In Due Time

Normally, I’m a planner.  I love to plan.  It gives me a feeling of control where maybe I don’t really have that much control.  But, when it comes to planning for Little B, I panic with a capital P.

This is not a new phenomenon with this pregnancy.  It started right out of the gate when I was debating whether or not to pee on a stick.  As beta day grew closer, I would ask myself, do I want to?  For a few days, the answer was ‘no’.  Then, about three days before beta, I was working and all of a sudden, I wanted to pee on a stick.  As a benefit of working from home, I was able to do it right then and there.  Next was when I would take another test.  Again, I listened to myself and trusted that I would at some point reach a point that I was comfortable to take that next step.

I’ve been listening to myself about these kinds of decisions regarding pregnancy ever since.  I waited until our 15 week check up to shop for maternity clothes – and then only at Target where I would not be completely immersed in pregnancy.  I didn’t hit the big time (Destination Maternity) until around the 20 week mark because I knew that I could not handle it – and even then, it was still overwhelming.

The thing is, as the pregnancy progresses, the bigger decisions are beginning to loom larger.  We’ve been asked multiple times recently if we have begun to think about names (we’re waiting for now).  Closer to home, Mr. X has been gently prodding me to start making some decisions about the nursery.  Not only do I love to plan, I love to decorate and the thought of being able to transform a room that frankly I have really not liked ever since we moved in is intoxicating, except for one small detail.

It’s the nursery.

Most pregnant ladies, especially the first timers, would probably think that I am crazy or mentally ill, or both to be wary.  I prefer cautious.  I’ve already told him that we aren’t buying anything until the baby arrives safe and sound.  He countered with at least picking out things to which I relented.  The thing is, of all of the steps that we have taken so far, creating a nursery is by far the biggest and most permanent.  All I can think is, what if I decorate this room and make it adorable and something happens and I will be forever reminded?  Paint is a lot more permanent than a pair of stretchy maternity pants.

I told Mr. X that I’m just not ready yet to committing to decorating and he understands.  I just hope that I can find a middle ground between my anxiety and need to go cautiously and my growing desire to begin transforming that space into the future.

image: mumchancegaloot

That Old Infertility Magic

These past few months, I have been neglecting my inner infertile.  I admit it.  I’ve been paying way more attention to the pregnant lady because frankly, she just demands so much time.  I need more maternity pants! Get me to the bathroom, again!  Get me this crazy exotic food that doesn’t exist anywhere within a 50 mile radius!  She has been rather vocal and consuming. But, my inner infertile is always there, waiting patiently to remind me of where I have been and ready to insert a nice reality check when required.  Apparently, today was the appointed reality check day.

Mr. X and I were walking G in the neighborhood this afternoon on a lovely fall day.  It was still light out and so inquiring eyes could probably see the bump.  I’ve only recently begun to not actively hide the belly.  I can if I need to, but I just didn’t feel like it today and I’m trying to get more used to putting it all out there, so to speak.

We run into a neighbor who we haven’t talked to in a while.  She has eagle eye vision and homes in on my stomach.  Eyebrows raised, she asked, “is there news?”

I respond, “I’ve grown a beer gut?” Not satisfying her.

Second try, “I’m dressed as a pregnant woman for Halloween?” Still no. She would not accept anything short of outright victory.

Ok, I said. “I’m pregnant.” Much squealing (her) ensued and then, came the total buzz kill: “Oh, our next door neighbors are expecting too! She’s 18 weeks and they just found out that they’re having a girl. They are SO EXCITED!”

I felt like I’d been socked in the gut. Again. And it wasn’t because my announcement was met with another one.  No, my supreme discomfort was because I was reminded of how much it took me to get to this point when I strongly suspected that my doppleganger had done nothing more exotic than have a few mai tais too many.  The usual and customary feelings hit me like a wave:  I felt like a lesser person again, an inferior and an infertile, perpetually incapable of bearing fruit.

My inner infertile took this opportunity to perch on my shoulder and whisper into my ear, “you know she got pregnant without drama and that she hasn’t had any of the issues you’ve had.  She’s actually excited! She can be excited, unlike you.  And, of course, she’s due in March, too.   So, don’t get comfortable there prego!”

Meanwhile, Inner Prego Lady immediately climbed into bed, pulled the covers over her head, and declared that she wanted to hibernate for the next four months.  She’s a dramatic thing.

We left soon thereafter and went about the rest of our walk.  Inner Infertile and Inner Prego were still in their various throes when the Ref stepped in to bring some clear thinking to the proceedings.  “First”, she said, “we have no idea how this lady got knocked up and frankly, it doesn’t really matter.   She’s also perfectly entitled to be excited.  We are doing just fine taking it one day at a time and anything more would induce anxiety attacks.  Besides, there are far too few measured, content but not overly excited pregnant ladies in this world.  And, finally, her pregnancy has nothing to do with ours.  It doesn’t change a thing nor should we let it have the power to. We can only be responsible for our sphere and she is not part of it.” Amen, sister.

Inner Prego peeked out of the covers and saw that the world had in fact not changed in the slightest. Little Bugger kicked her just for reinforcement. Inner Infertile went back to her retreate on the beach to her book and fruity alcoholic beverage to contemplate the concept that it really doesn’t matter how someone else got knocked up.

As for me, I was relieved to be reminded that I was solely responsible for worrying about me, and not someone else and their pregnancy.  Besides, Inner Prego has to go to the bathroom. Again.

image: FAB O LENS

The Newest No-No

There are so many things you are told not to do in pregnancy. What not to eat, what not to drink, how not to exercise.  Nowhere, however, have I seen what I think is one of the most important no-no’s listed:

Do not Google While Pregnant. Ever.

This sounds like a perfectly obvious statement.  In fact, I have absolutely no trouble counseling others against the use of Google to research medical conditions.  Rationally, I know that it is just a recipe for unneeded worry and concern.  There is a direct correlation between the severity of the potential illness and the terrible stories and scary information Dr. Google spits up.  You can easily diagnose yourself with any number of exotic disorders within 15 minutes.

But, to be frank, I suck at taking my own advice.   So, when we scheduled our nuchal translucency test, I of course turned to Dr. Google for information.  I had no idea what the hell the test was and I wanted to be as prepared as possible for the actual test so that I knew what was going on.   In hindsight, I should have stuck with the nice, fluffy discussions on the non-technical pregnancy websites and left it at that. But, I was driven to find out As Much Information As Possible, including what happens when there is a bad result.  Forewarned is forearmed, right?

Normally, GWP would be considered ill-advised, but not necessarily off limits.  For me there is one little detail which makes  it truly dangerous: I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (“OCD”) which means that when I have an obsessive thought , I have to compulsively Google to find information that allows me to be reassured and thus get rid of the thought.  Of course, Dr. Google doesn’t always cooperate and provide me with non-technical, credible yet reassuring information, which then heightens my anxiety and the loop starts all over again.  Ultimately, the only thing that can quell my anxiety is to see the little bugger in a scan or get other reassuring test results.

Since the nuchal test is seeking to find out the chances of the fetus having some pretty significant chromosomal problems, I was fit to be tied by the time I had exhausted Dr. Google.  I had a lot of obsessive thoughts about the potential outcomes of the test and my compulsive Googling was getting me no reassuring answers.   What was worse was that I had to wait until 4:30pm on Thursday to find anything out.  Needless to say, Thursday was a long day.

We had to go a maternal fetal medicine specialist for the actual test since they had the more sensitive equipment than my OB.  What our OB’s office lacked in baby stuff, this office more than made up for.  Gliders in the waiting room, pictures of babies everywhere, large pregnant women everywhere.  It would have been total sensory overload for me anyway, but as an infertile, I had to fight to urge to apologize to the receptionist for being an impostor (“I’m actually infertile, I just happen to be passing through”) and avert my gaze from the giant bellies around me.  So, I was too busy taking in this new experience to dwell on why I was there.  We were called back and in no time, I was on the table getting warm gel slathered over my lower abdomen.

And, yes, there was little bugger.  Looking a lot less like a shrimp and more like a …. baby?  Mr. X and I both must have uttered the word ‘surreal’ multiple times.  Being the last ultrasound appointment for the day meant that the technician was looking forward to having a compliant fetus who would get into the position she wanted with minimal fuss.  Ours was not that fetus.  It was taking its sweet time, doing a little thumb sucking, doing a little wiggling, teasing her by almost getting into position and then saying, no, sorry, not comfy.  All the while, the tech is smacking her gum which is one of my greater pet peeves in this world.  So it was, tap, tap on the computer screen, smack, smack with the gum.  She finally got the little bugger in the position that she wanted and zoomed in for the measurements.  Mr. X and I were watching the gigantic flat screen tv that was projecting the images and getting mildly freaked out by how large everything (including the nuchal fold) seemed. One thing that didn’t freak us out was that the baby was still measuring on target with a heartbeat of 162.

She didn’t give us any information about the scan, but also didn’t appear to be overly concerned, especially if her gum smacking was a sign.  She wiped me down and headed out, while we were left waiting in the room for the doctor.  The doc came in and we had a rather long discussion about my previous history of miscarriage.  When I informed him that both of our miscarriages were monosomies, he looked at me as if I had just spoken in Russian.  He had never heard of anyone who actually had back-to-back monosomies.  What can I say? I’m a medical anomaly.  Finally, we got around to the measurements.  Based upon the baby’s age as dated by the scan (13w1d – which was right on target as I was 13w1d on Thursday), the nuchal fold measurement of 2.2 was above the median but still well within the normal range.  We were blessedly nicely below the Red Line of Doom.  Of course, that is not the whole picture, which we will only get with the results of the blood test, but it was enough to allow me to breathe.

Needless to say, I did my GWP thing when I got home.  But, it was all  of 30 seconds and I was nicely reassured.  I will need GWP rehab, I think.

Trust

Infertility and miscarrige have brought many new experiences into my life – needles (oh so many needles, of all shapes and sizes);  powerful, mood altering drugs; amazing bouts of unrequited jealousy; complete lack of modesty; an apprenticeship in reading follicle scans (seriously, I am a total pro. I can guess within 1 mm); the first opportunity since grade school to use ‘meniscus’ in a sentence. 

But, one of the less obvious, yet still devastating experiences these two harpies have brought me has been a loss of trust and confidence in my body and its ability to nurture life.  Reproductively, we certainly didn’t get off to a good start – somehow both of my fallopian tubes became blocked and had to be cleared.  I have a champion uterus, but that has meant absolutely zero since the embryos that keep implanting in it are chromosomally abnormal.  So, I can easily say that I no longer have a lot of trust in my reproductive abilities. And, it is an awful feeling.

This has become painfully clear again with this most recent try for the teething ring.  I question my body, and frankly everything about this go round, constantly – am I exhausted enough? nauseous or just nervous? what was that twinge? cramping, but not too much? spotting? not spotting red? – because if I worry about it, or so the thinking goes, then I won’t be blindsided again with bad news.   

And, it’s not just physical feedback from my body that has me on edge.  I still eye even good news – good beta numbers, etc –  with suspicion because I’ve had the “good news” before and then watched it turn very bad.  I think taking a frying pan upside the head would have been less painful than the moment I learned that my first pregnancy had ended because I didn’t see it coming At All.  All subsequent pregnancy experiences for me revolve around never getting blindsided again like that because it was such an awful, awful experience. Easily one of the top 5 worst in my life. 

So, even when today’s scan at approximately 6 weeks had no surprises, I still cannot say that relations have improved.  But, I can report one bean, measuring on target with a gestational sac, yolk sac and a fetal pole. No heartbeat detected on the screen, but Dr. Salsa didn’t try using the microphone.  I had asked him ahead of time what we should expect to see and a heartbeat was a 50/50 at this stage, so I wasn’t too concerned (and Dr. Google repeatedly told me that it would be iffy seeing one at this stage).  The gestational sac was looking more oval and elongated than round, but Dr. Salsa once again was not concerned since the angle of the dildo cam can change how it looks on the screen. 

I still don’t trust my body or my reproductive abilities, but the ice is melting. Next scan is in two weeks, when the stakes get raised (or the limbo bar gets lowered, depending upon how you look at it) again. 

image: rogiro

Looks Like I Picked a Bad Day to Quit Drinking…

Caffeine, that is.

I’ve had the mother of all headaches from about 1pm onwards and I haven’t helped it by brooding over an incident at this morning’s monitoring appointment.

The monitoring itself was fine.  Nice number of contenders, same dosage and a follow up visit with the dildo cam on Friday.

No, what bothered me was what I saw when I got in the room. 

7am to 9am is cycle monitoring time and they see a slew of patients.  I understand that the clean up between patients can be hasty. What I don’t understand, though, is how you don’t clear the image from the ultrasound screen from the prior patient. 

Especially when it is me who is going in for the next appointment.

The person they saw in there before me was pregnant, 7w3d to be exact.  How did I know this without having met her?  The ultrasound screen hadn’t been cleared after she had left and there on the screen was the telltale baby blob. And, just in case you had someone who couldn’t quite make it all out, the tech had helpfully written above it the words “Hi Mom and Dad!” Un-freaking-believable.  And, this is not the first time this has happened at his office, either. The last time this happened, there was no picture.  No ridiculous anthropomorphic utterings from the baby written on the screen. 

What’s amazing is that I wasn’t bothered that she was pregnant or that I had to see the picture of her blob. What bothered me was that they were able to write that message from their baby assuming that seven or so months from now, they will meet that baby, and they were able to do that without a hint of worry or foreboding.  I lost the ability to do that with my first miscarriage (after hearing the heartbeat. Twice.).  So now, I grieve not only the loss of my two babies, but I also grieve the loss of that innocence, that surety that now that there is a bun in the oven, it’s smooth sailing from here on out.  I wanted to bang my head on the wall (or the screen). 

When Dr. Salsa came in, I nicely asked that they make sure that the ultrasound screen is clear before I go in to the room. 

Unfortunately, that’s not going to erase the rest of it.

Rage. Rinse. Repeat.

Recently, I developed a new, rather alarming reaction to seeing couples who appear to be in the same age range as Mr. X and I, one of whom is carrying the tell-tale ubiquitous baby tote while the other brings up the rear with the large stroller/carrier contraption:

Abject rage.

I’ll be the first to admit that it’s a bit of an overreaction.  I mean really, rage? Aren’t there things that are really more rage-worthy than seeing some former frat boy carrying a car seat like its a bucket of water?  Absolutely, but I see more than just some guy and a baby.  I see where I am supposed to be and I am not.  Enter rage.

Part of the problem is that we see so many of them on a typical trip to a restaurant or a market.  We must live in the fertile crescent of the United States, because it’s like no aisle at Lowe’s is free from the strollerati.   So, rather than seethe silently or begin avoiding just about every public place, I decided to get down to the bottom of why I felt so effing pissed off.

I should mention that it’s not hormonal.  My hormonal rages are usually directed at thoroughly useless, baseless and stupid shit that is not even worthy mentioning here (“Bitch, did you not see that stop sign?!”).  And, I haven’t been on the drugs long enough to elicit such a response. 

No, it’s a complex rage made up of several different emotions.  It’s anger that we have been treading water for four years waiting to move on to the next phase of our life and it’s to the point that we’re beginning to wonder if we are going to take that next step.  It’s fear that we might not have a conventional life and our rhyme might just end at “then comes marriage”.   Most of all, it’s being reminded again of what we have tried to achieve and failed to do, repeatedly.  It’s feeling like we are being held back, asked to repeat a grade, over and over again while our same-age peers move on to the next appointed step.  We’ve got the marriage, where’s the goddamn baby carriage? 

And, damn it all to hell, it still freaking hurts. 

So, yeah, when I see some girl who is my age with the husband and the infant carrier, I get pissed.  Pissed that we are in the situation we are, pissed that I’m still upset about it, pissed that I don’t think I can share my feelings on the subject with Mr. X, and generally pissed that I’m letting a couple of strangers piss me off.

It’s a pisser.

image: I Like

The Word: Knee-Jerk

I never understood the purpose of the medical exercise of tapping one’s knees with a rubber hammer in just the right spot to make the lower leg involuntarily swing.  All I remember is that it made me giggle and seemed to be a very Marcus Welby, country doctor kind of exercise. This is just one of many reasons why I am  not in the medical profession.

The exercise, though, is useful in one respect, namely that it reminds us that there are many stimuli out there that make us have that knee-jerk reflex.  For me, the stimuli is the gratuitous mention in thoroughly inappropriate places or situations or completely unrelated discussions, articles, etc., that someone is either expecting or has children, or – worse – grandchildren.  The knee-jerk reflex that is produced by this stimuli sounds much like the childish game where you add “in bed” to the end of every sentence except my phrase is, “and you don’t” or “you aren’t” or “you never will be”.  I think an illustration would be helpful at this point.

I was at a professional conference today listening to talks by learned professionals in my field.  It is a wonderful respite from the world of reproduction since the topics that are discussed do not in any way have anything to do with the reproductive luck of the speakers.  In fact, there is an unwritten rule that it is rather tacky to mention one’s family in one’s biography that accompanies one’s talk.  So, when I was reading the biography of the upcoming speaker, I skimmed the mind-numbing recitation of honors, awards and other blather and skipped to end where I actually look to see if the person is tacky enough to break the unwritten rule and mention that on top of all of these wonderful professional accomplishments, they have managed to procreate. 

This guy did not disappoint.  Not only did he plug that he has two children, but they were ‘well-adjusted’ children (which apparently is not the norm in our profession – news to me!) and, he is a first time grandfather to twins, for whom he also thoughtfully provided their birthdate. OMFG. It was the motherlode of stimuli. My synapses were firing, my head was hurting, my inner reader was adding “and you don’t” to the end of every nauseating sentence.  And, inevitably, I was feeling worse and worse because I was making myself feel like I was less of a person because I didn’t have these things that were so obviously important to this guy.

I didn’t use to be like this.  With some things, I am still not like this.  I am still confident in the choices that I have made and happy and satisfied with them, ups, downs and all.  It is only when there is that statement of obvious pride at the sheer act of procreation or the gratuitous mention of one’s reproductive status which is obviously placed for no other purpose than to elicit the “ooh congratulations” response, that my knee jerks right out of its socket.  They say, “I’m a proud mother of two!” and I hear, “And you aren’t!” Because, to me, it’s as if the person knows that I have not been able to do something that was so obviously simple to them and they are rubbing my face in it that they can do this one seemingly simple thing. I know that’s not what it is, but that’s what it feels like.

I know that this guy at the conference doesn’t know me. I know that he didn’t include this information because he woke up this morning and decided, “It’s a beautiful day to remind Mrs. X that she is infertile and barren, ha ha!” I know that he just wrote it because he wanted to let others in the profession know of his pride at having raised well-adjusted kids despite his profession and has been rewarded with twin grandchildren. I know in my head that he didn’t put this blurb in there because he wanted to hurt me. But, that doesn’t stop me from hurting at the reminder.

I am not advocating that people suddenly stop bragging about their children around me or decide not to sneak into conversation that they are expecting because they have every right to be happy and proud (and geez, what else would people talk about with each other?). I know that this is my problem, not the world’s.  I know that I am generally happy with who I am and where I am even if I haven’t been able to achieve everything that I want. I know that the measure of my success in life is my own yardstick and not someone else’s.  I know that I can turn off the knee-jerk reaction because even though I may not have that one thing, I have a full life and I don’t need to focus on what I don’t have to see what I do.  But, my knees are twitchy things and it will take some time to reprogram the system.

image: Jeff Youngstrom

Got Cliché?

My infertility reading – other than blogs – has been rather haphazard.  When we were first diagnosed, I read just about anything I could get my hands on, partly to learn, partly to not feel as if I was the only person who was dealing with this.  Some books helped. Others, not so much.  As we got deeper down the rabbit trail of treatment with more and more experiences behind us, I found my own voice and also found that most books just kept saying the same thing.   

By the time Waiting for Daisycame out, it was late 2007, I was two and a half years into the journey, with one lap, two HSGs, 6 IUIs and one spectacularly awful miscarriage behind me.  I was no longer interested in reading the prepackaged success stories (I did it and so can you!) that most books seemed to be or the books about miscarriage that never seemed to give me much comfort (this onestill grates me).  I also had never heard of Peggy Orenstein and wasn’t particularly interested in what she had to say on the topic of infertility. 

After my second miscarriage, a thoughtful commenter directed me to her article about how the Japanese mourn miscarriage.  It helped me a great deal, but still I wasn’t ready to take the plunge and read about how she eventually went on to have a child. As we got back onto the rollercoaster again for IVF #2, though, I began to feel that familiar tug to read more of these completed stories about infertility.  I decided that my wait for Daisy was over and it was time to pick up the book.

It didn’t take me long to finish. Peggy Orenstein is a beautiful writer, and her experience is so raw. She lets it all hang out – every ugly emotion, every flaw. More than a few times, I caught myself nodding knowingly at the sentiment that she put so much more eloquent words than I ever did. I also found myself shaking my head at her and her husband – neither should win the award for Best Communicator in the Marriage.  But, I digress.

I stayed with Peggy – all through the multiple miscarriages, the donor egg fiasco, the failed adoption.  I was nearing the end, anticipating the denoument , assuming that Daisy was the product of adoption.  Do you know what happened, instead? If you haven’t read the book, you might not want to read any further. I’m just warning you now.

She got pregnant on her own. Over 40. With one ovary.

My first reaction at her final triumph in reproduction was not joy.  It was not hope that if she could do it with one ovary over 40 and after multiple miscarriages, so could I.  It was anger.  I was angry that she ended up fulfilling the Cliche To End All Infertility Cliches. She had become Charlotte who got pregnant when she decided to adopt.  She was Tina Fey’s character in Baby Mamawho ended up getting pregnant with a freaking t-shaped uterus after her surrogate faked a pregnancy.  She was Nicole Kidman who’s dip in magical waters made her fertile.  It’s the “When All Else Has Failed and You Have Reached the End, You Will Get the Pregnancy and Baby that You Always Wanted” Cliche.

I bet you are thinking right about now, gee, Mrs. X, bitter much?  A lot of this anger comes from the fact that I still haven’t managed to have my Cliche moment and I don’t know if I ever will.  But another portion of it comes from the fact that a great majority of the books, movies, etc., out there that touch on infertility give an unrealistic portrayal of how many people end their battle with infertility.  Most end it either by adoption, getting pregnant through ART or deciding to live child free.   It’s a rare couple that after many, many years of heartache and pain have a child naturally. 

But, we are suckers for a happy ending.  And, I am genuinely happy for Peggy.  I’m also sorry that she had to go through as much as she did to get there, but I’m thankful that she wrote this book about it because for a while there, I saw a lot of myself in her.  Just expressed a lot better.

Requiem for A Cycle

It was a beautiful spring day today. The sun shone brightly, the trees showed off their new green bling, the geraniums were in full bloom. I started off the day on a professional high after having given a kick-ass presentation yesterday out of town.

By 12:30, I felt the defeat that only infertility can sock you with.

At 11:30, I had my IVF post-mortem with Dr. Salsa.  I had no problem with the clinical details – my E2 levels, number of follicles on any given visit, lining check – all of which were projected onto the wall in a weird sort of Excel spreadsheet.  I could handle the discussion of a new protocol.  I could even handle the discussion of what could have possibly gone wrong such that my two beautiful embryos decided not to hang around. 

What I couldn’t handle was when Dr. Salsa decided to share with me just how unbelievable it was to him that this cycle didn’t work by sharing stats from the clinic:

Of the 13 women, including myself, who cycled in that particular period, 11 – yes, 11 – got pregnant.  I was one of 2 who didn’t.  And, just to drive home his point, he said, “I would have put money that you would not have been one of the two.”

Um, NOT HELPING.

So, let’s recap. Even though I had a pretty perfect cycle with an embyro that made it to the freezer and no apparent risk factors, I managed to be one of 2 out of 13 women who still couldn’t get pregnant.  I already felt awful about the negative. I already felt – rightly or not, that is not the question – like a giant failure with a capital F. I already felt like shit just being there, seeing the financial coordinator who did get knocked up with Dr. Salsa’s brand of IVF.  THIS WAS NOT INFORMATION THAT I NEEDED TO KNOW, AND CERTAINLY NOT NOW. 

Later, when I was home and had spent some time decompressing with the dog, I sent Dr. Salsa an email. I explained that I did not want to know about how everyone else did. I explained that I am an inherently competitive person and in this particular arena, hearing about others did in the exact same IVF cycle when mine did not work was just not helpful. I asked him not to share that kind of information with me again because it just sends me into competition mode, and usually, I end up with the short end of a very long stick, which just makes me feel worse.  Sending the email helped and his response was very nice. He apparently knew by my expression the minute he finished the sentence that this was not information that was helpful to me.  It doesn’t un-ring the bell, though. It doesn’t make me forget that I was in the 15% who didn’t make it this time. 

And, so what if I was able to have a lovely glass of w(h)ine with dinner? I’m still no closert to being in that magic 11.  I can feel the bitterness choking me.

You Gotta Pay to Play

Back in August, on the immediate heels of my spectacularly failed and drama-infused FET, I gave about a milisecond’s thought to doing another IVF in the fall and immediately shivered the full-body shiver of revulsion.  I knew that while my body might be ready, the rest of me certainly was not.  The thought of walking away from Dr. Uterus had already started to germinate, I had fresh memories of a particularly horrific and prolonged go round with the progesterone shots, including one 30 minute hyperventilation session in the bathroom before I was able to do the deed, and I just wanted to be normal again.  I didn’t want to count follicles or fret over sperm counts.  And, I certainly did not want to to go through beta watch and OB scans of doom, because to be perfectly honest, that was exactly what I thought was going to happen. Again.

And, I secretly wanted to test the theory that Mr. X and I could actually get this thing done on our own and achieve the Holy Grail of Infertility: a spontaneous, honest-to-God two-people-only-involved pregnancy.  A baby for free!  No beta watch crap, I could go in for an OB scan when I was ready and even if things didn’t work out, I would know that it would be possible for us to get the job done on our own.  Naive, I know. Just like all of my other notions of this getting and staying pregnant business.

Then my cycle started getting really whacked out, a fact which I attribute to Dr. Uterus’s parting gift of two months of Estrace and progesterone during the mock and real FET cycles (which, while making me lose 5 lbs and dropping a dress size was awesome, was so not worth the rest of it).  The Clomid of November too whacked up my system despite producing some beauties of follicles and it’s just now getting itself worked out.

So, rather than being the fall of procreation, it’s been the fall of “what the f*&% is up with your uterus?” And, I’ve come to the realization, that we will likely have to do another IVF to have a solid chance of being able to utter those magic words: “I’m (so not even in an altnerate universe) pregnant.”

We still have until February before things gear up again and I start taking the birth control pills.  But, given my new whacked-out-ness, who the hell knows if we’ll even have a glimmer of a shot without the high tech solution.  And, I’m back at where I started: the girl with no current discernable problems other than two back-to-back monosomy miscarriages which may or may not be the result of spectacularly bad luck who apparently cannot get pregnant on her own but has no idea what to do differently this time to make it work. 

images: merrick_monroe, ian muttoo