-go-through-they-would-feel-so-guilty-about-not-handling-me-with-kid-gloves, I try to keep in mind that 1) they can’t identify with my situation and 2) they are probably thinking the same thing with respect to their OWN pain. So I try to swallow my rage and suffering till I can visit with you all here in blogland and spew my pain. And even then, this “rage against the machine” is only cathartic when used sparingly. I find if I live in a state of perpetual rage and martyrdom, I lose touch with a different, equally viable reality that I can create if I choose.

So at this point, some of you may want to exit because I’ll be offering something that has to do with starting to move past pain or at least wrangle it a bit. I realize that when you are in the midst of grief, you don’t want or need ANYONE to tell you to snap out of it. That is beyond inconsiderate. Everyone needs to have their pain acknowledged and respected (till loved ones intervene in concern, perhaps).

But if you have reached the phase in your grief where you may want to let go of some of it and you are worried that moving out of the pain negates the important influence it’s had on your life – then this podcast from Radiolab might be worth a listen, It helped me dissacociate myself from my situation and try to think of ways I can alter my “personal narrative” so that it is not so rife with suffering.

For those of you who haven’t hear of RadioLab, it is a radio show that explores abstract themes from a scientific perspective. The one I am recommending is called Memory and Forgetting. For someone who suffers from diagnosed depression, is a pessimist and catastrophizer, and who has done a lot of work in therapy trying to shift my thinking habits, this research on memory and forgetting is extremely interesting because it reinforces the incredible influence our habits of thinking have on our self-concept and even the “narrative” of our lives. I think, for anyone who is processing the reality of IF in their lives, this podcast is worth a listen since it examines how memories (which, from a non-spiritual point of view of course, are the building blocks of “who we are”) are created, erased, stored and altered in the brain.

Update

I met my new OBGYN this Tuesday! He passed the audition – he said all the right things and we are on the very same page regarding how to proceed with this last pregnancy and how we’d like to handle each step along the way. It is so comforting to feel that he will be able to anticipate what I need emotionally as well as physically throughout the anticipated fourth and last pregnancy. A friend (I will call her Prof for professor) who suffered from IF recommended him and he is unlike any doctor I have ever met.

One weird thing … when we talked about how inspirational Prof was and how it felt for him when he delivered her baby, tears welled up in his eyes. So that was kind of off-putting. . .

NAH! Just kidding – well mostly.

It was just something you don’t see often, like a male nurse, or Sarah Palin declining an opportunity to shout “You Betcha!” on national TV – rare enough that I noticed and had to decide whether I liked it or not. I decided I liked a Dr. who could tear up in front of me a whole lot better than one who couldn’t. So I guess he’s a keeper.

I called and left a message with Prof to thank her for the wonderful recommendation. But she hasn’t called me back. My feelings are on the verge of being hurt, but I just keep telling myself that she’s a busy Mom with a baby and classes to teach and art to make and that I haven’t been unjustly thrown under the bus by my ex husband’s new wife (her super good friend) or a vicious frenemy of mine (also a good friend of hers). I personally think she was trying to improve the quality of her friendships when she reached out to me. Harumph.

I’m just joking – well mostly. The socially paranoid part of my brain is fighting with the (much smaller and weaker) logical side of my brain which is trying to explain that we are all busy and we are all adults and no one is throwing anyone under any buses. Prof is my one and only live infertility friend; I was counting on her support more than I thought. Hope you all will step up to the plate ;)

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I took pee test today (CD 19). Negative. But I tested on the earliest possible day and my boobs really do hurt in an unusual way. If I’m not pregnant, than this boob “ache” is new for me.

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My mother in law arrived today. She is a lovely lady, gentle and kind. After reading the horror stories in blogland about invasive, inconsiderate MIL’s who look at you and see 2 dried up ovaries that can’t give her grandchildren, I thank my few lucky stars.

I ordered a digital voice recorder for her visit because I figure if it turns out that I can’t contribute to the line of future heirs, then I can document the family narrative. Except, it just now occurs to me that it becomes less important for me to document my husband’s side of the family if I do not have children. My dear friends, it seems, since I bought the recorder to interview my mother-in-law during her visit, that I have FALLEN IN HOPE AGAIN!

My New Addition

I should be working on a freelance project I am trying to get off my plate - instead I can't stop reading about you all out there who, through sharing your stories, help me maintain my sanity. There is such a difference in the level of anxiety I am experiencing - I can't help but feel that part of it has to do with having your stories to turn to every day. I don't feel so isolated and singled-out anymore. You all know exactly how I'm feeling - in fact I'm often struck by how similar our reactions are. It seems we all travel through the same stages - maybe not in the same order or for the same amount of time, but we've all been "there" in one way or another.

I am comforted by your presence.

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In other news, I have shifted the focus of my anxiety from an addition to the family to an entirely different kind of addition - the addition/renovation of my house. Pictured to the left is my house which, if you've read even one of my posts, you probably know is a 40 min. drive outside of the metropolitan area in which I work. I hate the commute and I can't stop talking about it.

Presently, it is a cute, quaint country cottage, but it desperately needs a master bedroom, a kitchen with a dishwasher, and waaaaayyyy more closets.

I guess this suffices as a "before" picture.  Perhaps, if you all seem interested, I will keep posting updates on the "addition I can control. " Who knows, maybe in 9 months I will have a new addition to brag about irrespective of my dumb old eggs.

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My boobs are no longer hurting. I feel stupid for thinking I was pregnant for that reason. The boob smashing test is just not reliable (shock! gasp! splutter! what is that you say!?). Yes, I'm sorry but it's true; don't go making an ass of yourself all over blog land if all you have to go by is the boob-smash gauge.

Let's see if I can spare you the merry-go-round of predictions till I know for sure.

Asta la pasta  

A Special Message

Many of you have mentioned the book "Coming to Term" as a must-read for recurrent miscarriers. I happened upon the book at the library when I was searching for reading material after my third miscarriage.  Considering that the library isn't very well-funded and that the selection of reading material for miscarriage was fairly slim, I consider it as close to kismet as one can get that I found that book at the time that I did.

This book was informative, well-written and, above all, thorough. After reading it, I felt comfortable with the lay of the RSA land and knew which steps I needed to take next.  It was a lifesaver and I wanted to thank the author, Jim Cohen, for his gift.

So I wrote him and email and he wrote me back with wonderful words of encouragement. Here is our exchange for those of you who might take comfort in his words as I did :

Mr Cohen,

I have never written to an author or artist regarding the positive influence they have had on my life. I've thought of it often, but never followed through.

This time I feel so compelled because your book, Coming to Term, offered me a lifeline in a chaotic sea. I want to offer you a sincere "Thank You" for writing this informative book; it has and will play a very large role in the myriad upcoming decisions I have yet to make (which therapies to attempt, which are unproven, what tests I should take, and even whether I want to try again). 

I have had 3 recurrent miscarriages, the last one explained by a Triploidy. 

I gather that not much new informarmation is known 5 years later regarding some of the contentious procedures or the procedures that were in their infancy at that time.  Is that correct?  Have you followed any of the new developments. 

Thank you again. 

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Hi Melanie,

I wrote the book for people like you. I'm so glad to know the words landed in the right place.


No, I haven't learned anything new in the past five years that fundamentally has altered anything I wrote in the book. I think the main message for someone in your shoes still is loud and clear: If you have the desire and the emotional ability to keep trying, your odds are good that if you do get pregnant again (assuming you're under, say, 45, and there's no identifiable underlying problem) you will carry to term. Young humans miscarry a lot. And we miscarry a tremendous amount as we age. That said, we're not pandas: We can breed all year long, so we have repeated chances to become pregnant.


Again, thanks so much for writing, and best of luck, whatever you choose.


Jon