Good Egg Hunting

Adieu, adieu, to you and you and you.

2010-06-14T20:30:00.002-04:00

I'm bad at goodbyes. Always have been, always will be.

I think that's why I've been procrastinating about moving over to the new blog address I established –while still pregnant! over four months ago! – here. That, plus I've been running around with a tiny human being who relies on me for his every waking (and sleeping) need. But it's getting silly now, because I need a spot where I can just dash off quick, maybe not fully formed or cogent thoughts about this new world I now call home. And it feels somehow wrong to do that here, where I spent so much time trying to trudge through the painful wilderness of infertility treatment, miscarriage and even the often-perilous 10 months of pregnancy. It feels like there's too much baggage, like I always owe infertility something when I write here, even if all I want to do is write about the bulls*&t diapers they sell at Costco (don't buy them) or how much you want to scream out loud when your baby bites down with his new teeth on your poor, unsuspecting nipple (which he did again today).

While I've procrastinated, I've missed writing about Mother's Day (which was, seriously? A day in my life that, for once, finally lived up to all the hype), my baby's baptism (another amazing day, in part because for so long I figured it would never happen even as I hoped it someday would) and the whole teething thing (which I definitely will cover in my new blog home). When we put rice cereal in my baby's four-month-old belly yesterday I resolved to get blogging again. So here I am.

And here I go, off to the Internet's equivalent of greener pastures or a deluxe apartment in the sky, or something like that. I'll be back from time to time, when I need to vent about something infertility related (because I'm learning that your baggage doesn't come out with the baby – though it would have been nice, for my abdomen's sake, if it did) or talk about the try for number two, if there is one (hello worms, how's that can?). And I may start yet another blog about my adventures in stay-at-home-parenting (Yes, that's right, the other thing I missed writing about: I quit my job!) and freelance writing – one for consumption by family and friends with a little less information and from which people cannot link back to overshared descriptions of the inner workings of my vagina. Meanwhile, I'd love it if you followed me over to Good Egg Hatched.

So much blogging to do! And so little time, but all I can do is begin. So I won't say goodbye (since, see above, I suck at it) – I'll say ta-ta for now. And thanks for everything.

PS - I've been trying to figure out what to do about this whole baby-identity-on-the-web thing. Let's face it, there are a lot of creepos out there. And I'm a pretty neurotic person, as we know. So I don't know if this is perfect but here's the plan. The baby will in my new blog home be known as H. I'll set up a password-protected post here with the long-awaited details (I know you've been holding your breath) like his name and a few photos. If we have a blogging/commenting relationship, leave me a comment here requesting the password and including your email address and I'll send it to you. Maybe I'll do more in the future, but it's taken me all these months to finally come to this and I'm afraid it's all I can stomach for the moment.

Oh Shapewear, My New BFF

2010-05-25T11:01:00.004-04:00

A long-overdue, chock-full-of-juicy-info update is coming soon. But for today, a timely public service announcement to all you recovering preggers out there who share my horror and dismay at the location of various body parts following the removal of a human being from your abdomen:

SPANX on Rue LaLa today.

Email me at goodegghunting@gmail.com if you need an invitation. Off to snatch up some body sucking lycra.

Fast Forward

2010-05-02T21:06:00.002-04:00

One year ago on May 2, I walked into the clinic for an egg retrieval, not knowing whether it would lead to a baby or more heartache.

Today, the product of that cycle turned three months old. That cycle changed everything – changed me forever. I look at this baby and still can't wrap my brain around his existence, how all of the shots and scans, the tears, an egg retrieval and transfer, and hope against all odds added up to this real, live baby that smiles back at me.

But he's definitely real. I cleaned up his very real diaper blowout tonight.

Decent Exposure

2010-04-28T22:52:00.003-04:00

I think it's safe to say that I've never taken my boobs out at work before. So today was a first on several fronts – first day back after my leave, first time exposing my ta-tas in an office setting. It was more than surreal sitting there in the tiny server room, computer fans humming over the sound of my pump, as I whipped up my shirt and stuck the suction cups on.

If I'd allowed myself to imagine (I was too frightened) what this would feel like several months ago while I was still pregnant, I wouldn't have believed I was capable of it. It's amazing what you'll do, without thinking twice, for your baby.

Back to Reality

2010-04-27T06:41:00.002-04:00

Today is the last day of my maternity leave. And seriously, just tear my heart out now.

I've loved this time. Every single sleep deprived, poopy diaper, spitup everywhere, pee on the wall, seriously is he awake again moment. I can't imagine a better place to be than right beside my sweet boy, getting paid in toothless grins.

What else can I say: I wish this didn't have to end.

Impressions of Motherhood, Part I: Maybe She's Infertile

2010-04-21T14:00:00.003-04:00

It's interesting, being on this side. Walking around with a baby, seeing the world through a mother's eyes. Sometimes I want to wear a t-shirt that says, "Ask me about my hellish journey to motherhood." Other times, I'm glad to just blend in, to be no longer a patient but a mother.

I remember when I was going through infertility, especially on the bad days, it seemed like mothers acted so entitled. Like, hold the door for me and my big obnoxious stroller. Now that I'm the one pushing the stroller, grateful to be out and about in the world with a baby who, for the moment, is content to just sit quietly, I obviously see it differently. I'm not asking for special treatment, but I am asking for common courtesy.

So maybe the woman I'm about to describe is going through or has gone through infertility. Maybe she's having a rough day. Maybe she's seen 200 strollers and I was the 201st and she had just had enough of all the babies, thank you very much. I'm going to go with that, because it helps me be less pissed off. Basically, I was walking down the sidewalk by some storefronts in the center of my town, which I would call a relatively kid-friendly place – strong parents' network, lots of strollers everywhere on a typical day. A cluster of three people chatting jutted out into the middle of the sidewalk, creating a blockade for pedestrian traffic. This would have annoyed me even if I were walking alone, but it doubly annoyed me since I had the stroller to maneuver, and not because of some "watch out for my precious bay-bee" principled thing – I would have been equally annoyed if I were pushing a pile of bricks or a hot dog cart.

As I made my way closer to them, I said "excuse me" in a polite-yet-put-out kind of way, as if to say, you're really in my way, and I'm sure you'll soon see the error of your ways and be very embarrassed. And the woman? Moved exactly an inch to her right. As if to say, I see you, I know you're trying to get by, and I'm going to make this as difficult as possible for you. Because I can. So I tried to push through and ended up plowing into a sign for the bakery they were standing in front of, and one member of this threesome had to interrupt their important conversation about solving world hunger, I'm sure, to pick up said sign. So pretty much, I won, lady.

But then there was this, on the same walk: I had just pushed the baby up a big hill and was feeling good – the sun was shining, the endorphins flowing. Another woman with a stroller appeared, and as she passed me, smiled brightly and said hello. And instantly, I felt this recognition, an understanding pass between us. She didn't know anything about what I did to get to this point. For all she knew, I had a drunk night with my husband. But, regardless of how I'd arrived, she saw me for what I am:

After all I went through, I'm finally in the club.

I'm a mother.

Vaccination Rumination

2010-03-29T10:57:00.003-04:00

Two posts. That's all I've managed this month.

Before this baby came and completely altered my universe, if you'd told me about someone who had a baby and was home on maternity leave and couldn't find ten minutes to sit down and blog about it, I'd have taken pity on her. Poor girl, I'd have said. So disorganized and overwhelmed. It can't be that hard.

I don't know what I expected, exactly, but the reality of new parenthood in my experience so far is that it is both better and harder than I ever could have imagined. When you're pregnant and friends, family and strangers tell you your life will change (and you feel condescended to), there is no way that you can know how right they are, and how wide-ranging their accuracy will be. Because this motherhood thing? Consumes you. When you're not running to get organized to feed your baby and worrying that you're scarring him for life by taking too long while he screams, you're reading up on the great vaccine debate and wondering what to do about your baby's upcoming shots.

Which leads me to today's topic, ladies and, well, ladies (do any men read this other than my husband?). Because you know how I love something to hang-wring over. And the topic of vaccinations is absolutely ripe for it.

Intellectually, I understand that I should probably just go in with the baby on Friday and let the doctor and nurses do what they normally do. I've talked to friends whose opinions I value and read the mainstream literature on it, and all are reassuring. But are concerns over someone you love deeply ever intellectual? The fear out there is palpable and not so easily ignored. I'm afraid of making a bad decision for my son that could affect him for the rest of his life. It feels like an awesome responsibility to get this right – so yes, I will be obsessing about it until the appointment comes and goes.

I've skimmed through Dr. Sears' book and looked at his alternative schedule. And our pediatrician is willing to follow that schedule for us, though he clearly doesn't have a whole lot of respect for or faith in it. He says there's no evidence that it has any benefit – and, in fact, since no studies have been conducted on it, we don't know if it could even be harmful somehow to spread them out. But he'll do it for us if we would feel more comfortable.

I don't want to be a fanatic and I don't want to inadvertently cause harm to my baby because my anxiety makes me choose something contrary to the mainstream. But the voices against that mainstream are loud ones. And the alternative schedule seems unlikely to actually cause harm, though I recognize it may not prevent it, either.

So, fellow moms – both veteran and new – and soon-to-be moms: What is your point of view on this issue? What did you do (or will you do) for your kids? Please, play nice in the comment box. This is a controversial issue but I'm not looking for a debate for its own sake – I'm looking for genuine input.

Got to go for now – my little universe alterer is calling.

More Sweet Than Bitter

2010-03-07T17:15:00.004-05:00

My baby turned one month old this week. A month old. Baby. In my arms. Who is mine.

I don't know if I'll ever get over the wonder of it all. Don't know if I'll ever stop tearing up when I think about the journey from there to here. When I look at him and touch his soft little head and feel his warm breath on my neck when I pick him up. He smiled this week – a real, true smile, not one of those teasing, reflex ones – and I broke down in tears. I am an emotional dishrag when it comes to this little man.

It's already going by so fast. And I know it's only the beginning – it will continue to rush by, slowing down at times –when he has a tantrum at Target or tells me he's too old for his mom or slams his bedroom door shut and blares awful music – but the months and years flying before us faster than we can keep up with photos and memory books. With this kind of crazy love comes the sweet sadness that comes with putting away his newborn outfits, saying goodbye to each stage as it passes.

It's more sweet than bitter. The only thing I can do is close my eyes and take mental pictures. Feel these moments deeply, marinate in them. Hold them near.

The Hatching

2010-03-01T23:32:00.001-05:00

I am trying not to beat myself up too much about taking so long to post this. I'm in awe, frankly, of my blogger friends who have somehow managed to keep up with blogging while taking care of a newborn. How you've done this, I do not know. I keep thinking I must be doing something wrong, because I can hardly find a few moments to pee throughout the day, much less assemble a thought pattern coherent enough to share with anyone who isn't legally bound to me or required to still love me no matter how insane I sound or frightening I look.

At any rate: Coherent or not, here's how the baby's arrival went down.

We arrived at the hospital on Sunday (1/31) night, just after 7 p.m. As I walked through the hospital to the L&D floor, it felt like graduation night. I couldn't help but recall the countless times I'd walked those same halls on my way to a monitoring appointment, or to meet with my doctor and hope that she'd still sound optimistic about our odds of becoming parents. And now we were walking in as a pair for the last time. Next time we walked out, we'd have a baby in tow. Our baby. Even as I waddled, literally heavy with child, I still couldn't wrap my head around it.

After we got checked in and settled in our room, and the nurse came in to do some set up, the doctor on call came in and placed the cervidil. This was relatively uneventful, so after a snack we tried to settle down and get some rest. Well. My husband got some rest. When your cervix is full of cervidil and your mind is full of anticipation, relief and sheer terror, it's a bit of a challenge to get that shuteye. Plus the nurse came in a couple of times to check on me, reminding me why the hospital is officially the worst place on earth, hands down, to try and get any sleep.

At about 8 a.m. on Monday, a new nurse came in to start my IV, followed by my doctor, who checked my cervix and declared it thinner but not dilated, and said the baby was still quite high up. They started the pitocin, and despite a voice inside me telling me I would probably still end up with a c-section, I remained hopeful that this would work.

The only thing about the hours that followed – in which I experienced 100% genuine contractions, 2 minutes apart (let me summarize those with one word: ouch) – that indicated any kind of progress at all was that my water broke around 3:30 p.m. For those who are pregnant or will be, it may occur to you late in pregnancy to worry about not knowing for sure when your water breaks. Do not be concerned about this. Unless you routinely pee your pants without warning, you will know.

I felt genuinely nervous now: I knew that the breaking of the water meant that there was no turning back. Not that this was ever really a possibility, but I definitely could not now decide to wait a few more days and go home and hide in my bed. This baby would be coming out in the next day, one way or another. At just before 6 p.m., my doctor came back and checked me: cervix was 1/2 inch dilated. A half inch, after a day of the kind of contractions that are the worst part of some women's delivery. The induction attempt began to seem like an exercise in painful futility.

We decided to turn the pitocin off, wait for my contractions to subside and try the misoprostol, with the goal of softening the cervix further so the pitocin could better do its job. At that point they could have offered to put a small hand grenade in there and I would have obliged if I thought it might work. After a few hours, my doctor still hadn't come in to give me the drug, and I drifted off to sleep. At 2:45 a.m. on Tuesday, I sensed someone standing over me – turned out to be my doctor – and jumped awake in a panic (note to doctors everywhere: Do not do this). She apologized for the delay and told me that all hell had broken loose on the L&D floor; she'd spent hours in surgery trying to remove some poor woman's stubborn placenta. As soon as the operating rooms freed up (in case I needed one myself), she'd be back to insert the misoprostol; she returned around 7:15 a.m. to give it to me, then turned me over to her colleague as her shift was over.

Just before noon, the doctor came back to check me, and only one thing had changed in the hours since: the fluid I continued to leak started showing meconium, which had became progressively more concentrated as the morning wore on. It was the first sign at any point in the pregnancy – even through the bleeding, bed rest, nonstress tests and ultrasounds – that my baby was less than happy with what was going on. Since the baby continued to look good on monitoring, it did not bother the nurses or the doctor. But it bothered me. So when the exam showed not one encouraging sign of progress, it became clear that I needed to call it a day on the whole labor thing, despite my c-section fears. My baby had had enough. For his sake, and for mine too – better, I decided, to go into surgery with a clear head and some energy than try another day of exhausting pitocin only to end up there at 2 a.m. under more panicked circumstances – I told her I was ready to make the c-section call.

This was not an easy decision. I've made my fears of surgery pretty well known, and many things about this one terrified me. I half-seriously considered what might happen if I ran out of there, drove myself home and crawled into my own bed where I felt safe. But I knew what had to be done. It wasn't just about me; I couldn't let this little guy down after he'd stuck with me for so long, after he'd done his part. Time to put on the big-girl panties.

I'd like to say that I did put them on and wore them with honor, but we've been through too much together for me as I've told you my story to spin my delivery into some sort of phony fairy tale ending. So here is the truth: I sat on the table in the stark OR and lost it. I told them I couldn't do it, that I changed my mind. I absolutely shivered with fear of the spinal, anticipating the sense of suffocation I'd been warned can happen when you can't feel yourself breathe. The anesthesiologist asked me, not kindly but not unkindly, if I wanted to go back out to L&D, spend the rest of the afternoon on pitocin and end up right back here in the wee hours of Wednesday morning. He had a point, I knew. I somehow managed to lean forward on the nurse and go completely limp. I didn't feel a thing as the numbing medicine and spinal went in, and as they moved me onto the table I waited with dread for it to take effect.

You know how I always worry about the thing that, it turns out, is not the thing that I should actually worry about?

I did it again.

The spinal, for me, turned out to be nothing. I felt a warm, tingly feeling move up my legs, and that was it. I could still wiggle my toes and it was nothing like being paralyzed, but the doctor's pinch test proved that it was working beautifully. Before I had a chance to process this, the surgery had begun. And I was okay at that point – my husband even says I was smiling when he came in – but I felt just inches away from panic, barely hanging on.

Here’s what I should have worried about: The smell of my skin burning filled the air as they made their way inside of me. A few minutes later, when the doctors practically crawled inside of me trying to pull the baby out of me – both of them standing on their tiptoes and tugging, making me feel I was being torn in half. Then, the strong shift in pressure as soon as the baby was out that sent all the blood rushing to my head. This was it: I panicked. I began to insist that I was going to pass out, and despite the doctors' reassurances that this was impossible, the sick feeling was too much for me, both physically and mentally. This is the moment I regret most, that I was unable to just take a deep breath, will away the dizziness and focus on the baby that was being tended to by the nurses; that, instead, the anesthesiologist had to give me an anti-anxiety drug that put a hazy ring around the memory of seeing my son for the first time.

I didn't even realize this had happened until I reached the recovery room and began to feel jittery and agitated as the medicine wore off and a nurse verified that I'd been given something to bring me back from the ledge. A few minutes later I got the full-on shakes, which apparently are common postpartum – something about the hormones leveling out -- regardless of how you deliver, but caught me off-guard and, combined with the nausea and jittery feeling left in the medicine's wake, made me wish someone would shoot me on the spot. It was not exactly the post-delivery glow I’d had in mind.

All of these things have added up to this: I do not remember whole chunks of my baby’s arrival. I am not even sure that I remember when I first saw him. In the recovery room, as I tried to stop shaking and to concentrate on not vomiting, I actually asked the nurse to take my newborn son for a few minutes as I feared I would drop him in my loopy state.

In the days that have passed since, I have tried to stem the tears of disappointment over this by concentrating on these thoughts: That my son doesn’t know any different. That my husband says he walked him over to me and I smiled and stroked his cheek and acted not terribly unlike what I would have sans anxiety or drugs. That I have pictures in which my son, just minutes old and fully alert, is looking right up at me from the crook of my arm; I look exhausted but totally in love. That I breastfed him in the recovery room and he latched right on as if we’d been nursing together our whole lives. And that in the hours and days following his birth I held him skin to skin and nursed him and did all the things I’d wanted to do to foster bonding. And that I had a delivery at all – I had a healthy baby that made me feel true bliss when I held him to me.

These are the important things, I know. And as I spend 24 sleep-deprived hours a day tending to this demanding, screeching little being, I am ever aware of how perfectly lucky I am to call him my son, despite the imperfect circumstances surrounding his arrival. I look at him and ask him if he’s real, tell him he’s a miracle. I am as effusive in my love for him as I am critical of myself and how I handled his delivery. I figure that no matter how many mistakes I make as a mother, the one thing I know how to do is show him love. Because I do love him, with a force that I never could have imagined.

This post has been long, and I appreciate your sticking with it. Appreciate your sticking with me while I found and hatched this good egg.

He's Here

2010-02-17T22:06:00.002-05:00

I thought I would be the kind of blogger who posted the birth announcement as soon as the baby was out (I thought a lot of things about childbirth and parenting a newborn that have proven to be unrealistic). I keep starting to write about my birth experience and getting stuck or needing to nurse or being otherwise distracted. So before his first birthday comes and goes without my reporting on his arrival, I'll tell you this:

He arrived on Tuesday, February 2 at 2:40 p.m. by c-section. Eight pounds, nine ounces, 21 inches of gorgeous baby boy.

I am getting precious little sleep, and the days blur into one another. I still need to figure out how to blog about him (do I use his name? Post photos?), and to tell you about his arrival, which was not exactly the birth experience of my dreams. But for now I will say this much: It was worth the wait.

I prayed for this child, and the Lord has granted me what I asked of him.
-1 Samuel 1:27

The Plan Stands

2010-01-30T09:06:00.005-05:00

We're sticking with the plan, with one modification.

We went in yesterday for a non-stress test in MFM, and I had a nurse I've never had before. Something about her manner made me roll with it when she tilted the chair back (I usually request that they not do this, as reclining is not my friend these days), and it seems the boy didn't like it either. He had smaller accelerations and I could tell he was a little sluggish. The nurse also rushed to judgment a bit; others may have given me an extra 10-15 minutes but she took the paper right to the doctor, who ordered me upstairs to my OB's office for an ultrasound. Which turned out to be a blessing as I got to see my doctor and discuss my concerns face-to-face (thank you, pushy nurse).

The ultrasound looked perfect – fluid was good, and the boy was practice breathing (a concept that still baffles us), dancing around and generally looking perfectly comfortable in there, which is probably why my cervix remains closed. My OB was unconcerned about the NST.

We then discussed both the induction timing and treatment plan, and she made it quite easy for me. She said that yes, Sunday may seem a bit arbitrary, but when MFM says don't push past 41 weeks (which is Tuesday), she's inclined to take it literally. She definitely made it sound like it was in the baby's best interests to get this going on Sunday, so that – combined with the NST being less than stellar for the first time ever – answered that.

She also said that although there is absolutely no way to predict, she would think that I would deliver sometime overnight into Tuesday. Which would be good, because the potentially birthday-sharing mother is, unsurprisingly, driving me bonkers. I told her that the plan was to have my husband call them when the baby arrived, and let them know when they should come to the hospital. That I would need a bit of time to recover before having visitors. Most people, you'd think, would respond in the affirmative – yes, absolutely, whatever you want and need is just fine with us. Not my mother. What she said to me instead was, but we're not just anyone, and don't you actually want us to be sitting out in the waiting room the entire time? She also informed me that she's not familiar with the hospital where we're delivering. Because immediately after I've pushed a human out of my girl parts, I'm sure the #1 thing I'll think sounds like a good time is to go give a tour to my apparently map-illiterate parents who are unfamiliar with the concept of asking the front desk where the maternity floor is. HUGE, sarcastic sigh.

That off my chest (thank you), back to the plan. Regarding the drugs, my OB heard my concerns (she totally called me on google searching) and said that while she does feel the miso works slightly more effectively than the cervidil, the difference is not significant, and since half her colleagues prefer cervidil anyway she has absolutely no issue starting me on that. No more hand-wringing required on my part.

So (barring the onset of labor today, which I'm not banking on) we're definitely going in tomorrow night to start the process. I am thinking a lot of thoughts, but mostly trying to ignore all of them except this one: soon I will meet my baby.

Priorities

2010-01-28T22:06:00.003-05:00

Here's the plan. If no labor before Sunday night, I will go into the hospital to begin an induction. Because my cervix is not at all dilated, we'll begin by "ripening" it, then hopefully move on to pitocin to bring on true labor.

I have some concerns. Shocker.

First, one of the medical variety. Those who have been following along at home will recall a terribly unpleasant encounter I had with the drug misoprostol while trying to resolve my ill-fated first pregnancy (it really ruined my holidays). I did not realize until now that that is one of two drugs they also administer to achieve said cervical ripening. I explained my concerns to my doctor, who said that this is a completely different situation; she said she does prefer misoprostol but will go with cervidil, the other drug, if that is my preference.

I am not sure what to do; this is one of those times in which I struggle with the desire to let go and trust those who are actually trained in medicine to do the medicine, versus heeding the worried voice in the back of my head. I did some googling (I know, I know – never a good plan) and it seems like there are some lingering concerns about miso's safety that do not apply to the cervidil, but that the miso may be more effective at getting the job done. So, do I keep hand-wringing or trust my doctor and go with the surer bet? I'm talking with her tomorrow and hope to have a better gut feeling on this after that conversation (any input appreciated).

My second concern is a much more trivial one. My doctor is in on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. On Monday she is on call for 24 hours, so more likely to be around when things start moving for me. This is why she actually did some wrangling (the L&D floor was pretty booked) to get me in on Sunday night.

But my mother's birthday is on Monday.

Again, those following along at home may recall that my relationship with my mother is not ideal. It's complex and full of angst. It's trying. She can be manipulative and I worry that this is something she could use to "lord over" the baby somehow. It's hard to describe without explaining a lot about her personality and our relationship dynamics (and I pay someone a lot of money to suffer through that kind of detail). Also, I generally would prefer that the baby not have to share his birthday with anyone. It should be his special day.

On the other hand. An induction, particularly a two-step induction as I am having, can literally take days. There is no way of knowing when the baby will actually get here. The doctors seem to agree I shouldn't go past 41 weeks, which is Tuesday (although the MFM doc wanted to do another u/s on Monday, which would mean going in Monday or Tuesday would be okay in her book). I would prefer my own doctor, which would mean waiting until Tuesday night so she is there on Wednesday when things start moving.

But then I saw something tonight about preemies in the NICU and it brought me back to reality a bit – I felt like a complete jackass for caring so much about a shared birthday. There was a time when I just wanted a baby, born in the heat of summer or dead of winter, on a boat or with a goat. And after the scares of this pregnancy, I am lucky that I am having a baby with a birthday at all.

Clearly, I don't want to do anything that could put his health in jeopardy. So I guess the only thing to do is to talk to the doctor about waiting a day or two and get her input. I do have a more legitimate reason to hold off, which is that I've started feeling more crampiness and I think I had genuine, honest-to-goodness contractions today. And it would be nice, after everything we've done to get to this point, to do this part with a little less intervention.

Wrong Number

2010-01-27T14:29:00.002-05:00

Someone just called from my RE's office and, sounding very official, asked to speak to me. Just to give you an idea of what a paranoid nutjob I am, my first thought was, "Oh no. They're going to tell me they realized they switched embryos at my transfer and I'm carrying someone else's baby."

My second thought was that they wanted me – having been such a model patient – to do a broadcast interview talking about how fabulous my doctor is, which I would gladly do (after my next highlight, of course).

It turned out to be a very odd mistake, though not of the switched-embryos magnitude. It was a coordinator of the IVF class calling to tell me that I was accepted and could sign up. I asked her if she was serious, told her I was due yesterday and could probably teach the class myself. Incidentally, this class was never offered to me before I actually went through IVF, and probably would have been useful while I was learning how to shoot myself up with various and sundry injectible medications.

What a bizarre phone call. What could it possibly be a sign of? Hopefully just serious disorganization on the part of that particular admin.

Due-Dee-Due-Dee-Due

2010-01-26T16:48:00.002-05:00

Today is my due date. The day that seemed like forever away when I sat in my RE's office for our last visit and she spun the wheel around and landed here. The day that seemed an abstract impossibility before that, when I struggled to even get a positive pregnancy test.

I feel all kinds of emotions. I have the kind of gratitude one can only have after going through a long battle with IF then reaching the finish line on a complicated pregnancy. I think back to the fear I had while lying in that hospital bed listening to the NICU doctor explain the challenges we'd face with a 28-week-old preemie, and I'm amazed and relieved that we made it beyond that point. I think of all the moments of fear I've had – some rational, some nowhere near it – since discovering I was pregnant and feel so proud of myself and my ability to forge through and keep this baby healthy.

On the other hand. I am human, and human women who reach 40 weeks pregnant are, shall we say, eager to get the show on the road. I learned at my ultrasound yesterday that this baby is approximately (understanding that the u/s can be wrong by as much as a pound either way) 8 lbs 15 oz, and frankly the idea of keeping him baking in me is becoming frightening. I want to meet this little guy before he's the size of a six-month-old.

So far, today has been uneventful. I know the baby descended because his head was directly on my cervix yesterday. So things are moving in the right direction. But for now I'm still watching and waiting, doing the gestational equivalent of twiddling my thumbs, until he makes his desire to emerge known.

Hurry up and Wait

2010-01-19T15:12:00.003-05:00

Thirty-nine weeks today. There was a time before pregnancy when I thought I'd never be any-weeks pregnant, and certainly a time during the pregnancy when I never thought I'd see this milestone. But here I am, a week before my due date, wanting time to both hurry up and stand still.

I'm huge, uncomfortable, not sleeping and yes, whining about it (Note to my pre-pregnancy self, who is yelling from within to just shut up and be grateful I'm pregnant: I am grateful. And I can also whine about how uncomfortable I am. These thoughts are not mutually exclusive.). I feel like I've been pregnant my entire life. I don't even remember what it feels like to move freely, to sleep in any position I want or to exercise. I am, quite simply, so ready to move onto parenthood, to meet this baby who's made himself at home inside me for almost a year.

And yet. I am acutely aware of the unique magic of this time, this pre-baby period when we still have no idea what we're in for. When all we can do is imagine what our son will look like, be like, become. When his every move is still like a little secret between the two of us. I may never be pregnant again – and, at any rate, will never be pregnant again with this baby – and I want to do everything I can to hold onto it in ways that I will appreciate later.

The house is ready and I'm ready. The baby is full term, and now I can wish for him to come instead of doing everything I can to stay pregnant. Until then, I'm going to try and relish these last moments alone with this baby we fought so hard for.

Note to Self

2010-01-16T16:00:00.000-05:00

Here is what not to do before an OB appointment when one is 38 weeks pregnant: Drink a cup of decaf coffee (after months of abstaining from any kind of near- or once-caffeinated beverage) without enough food. Wait too long to have lunch. Forget to drink water. Scarf down lunch right before leaving the house for the doctor's office. Feel buzzed from all of the above.

Because here is what happens: You get your blood pressure taken and suddenly realize that racing in your chest and head is going to register on the machine. It does. And all your explaining about it being an "off" day, the coffee, dehydration, etc. doesn't do a thing to convince your doctor that you're fine. So you get sent to the hospital where you have to pee in a cup (this is easier said than done with a gigantic bump blocking your view), get blood drawn, have a non-stress test (even though you've just had an ultrasound and the baby looked perfect) and wait for the test results. And although they're likely to be normal and you're likely to be sent home – as I was yesterday – it's all a big waste of time and an unnecessary anxiety-inducer.

They told me to drink 10-12 glasses of water per day, and now I'm going to listen.

Pregnancy Accoutrements - A Buyer's Guide

2010-01-12T13:00:00.004-05:00

Many thanks for your comments on my deep ethical dilemma over hair highlighting. I kept my appointment and now will make every effort to turn off my brain until I leave the salon having reclaimed my rightful place in the world as a streaky blonde. Seriously, I really do appreciate your encouragement – it's sometimes hard to find perspective in my own, worried head and I needed your help on that one.

The highlights issue got me thinking about pregnancy-friendly beauty products I've discovered, and generally about what items have worked for me – and what I've found to be a waste of time and/or money – throughout these months. While I know that these things are quite subjective and for every rave review on something you might find three negatives, I thought I'd share my own experience and maybe get a conversation going (what have you loved? hated?) so the newly pregnant (ahem, Sprogblogger) and soon-to-be-pregnant can start stocking up on gear.

**So worth it**
Beauty
-Basq Rebalancing Facial Cleanser – I'm always looking for new ways to deal with my combination skin, and pregnancy hasn't exactly been its BFF. So I tested this product at a local maternity shop (Basq is specifically for pregnant and new moms) and felt it was worth a try – it's designed for rebalancing oiliness and contains microbeads that gently exfoliate (many exfoliating cleansers contain harsher ingredients not ideal for pregnancy). And I'm seriously glad I did – it's made my skin look brighter and feel less oily, and may be something I keep in my product lineup indefinitely.

-Basq Cucumber Tea Eye Gel – Another one from Basq, this cooling eye gel feels fantastic on my puffy, overtired (sure to get even overtired-er in the weeks to come) eyes.

-Mamma Mio Tummy Rub Stretch Mark Butter – Okay, so I did not get off scot-free in this area. After bragging for months about no stretch marks, they finally appeared on the scene around my eighth or ninth month. I truly believe this had to do with my transverse baby – my belly was quite wide around and very oddly shaped for longer than normal and I think it stretched out the skin more than it otherwise would have (excuses, excuses). And I never have believed in topical "belly butters" anyway – stretch marks do not happen because one forgot to apply some lotion. But if you're going to use one (because, why not?), this one feels luxurious, smells fresh and is just generally pleasant to use.

-Karma Organic Spa Organic Nail Polish Remover – I can't stand the smell of regular nail polish remover normally, never mind while pregnant. And I hate how it strips and dries out your nails. Not only does this actually smell good (I got lavender), but it really works (took off my professionally manicured fortress of polish with the same number of swipes as regular remover) – and leaves your nails shiny, not stripped. Oh, and of course there's the benefit of knowing you're not pickling your unborn child while using it. The $12 price tag is steep compared with the drugstore variety but well worth it for the above reasons.

-Zoya Nail Polish – If you're looking for polish that's also free of all the yucky stuff that sounds scary when you're pregnant, this line is great and some regular salons now make it available. This was one area where I became really laid-back (seriously!) over the course of my pregnancy, but in the beginning I was paranoid about using the regular brands so it was nice to have this option.

Books
-What to Expect When You're Expecting – I'd been warned by lots of people (including OBs) that this book was no good, that it dwelled on the bad things that can happen during pregnancy and frightened poor, unsuspecting newly pregnant girls. I found the opposite (and you know if there were fear to be found in it I would have found it). The scary parts are mostly in a separate chapter at the end, and the rest of it made me feel, surprisingly, normal and healthy. It's been my absolute pregnancy Bible.

-Baby Bargains – This is a must-have for navigating the intimidating world of baby gear. It breaks everything down for you, tells you what you realistically need and rates each item across multiple brands. Go to any BabiesRUs store and you'll find couples trolling the aisles with it. I'm sure I'll end up disagreeing with some of their recommendations, but I don't know what I would have done without it.

-Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy – This one tells you in plainer language the real deal on the stuff you don't want to ask your OB. Its author is a mother of four, so you figure if she doesn't know what it's really like, no one does.

-Belly Laughs – I didn't know I liked Jenny McCarthy until I read this book (in fact, I thought I strongly disliked her). It's just pure entertainment. I seriously laughed so hard at one of the chapters it concerned my husband. I also bought Baby Laughs, which I plan to read once the baby comes (in all my spare time) so I can relate.

-Waiting for Birdy – Part memoir, part survival guide, this is one woman's truthfully funny, beautifully written, birds-eye view of pregnancy and parenthood. I'm holding onto my copy to read again when I have a toddler (her son's age).

Clothing
-Gap Maternity Pants – When I first grew out of my clothes (around 10 weeks) I tried going up a size in pants, which clearly didn't work. So I went to a maternity store and bought a pair of real maternity pants with the rollover belly panel. I thought they fit until I started walking and realized I didn't have enough of a belly to keep them up. I subsequently discovered through a lot of trial, error and frustration that Gap makes the best maternity pants, IMHO. I particularly like the "demi" panel pants, which lose the big panel in favor of smaller, stretchy waistband panel. This was all I needed for a good amount of the pregnancy, and continues to fit now (though eventually I got some full-panel pants as well).

-Maternity Underwear – I smugly thought for several months that I'd outsmarted the maternity manufacturing industry by avoiding maternity underwear. I bought one pack about midway through and didn't see a huge difference, so I figured I'd keep wearing mine for the duration. I was sorely mistaken on this one. What happens when your belly gets giant is that the top of your regular underwear won't stay up and starts to roll over. Which is very, very annoying. So spring for the maternity fit – they make all styles of these so it doesn't mean resorting to grannies.

-Motherhood Light Support Nursing Sleep Bra – So after my tirade over the nursing bra situation, I decided to order a bunch (mainly from Target, which someone recommended) in hopes that one or two would fit. I ordered two of these sleep bras from Motherhood, which have turned out to be quite comfortable, fit normally and keep the girls where they should be.

Other
-Citrucel – Okay, you know how much I love talking about what goes on in the bathroom so I'll make this quick. If you have any – ANY – signs of difficulty (Most pregnant girls do at one point or another, particularly if you're put on bed rest. I have had episodes that will never be recounted but would have you either laughing or crying on my behalf.) in this department, you must head them off at the pass. Run, don't walk, to your nearest pharmacy and pick something up. Some people swear by Colace but for me, Citrucel caplets (don't bother with the powder) twice a day have worked like a charm. This is not something to "wait out" in efforts to avoid taking anything, my friends. Trust me.

-Snoogle – Despite a seriously unfortunate name, this full-body pregnancy pillow has been a constant companion for me these months. In the beginning, the bottom part (which fits nicely between your knees) alone noticeably helped the sciatica I developed in my hips. Now I fashion various formations using the whole thing as leverage on top of my existing pillows to keep my head propped and my hips somewhat comfortable. My husband calls this activity "roosting."

**Save your pennies**
Beauty
-Palmer's Cocoa Butter – Not impressed. As I said above, I don't even necessarily believe in stretch mark-antidotes except as a way of making you feel action-oriented in combating them. So I think the experience of applying the lotion should be uplifting and luxurious. The Palmer's smell is just not olfactory friendly. It smells exactly like they tried to get a rich, tropical-esque scent into a drugstore-priced bottle. No thanks.

Books
-Girlfriend's Guide to the First Year – As helpful as I found the pregnancy guide, I found this second book to be disappointing and depressing. Reading it, one begins to believe that the only emotion they will feel in the first several weeks of parenthood will be a strong urge to commit hara-kiri. I mean, I'm prepared for it to be hard (I'm even prepared that I have no idea now how hard it will be). But I want to try and be somewhat optimistic about my chances of emerging alive.

-Pregnancy Journals – I bought a pregnancy journal (which detailed what your fetus was doing every day) just after getting my BFP, and I think I looked at it for all of one afternoon. For me, blogging was my pregnancy journal and the once-weekly updates on fetal growth, etc. from What to Expect were more than enough for me. As excited as you are, especially in the beginning, there is only so much one can talk about what fruit one's fetus most resembles that day.

Clothing
-Maternity Tights/Hosiery – Unlike maternity underwear, these I found to be a complete waste of money. They're basically regular tights with a maternity label stamped on them. I found no discernible difference between these and regular hosiery.

-Belly Bands – I know these have their devotees, but I was not one of them – I found them to be far too constricting around my belly (which was still bloated from IVF meds and quickly getting bigger). What I did instead was MacGyver a bigger waistband on my pants using a hair elastic from the inside button of one side to the regular button on the other, and wore long tops. For me, this bridged those few weeks between regular clothes and the discovery of the wonderful Gap demi panel (which really can be worn from a few weeks on).

That's all I can think of at the moment, but I may do another future installment on pregnancy/new mom "stuff" as I think of things. Because, let's face it, you don't really feel pregnant until you buy something that says "maternity" and realize, with a start, that it's made for you.

To Highlight or Not to Highlight?

2010-01-09T11:36:00.003-05:00

Okay, blogger friends: tell me what you would do. I got permission from my doctor to let my husband drive me to the salon and sit there for services. So I made an appointment for next Wednesday, for a cut and long-awaited highlights (I'd planned to go the Saturday after "the incident" and bed rest orders, which obviously didn't happen). I've gotten numerous reassurances from my OB, close (smart) friends and even my RE way back when that it is safe (the baby is fully formed now and it's only highlights which don't even touch your scalp, etc.), they did it, etc. So there's no real reason not to do it. But despite these reassurances, I am still thinking about it, going back and forth with this persistent devil-angel argument in my head. I know it's silly, but here it is.

On the one hand, I hate my hair dark and don't even recognize myself in the mirror right now. Though it may sound ridiculous, these highlights would go a long way toward lifting my spirits. I've felt pretty unattractive these past months and this would help a lot. And you know what? I've worked really hard for this baby and don't want to look (and thus, feel) dowdy when I meet him and have photos taken with him.

On the other hand, I've worked really hard for this baby and don't want to do anything that might hurt him. Despite the opinion of my OB (and I think most OBs) – and even ACOG for Pete's sake – that it's fine, I can't get it out of my head that Something Bad could happen. And then I wonder, is it really worth it? It's just a few more weeks and then eventually I can get out and go to the salon. It seems petty to even think of doing it then.

But then again: I've spent this whole pregnancy worrying (~~one~~ everyone might say obsessing) to the extreme, feeling like something I do might take it all away. It's mainly the legacy of infertility, I know, but I've wasted a lot of time on it when I know in my heart of hearts that so little of pregnancy is actually in your control. Part of me just doesn't want to look back on the photos and say there's one more instance of my fear overcoming my rational mind, medical science and the drive to make myself happy too.

So tell me, dear readers, what did/would you do?

No Rest for the Weary

2010-01-08T09:43:00.004-05:00

I am huge – let's face it. I'm 37 weeks 3 days pregnant, and I'm supposed to be huge. But I am finding my size a bit startling nonetheless. None of my clothes fit properly anymore –not even the "just in case I get that big" maternity pieces I'd bought on sale. When I lie down, I can imagine it's exactly what a beached whale feels like – heavy and helpless. It's not a good feeling, my friends.

So what happens when I try to sleep is that I turn on one side and the enormous girth of my bump puts my hip to sleep and I wake up, moaning in pain. And then I turn to the other side, and it happens there too. And so it goes, back and forth, all night, until I usually give up and stand up – pausing to let the excruciating groin pain subside before I take a step – and take a break from all that exhausting "sleeping." Last night I took my break downstairs on the couch, because it was also about 200 degrees in my bedroom, and I was all sweaty on top of everything else and about to cry. I tossed and turned more on the couch and today am a rather useless zombie.

So it's making me a little bit insane that helpful people* keep telling me to "bank" my sleep now, as if I can go up to the teller and put 200 hours in savings, please, and then walk out with one of those sugary lollipops that you can only find at banks. When I hear this it makes me so tired I want to doze right on the spot (if I could). Because clearly they think that a) I'm sleeping like a baby all day and night right now, b) I'm so naive, I have no idea what I'm in for and newsflash! Babies wake up all through the night, am I sure I know this? Because if I didn't know this, then how sad for me when I'm up in the middle of the night all tired with a crying baby and don't say they didn't warn me. And c) they obviously think that I have no idea what it's like to not sleep, that there's never been a reason for me to have a lack of sleep before. Because my life never had any meaning before this – I was just a selfish fool with nothing notable to do that might take up a lot of time. How sad. But how happy to be in for no sleep soon when I pop out this baby, so I, too, can warn other unsuspecting pregnant girls who aren't sleeping all about banking their sleep!

Maybe I'm just being sensitive – okay, I know I'm sensitive, because the other night I cried real tears when my husband said something to the cat when he was supposed to be listening to me – but I'm becoming more and more agitated when people tell me this. I would like to ask that they tell me how sleeping for a couple of hours at a time when I don't have a 7lb 6oz (ultrasound measurements this week, which I know are just an estimate) human being strapped in my middle will be any worse than what I'm doing now?

*(Please note: I promise that if you are my friend IRL and you are close enough to me to read this blog, I am not talking about you when I refer to comments I'm getting. From you I seriously want to know how it really will be, and I want to hear your thoughts because I know they come from a loving and helpful place, and you aren't just trying to scare me or demonstrate how little I know.)

Thank You, Baby

2010-01-04T22:13:00.003-05:00

Okay, so a real-life friend and some blogger friends have talked me off the ledge a bit from my nursing-bra tirade. I now understand that the underwire thing, at least, is explainable medically and not just another plot by male product designers to drive us certifiably insane (like this one: those paper backings they put on panty liners that have no little raised edge or anything for you to pull to peel them off). It still doesn't explain why they fit so strangely or look so sorry, but I'm learning that this is not necessarily the place to invest my post-pregnancy dollars.

Meanwhile, I may be busting out of my existing bras like the Incredible Pregnant Hulk, but at least there was this today: an ultrasound confirming that the baby's head is now clearly low in my pelvis, ready to emerge at the designated time. Which means all that child's posing (have you ever seen a pregnant woman try to get in the knees-to-chest position? It's sort of, I would imagine, like watching an elephant sit down at a table for tea.) and playing of music low on my belly (mainly James Taylor; I wonder if I should let him know of this new use for his music) actually achieved its intended end. Or not – I completely accept that those techniques could be complete hogwash, that there was nothing I could have done and doing those things simply kept me from going insane. But no matter, because what we confirmed today also means that my c-section on 1/18 will be canceled in favor of the quaint-sounding plan of waiting to go into labor naturally.

I know I could have figured out a way to deal with the surgery, and I still will if I need to, if labor becomes complicated and the c-section becomes necessary as I know it sometimes does. But I was genuinely, intensely anxious about it, and I'm so relieved and grateful to turn my attention back to the excitement of welcoming this long-awaited baby. He's keeping us on our toes by doing things on his own time. But he's heading in the right direction now.

Good Bra Hunting

2010-01-03T16:00:00.001-05:00

I have a bone to pick with – well, I don't really know with whom to pick it. The baby/mother industry? Designers? Manufacturers? Whomever. The bone is this: the sorry state of affairs when it comes to nursing bras.

Here's the thing, nursing bra makers. I'm having a baby. I've spent the past 9+ months feeling unattractive in all kinds of new and exciting ways, from breaking out to watching stretch marks creep across my swollen abdomen. I've watched as my once-compact and tidy breasts have ballooned into unrecognizable mammary freak shows. This will only get worse when my body recognizes that the baby is out and they become rock hard and painful as hell and start spraying milk every which way. I know this.

So what makes you think, after all of that, the thing I want most to put on is a suntan-pantyhose colored, shapeless, poor excuse for 'lingerie' bra that screams "I am a shadow of my former, feminine self?" Frankly, my boobs are not amused.

Let me start with the fact that it is inordinately challenging to find a nursing bra with underwire. Even in my 34B days, I never imagined buying a bra without it; in fact, I don't think I've worn one since my pre-pubescent training bra days. Sagging is never a good look, so why would I want to encourage it? And why, oh why, would I choose this moment in time – when my boobs need more support than ever – to decide to forgo that added bit of oomph? It truly baffles me. The only time I can imagine wearing a non-underwire bra while nursing is while I'm sleeping (Because yes, I will be wearing a bra to bed for the next several months. These boobs are not going down without a fight.), and even then I'm on the fence.

Also, apparently these misguided bra makers think that when the babies leave our bodies, they take with them any aesthetic drive as well. I suppose they think that by the time the baby is delivered, what with the several months of beauty-killing pregnancy side effects preceding, we will have thrown our hands up in disgust and surrender. That we'll take whatever we can get, so long as it's practical. Would it kill them to add a little lace or other cuteness to these things? I have found exactly two good-looking nursing bras so far: one of them is by Elle Macpherson and, shockingly, has no underwire (et tu, Elle?) and the other is $120. I'm sorry, but if I'm going to spend that much on a bra it better be wearable for more than a few months (and no, I don't intend to wear nursing bras when I'm not actually nursing) and have a fancy, European-sounding label inside.

The few that I've found that are passable, that don't make me look like a 1920s Sears catalog model when I put them on, somehow transport my boobs into odd locations, shapes and configurations on my chest. How and why they do this, I do not know, but I do know that my particular boobs were not meant to be stretched to opposite sides of my torso or to pop out, cone-like, a la Madonna's early 1990s Jean-Paul Gaultier moment.

You know, I hate to make this into this big, symbolic issue and go all soapboxy on you, but I really do resent this thing about mothers in our society. We poke fun at how drab moms become, how they lose their sense of self when they pop out the baby. We act like it's impossible that a woman who's given birth could simultaneously care about the baby enough to jump in front of a moving train for it and also happen to care that her hair is brushed, mascara applied and she's outfitted in something flattering. Witness the Saturday Night Live commercial parody hawking mom jeans. It's all very simple-minded and I think is a movement led by the same people who suggest that philanderers like Tiger Woods are biologically incapable of monogamy (don't even get me started on him).

I think these same people are getting messages to the bra makers, because they're making awful bras, and have I mentioned how unhappy this makes me? And please, oh please, do not use the "time" excuse for this. I've been told in many different ways now how little time I will have once my baby is here, how little time for showering and dressing and grooming and generally doing anything for myself – and how that won't even bother me. (I found this patronizing while going through infertility and I still find it patronizing now – another topic for another time.) I get that having another person to look after will take time. I know I'll be sleep deprived and covered in milk and spitup and generally feel pretty unlike myself. But it takes the same amount of time to put on an ugly bra as it would one that had a flattering fit, kept my boobs off my knees and looked pretty. After all, is there ever a time when a woman needs a little pretty in her life more?

PS If you've found something I've missed, do tell.

Counting Down

2010-01-01T10:15:00.001-05:00

So here we are, one year later than – yet light years from – last year, when I rang out 2008 with a New Year's Eve D&E (because, really, who needs champagne when you can have Ver*sed?) to finally put an end (or so I thought) to the never-ending miscarriage. As I sat on the couch recovering that first day of 2009, mostly relieved to end the physical part of the process, I wished and prayed with all my will that this year would be different. And miraculously, it is. I am so absurdly grateful.

I've been hanging in there, these weeks of bed rest, and somehow the days have begun to fly by in rapid succession. Truly, bed rest is still not what you would imagine when you're running from one responsibility to the next and think a few weeks on the couch sound like a small slice of heaven. But of course you recognize, deeply, that there are worse positions in which you might find yourself as well. I mean yes, I have all those nesting urges and would like to be doing more to get organized and prepared for this baby. But it's also oddly liberating to accept that all that stuff will come, later. That for now I have little choice but to do a whole lot of nothing.

Had my 36-week appointment Wednesday, including nonstress and group B strep tests. While she was in there she checked my cervix (long and closed). Let me just throw my complaints in the ring when it comes to cervical checks. Because they really hurt. I'm sorry, but there's just no way to lie there and act normal when it's happening. I try not to writhe in pain or make noises or swear but it requires my full concentration. But this one was worth it because she thinks (the only way to know for sure will be through Monday's ultrasound) she felt the top of the baby's head while doing it. Which means all my attempts to contort my big-bellied self into child's pose and play music down near my pelvis (yes, I am a sucker for trying anything on this front) may have been successful. Here's hoping.

Either way, the countdown to 2010 is over and the countdown to baby is on. We're in the year and month of this baby's birth now, and it's beginning to feel real. We put him in there and now he has to come out, one way or another. I still can't begin to imagine how it will feel to look at this baby and know that he's mine.

Anyway, here I am – I've posted a photo, taken on Christmas Eve with my Christmas present, a digital SLR camera. I used to think that I would never do the photo thing, but I'm getting to the point now where I want to squeeze out everything that's left of this pregnancy. I want to remember how it feels, how it looks. It may be the one and only time I'm this pregnant, and I want to hold onto it. (Be gentle with any thoughts on my rotundness, please!)

Wherever you are in your quest for parenthood, may all of your wishes come true in this new year.

My Bowl Full of Jelly

2009-12-24T14:15:00.001-05:00

Back over the summer, as I thought about the pregnancy unfolding over the months ahead, Christmas seemed sort of like reaching Boylston Street in the Boston Marathon (not that I have run a marathon, nor do I plan to try – particularly not in this condition): the last stretch, finish line in full view. Once Christmas came, the baby's arrival was right around the corner.

I can't believe we're here. Christmas is tomorrow? I still, at 35 weeks, don't believe I'm really pregnant. Seriously, many mornings I wake up and have to tell myself, you're pregnant, and feel my gigantic bump before it registers. I walk past mirrors and think, "Is it really real?" It's the feeling of having a deeply held wish – the thing you wanted above everything else – come true, and I'm still getting used to it.

One thing that would make me even happier, like kid-on-Christmas morning delighted, would be if people would stop telling me how huge I am. Seriously, enough, y'all. That's all I want for Christmas. If I can make it the next five weeks (four if this baby doesn't move down from transverse to vertex soon) without another person opining on my ginormousness, my Christmas wishes will have come true. How, exactly, do people (and by people, I mainly mean my own mother and other older women who feel the need to flash their veteran-mom creds by spewing all manner of old wives tales) tell me I'm huge? Let me count the ways:

-"Wow, you really ARE pregnant!" (Nope, just faking the whole bump and bed rest thing for sympathy!)
-"Oh, you'll NEVER make it to full term!" (Um, thanks a lot – you really know how to comfort a girl who's on bed rest praying every day that her baby gestates long enough.)
-"Are you sure you're not having twins?" (Yeah, I'm pretty sure – last time I looked it was no longer 1850 and a handy thing called an ultrasound had been invented.)
-"Sometimes one twin can hide behind the other...it happened to my friend's friend's mother's cousin." (How would one even respond to this?)
-"You look big for x weeks." (Are you a member of ACOG? And do you have a tape measure or are you so good you can eyeball it?)
-"Oh but you're ALL baby." (To come to this conclusion, you would have to have checked out my ass to see if I've also grown there. Which is just all kinds of wrong.)
-"Are the doctors going to take the baby out early if he keeps growing like this?" (Yeah, because the NICU has been kind of slow.)
-"He's a hearty, healthy boy!" (Are you saying I'm growing a fat kid?)

I'm almost relieved that I'm confined to my house these days, because it had gotten to the point that I couldn't go anywhere without hearing one of these "helpful" unsolicited comments. I'd decided that if another stranger asked me in the elevator when I was due, I was going to look wide-eyed and say, deadpan, "I'm not pregnant." Curse bed rest for denying me that fun!

Seriously, unless you've earned a degree from a top-tier medical school, trained in obstetrics and have personally seen lots of pregnant bumps in a clinical setting (or you're a close girlfriend who I know isn't judging me), please keep your assessment in the same place you keep your political views and your real opinion of your mother-in-law/boss/nosy next-door neighbor.

Even if I don't get this Christmas wish (my mother is coming over tomorrow, after all), I wish you all a Merry Christmas, happy (belated) Hanukkah, enjoyable Festivus, etc. and a 2010 full of good things!

(I am huge, by the way. Truly, I feel about to pop. They're not wrong about that. It's just that I can only hear it from certain people. I'll try to get a good photo to post tomorrow.)

Ghosts of Christmas Past

2009-12-13T19:00:00.002-05:00

I just opened an email newsletter with a list of tips on surviving the holidays while going through infertility, written by a well-known women's health expert who runs an amazingly helpful mind/body program for infertility (I should know – I took it twice in my two years of treatment). The email points out that the holidays can be brutally difficult for those in the throes of infertility (she's right), and outlines strategies for coping.

Reading the email took me instantly back to last Christmas, both a whole lifetime ago and only yesterday. How the season began with such wide-eyed anticipation and ended, finally, with closure on the pregnancy that wasn't to be. How raw everything felt after that ill-fated ultrasound, how perfect it seemed that the world was covered in frigid, unforgiving layers of snow and ice. How it seemed that I alone had been left out of the lighthearted festivity shared by everyone else. Last year, Christmas – in a cultural, not a religious sense, because the religious part filled me with peace, a sense that all things happen as they are intended – felt like a party to which I'd not been invited.

Several things helped me through – here are two. The first wasn't among the coping strategies listed on today's email, but I am a true believer in it nonetheless. It was, quite simply, retail therapy. After an ultrasound showing that perhaps the medication management approach hadn't worked to resolve my miscarriage (I had no idea what I was still in for), my husband and I decided to go return a couple of things at the mall and then catch a movie. While at the mall, we walked past a high-end British retailer, which was advertising a post-Christmas sale. Let's just take a quick look, I said, and my husband – eager to do anything to keep me calm and sane – complied.

As I flipped through a rack of coats, I felt it before I saw it: the silkiest cashmere trench coat with a detachable fur collar. Normally I would have looked at the price (even on sale) and dismissed it, but I already felt like I existed on a plane at odds with reality so I thought, why not, and pulled it off the hanger. If clothing, as many believe, like art can be transporting, this was evidence. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that when I put that coat on, I became a different person. I may still have been desperately grieving, but I looked damn fabulous doing it. It cinched in the right places and cradled me in pure luxury, and I decided that if there was ever a time for a splurge, it was then. I bought it on the spot.

I'm not necessarily advocating that everyone experiencing the grief of infertility during the holidays go out and buy a cashmere/fur coat (and please, if you're not a believer in fur just say it silently to yourself). But I am saying that for me, treating myself in that way was like telling myself that I deserved good things – and believing it. That seemingly superficial treat fulfilled me emotionally as well. I felt like I had something – even if it was just, for that moment, a thing – to look forward to again.

The other thing that helped me was given to me by a good friend, one of the first people I called about the miscarriage because she got it, and me, so well. She brought over a care package for me that included three CDs: one for moments of sadness, one for anger and one for hopefulness. I'm not sure which this particular song, "Ashes on Your Eyes," was on – to me it fits both "sad" and "hope" – but I played it so many times that, years from now, I may hear it and be once again in that time and place:

Ashes on Your Eyes - Deb Talan

Just about the time your heart breaks like a wheel
Not in a straight line, but all in pieces
Some you'll leave behind
on a road you won't revise
No, you won't revisit that dirty compromise.

Now you only dream in peaceful blue
The morning doesn't even scare you anymore
You are a phoenix with your feathers still a little wet
Baby, the ashes just look pretty on your eyes....

As with the coat, on the surface it is just a song but at the time it represented so much more to me – a perfect resonance with my emotions, a promise that I wasn't alone, a call for hope on the horizon. I began to believe that maybe, just maybe, I would soon dream in peaceful blue.

This year is different, fulfilling the hope that slowly emerged as I grieved one year ago. This year, my coat is in storage, and will remain there until next winter, when I've (hopefully) returned to my pre-pregnancy size. I'll take it out and, grateful for another Christmas, remember.

I Can't Complain

2009-12-07T12:01:00.003-05:00

I've started a post three times now about a baby shower that was thrown for me by my mother last weekend, and I just can't get it out. Mainly, it's because every time I write about it I feel compelled to also talk about the shower thrown by a friend that was canceled because of my bleeding episode/bed rest orders. And then I complain about how disappointed I was about the whole thing. And then, remembering how, just one year ago, I would have killed to be in a position to have a baby shower to cancel, I feel ridiculous.

It's gotten me thinking about the emotional aspect of pregnancy after infertility. How truly challenging it is to navigate, in part because of the promises you make to yourself during treatment. About how you'll never be "one of those people" who waxes on about how happy they are. That you'll always remember how it feels to go through it, how others are still feeling right now while you're enjoying your pregnancy. And you certainly can't imagine ever complaining.

Except –and you wouldn't know this when you're making those promises to yourself, before you're actually pregnant – being pregnant after infertility is hard, too. I know that probably elicited some groans (I would have found it unbelievable myself) – at least you're pregnant, how hard can it be – but it's true. That feeling you get when you're going through a cycle, things are going well, and you're terrified that something will go wrong and bring you back to square one? It's a thousand times more intense when there's a growing baby inside of you. Every normal ultrasound, every healthy heartbeat you hear – they raise the stakes. Who would I be, you think, if something happened now? What would I do? Forget about it when something does come up, when you experience an actual complication.

And that's just the emotional aspect of it. Before you get pregnant, you picture yourself in maternal glory, a delicious bump on your belly (and only your belly, the rest of you naturally as svelte as ever), a radiant, halo-like glow surrounding you. You know what I say to that? Screw Hollywood. Thanks a lot Sarah Jessica, Heidi, Halle and the whole lot of you with makeup artists and personal trainers and access to million-dollar maternity wardrobes. Because the rest of us? Can't afford to stand up to your perfect-pregnancy images.

The truth is, pregnancy isn't always beautiful or comfortable. And it doesn't matter how much you wanted it, how hard you worked for it, how ever-grateful you are that you have it. Because when you have a fireball in your chest and toss and turn all night and have an odd painful numbness in your hip all day and can't leave your couch because you're put on bed rest and have hair growing in odd places, colostrum leaking out of your huge, painful boobs and see your first stretch marks, you know what? It's not all fun and games. You're human, not some Pollyanna Stepford Wife, and you don't have to pretend that these sucky parts don't exist. In fact, if you ask me, all the hard work you put in to get pregnant gives you even more right to be perfectly honest about what it's like – you get to commiserate about the less appealing aspects and seize and celebrate all of the moments of hope and joy you feel along the way.

The shower I had last weekend, while not exactly what I'd imagined (still on bed rest, I felt like the Pope or the Queen sitting in waiting on my couch while my aunts, cousins and longtime family friends paid me visit), was wonderful. My family – many of whom know what I've been through on the way here – was genuinely happy for me. They brought me the sweetest gifts, complete with a diaper cake. I reveled in the cozy kitschiness of it, this time-honored tradition that was finally, finally being celebrated for me. I got the milestone I thought I might never reach.

Believe me, I will never forget what that's like, wondering whether you will ever, ever see a baby shower invitation and feel joy rather than pain. I am right there with those who are still in the infertility leg of the journey. I truly hope to hear you both celebrate and complain about – profusely and unapologetically – your own pregnancy fears, discomforts, joys and surprises, very, very soon.

Orange You Glad I Don't Have Diabetes?

2009-11-16T15:57:00.003-05:00

Just in case I wasn't having enough fun, in case I needed a little more adventure and intrigue, the nurse called me on Wednesday to inform me that I'd failed my glucose screening test. By one point.

Two thoughts went through my head. Primarily, I felt like things were starting to unravel with the pregnancy. Yes, I went there – as I always do. This wasn't just a screening test I failed, it was another Bad Thing that might be happening with the pregnancy, and why me? The other thought I had was: I get to leave the house. On Friday, I had to return to the doctor's office for a fasting three-hour long glucose test that would tell us whether I did, in fact, have gestational diabetes. The test sounded like a drag, but at least I would have a change of scenery.

The first hour went okay. I had the baseline test, and she only had to jab me once to get it (my arms still look like a junkie's from the multiple attempts in the hospital to get an IV in me). Then I drank the orange glucose drink, and it went down fine. Other than the long wait, I thought, this is no big deal. Then I asked if they could sneak me in with the doctor just to check the baby's heartbeat and ensure all was well, given the excitement the week before.

As I waited in an exam room for the doctor, a feeling of lightheadedness set in, which didn't surprise me. I'm the kind of person who needs to snack between meals, and never more so than during pregnancy. So I figured that the fasting would have this effect on me. By the time the doctor finished examining me (all was well) and they drew my blood for the second time, the feeling had intensified. They brought me to a different room where I could stay and wait out the second and third hours, and I figured if I just lay down I would feel better.

You know the feeling you have about tequila/Southern comfort/insert name of liquor with which you had some sort of unfortunate college-years encounter and now cannot even say, much less smell or even contemplate drinking? That's the relationship I now have with that orange drink, which I could feel sloshing in my otherwise empty stomach. As I sat in that room, waves of intense nausea and lightheadedness washed over me in succession. My husband went and got a nurse, whom I informed (possibly whining) that I would be unable to finish the test. She pleaded with me to finish – brought me a johnny and put cold towels on my forehead and the back of my neck to prevent me from fainting. My husband asked me if I could take my picture (he seems to enjoy capturing these charmed moments), and this time I didn't even care. The blood taker lady then came in for the second-hour test and told me that if I didn't finish, I would be treated as a diabetic – put on a special diet, the whole nine yards. The waves of sickness had let up a bit by then, so I somehow resolved to finish. And I did. Without fainting or vomiting. Victory, I'd say.

A huge lunch and a three-hour nap later, I had recovered from the ordeal on Friday. As I awaited the call with the results today, I knew it was unlikely that I actually had GD, but oh what the heck, I figured I may as well worry about it anyway. Turns out, I don't have GD. So the whole orange drink/near-fainting in the doctor's office thing was just for kicks and giggles.

As a practical matter for those of you who have the screening in your future: I now know that I should have fasted before that first test. The instructions I got from my doctor's office specifically said that no fasting was required, but since I only failed it by one point my guess is that would've made a difference. And it would've been a whole lot easier to fast before drinking that horror than endure the three-hour nightmare.

Also, while I am normal weight, because I have PCOS I had adhered to a pretty strict "good carbs" diet while TTC and for most of the pregnancy, because why not? I didn't avoid carbs completely, but I almost never ate "white" carbs, keeping almost totally to whole grains, and limited carbs and sugar overall. I was pretty disciplined about it, and after a while it wasn't even an effort. As my bump has grown, my discipline on this front has faded in direct proportion, and I'm afraid I may have fallen off the wagon a bit, particularly in recent weeks and with the arrival of Halloween candy on the scene. Although the nurse today said the one-point failure on the screening test now means absolutely nothing, I'm taking this experience as a wake-up call for me to get back on that wagon. Because it's healthy, and because what I put in my mouth is one thing that at least I can fully control.

Bed Resting

2009-11-09T11:39:00.000-05:00

I was going to write something cautionary about not declaring that you've made any kind of emotional progress toward feeling adjusted and optimistic (a la my last post), lest you tempt fate, as it seems I did. But what's the point? I'm here, on bed rest, and we're okay. The baby and I. That is the important thing.

Here's what went down: I get to work last Wednesday morning and discover blood in underwear. Assume due to complete placenta previa that I think I still have (follow-up ultrasound was scheduled for Friday). Freak. Speed to doctor's office. Sent for monitoring at attached hospital. Transferred by ambulance (good times) to academic medical center downtown (NICU supports 28-week preemies). Hooked up to more monitors. Brought down to ultrasound. Previa discovered to be resolved (shock and wonder: then what is causing the bleeding?). Bleeding seems to have stopped. Transferred to lower-key floor for monitoring overnight. Bleeding resumes that night, intensifies in morning. Brought back down to Labor & Delivery. More monitoring. Baby looks beautiful entire time – blissfully unaware of drama. Bleeding seems to stop again. Brought back to low-key floor for more overnight monitoring. Released from hospital late Friday to bed rest at home. Where I've remained.

The experience was terrifying – I'm sure I don't need to describe that in detail. I don't think I've ever felt more vulnerable or out of control. Now that I'm home, I am calmer and more confident, but I still have moments of trepidation. We don't know why I bled, though the diagnosis when they don't know is almost always a placental abruption. So now the goal is to get me as far along in the pregnancy as possible, barring (knock wood) more bleeding. My doctor even said this morning that if I go to full term I could have a regular delivery. Nothing sounds better to me. A regular delivery, after so much irregularity.

Until then, just hoping and praying that things stay quiet, that this little boy stays healthy and that I, somehow, am able to stay distracted, calm and positive.

Movin' Right Along

2009-11-01T09:30:00.001-05:00

So I'm back and still pregnant – undeniably so. Sometimes I see my reflection in a mirror or a window and I can't believe it's really me.

When you're in the thick of infertility treatments, as I was mere months ago, you think that once you're pregnant, you'll have crossed some sort of invisible line – that (at least once you see a heartbeat) you'll be somehow home free. You think that those who have crossed that line must feel a smug satisfaction, a sense that they have beaten infertility. That they must now be in a state of constant maternal bliss as they shop for baby clothes and choose nursery paint.

The reality, at least for me, has been much more complicated. Yes, there have been many, many moments of sheer joy and optimism as I look forward to the arrival of this long-pined-for child. But there have also been an equal number of moments of real fear, of obsessive worry.

The first trimester is about blind faith. You're told you're pregnant, but while you don't feel all that great, there's no physical sign that tells you, definitively, that you are. You count the hours until your next ultrasound, and for a moment while you look at that pulsating speck on the screen you feel at peace. But then you leave the doctor's office and there's nothing to do but wonder it's still alive. You recognize how fleeting it all can be, remembering what happened to you and so many others you know. You obsess about the symptoms you may or may not have, deluding yourself into thinking that they mean anything at all. You count the weeks until the next milestone, telling yourself that once you pass it you will allow yourself to relax.

In the second trimester, you reach some of those milestones. You've passed 12 weeks, you hear the heartbeat. You have two ultrasounds during which you see a real baby frolicking around inside of you. You may or may not call the nurse more than once, in a panic, begging her for an extra heartbeat check. That moment in which you exhale and feel that overwhelming sense of calm never comes, but you do feel a vague shift and a sense of growing confidence. You begin to expect that your regularly scheduled OB appointment might just be routine – you don't even play out the worst-case scenarios that used to seize your mind as you sat in that pregnant-lady waiting room. And then you feel bubbles inside that are definitely not the rumblings of your own stomach. And you forget yourself for a moment, you let yourself just be inside the awe-inspiring moment that that really is.

As I move into the third trimester (28 weeks on Tuesday), no longer fumbling, perhaps, but still a little uncertain, I am not yet sure what to expect. I am learning to trust more in medical science than the constant voice of rumination in my head. I am learning to trust in this baby, who so often seems like a force of nature that is happening to me rather than the other way around. I still feel so, so vulnerable at times, and terribly frightened of this love I feel – like it or not – for this child. But I'm moving right along in spite of it.

Nothing Rhymes with Previa

2009-09-12T11:06:00.002-04:00

Yesterday I had my 20-week prenatal appointment. I will say this much: I was a lot less nervous going in this time. I felt like a normal person, which is a pretty unusual feeling for me. My list of questions were less "if I accidentally eat bacon will it permanently damage my baby" than "tell me what's normal for fetal movement (which I'm now feeling)" and "talk to me about placenta previa." I had hope that she might not leave the exam room shaking her head and wondering how I managed to get pregnant in the first place.

But then she talked to me about placenta previa, and then I felt anxious again. I told her I wanted information but I didn't, if she knew what I meant. I think she really only gave me the highlights, but even those were less than uplifting. Contrary to what the nurse suggested, in cases of complete previa like mine, the odds of it moving up out of the cervix by term are pretty low. So barring my being in the lucky minority (ha!) I'm pretty much looking at a c-section at 37 weeks. Until then, I am to call her office and demand to be seen at any spot of bleeding, and if a lot of bleeding happens while I am alone, I am to call an ambulance. There is a lot I can say about this, but instead I am just going to pretend it doesn't exist.

I am trying to find ways to think of all of it in some sort of light way. I even tried to think of a little poem or song I could sing about it, but you try coming up with a word that rhymes with previa. The only thing I could think of was stevia, which is this new sweetener out there that I drank accidentally in my 8th or 9th week and then called the nurse in a panic, thinking that it would give my baby at least two heads. So that wasn't very helpful. Suggestions welcome.

Meanwhile, I have started a list of why a scheduled c-section is actually a good thing:

-No surprises. The date of your baby's arrival is on the calendar and lots of precise planning can take place. Good for control freaks like me.
-You're guaranteed to get your own doctor. Someone you've formed at least a casual relationship with is going to be all up and in your business, versus the awkward moment of meeting someone for the first time when a human being is sliding out your lady parts.
-No pooping on the table. Enough said.
-Most likely you will never experience a full-on contraction. And, really, who needs that?
-Longer recovery means more doting by nurses, your husband and loved ones who offer to help you out.
-Did I say no pooping on the table? Let me say it again.
-The baby does not come out of your vagina. So said vagina stays tidy. No more pressure to do Kegels. No worrying about implications for sex. No peeing your pants.

I'm sure there are about a thousand more reasons why a c-section is actually a good thing. And I'm sure I'll think of all of them as I spend my time not Googling about placenta previa or c-sections.

Don't Worry

2009-08-31T15:37:00.003-04:00

I am learning a lot about health care professionals through this pregnancy. Namely: Many of them think about your uterus, your fetus, your vagina as if looking at images of them in a medical textbook. It's all clinical. Routine. They do, after all, lack the emotional attachment you have to that fetus (and, let's face it, you're pretty attached to your uterus and vagina by now as well). They forget that there is an active mind – and heart – a few feet above those organs.

At least that's what I think was behind the actions of my favorite nurse last week, because I know she's not mean or unintelligent. As I drove to work on Friday I picked up a voicemail message from her, which she'd left the night before. She told me that she needed to go over my ultrasound results with me but she "didn't want me to worry" and I should call her at home. I don't know what kind of a person/robot/tin man could hear that message and not worry – a lot – but it ain't me. I called the answering service, which of course was no help at all (I really need to figure out a direct dial to reach those nurses before 9 a.m.). The minutes from 7:30 until 9:15 when I finally talked to the message-leaving nurse I think left me 20 years older. "What's wrong?" I said first. "I told you not to worry," she said. (Oh, okay.) Turns out, they just needed some additional pictures of the baby's heart because one part of it wasn't visible last week. And the reason she couldn't have simply said that in her voicemail is....?

Naturally when I heard the real reason for her call, my second feeling (the first being relief) was excitement that we would get to see the little guy on TV again. And this morning's follow-up ultrasound came at an opportune time: I got a sunburn at my friend's wedding yesterday, was certain that I had fried the baby, and glad for what I hoped would be a reassuring scan.

You know, in addition to learning about health care professionals, I'm learning that everyone else has been right: Worrying doesn't really do much for you. Because the thing is, what's likely to happen is rarely the thing that you thought of to worry about. It's usually something you never even considered. So it's not like worrying prepares you or anything. Because I definitely wasn't expecting the ultrasound tech today to tell me I was about to get reacquainted with the long-lost vaginal probe. She suspected placenta previa, she said, and needed a closer look. I sort of freaked (just a little). She told me it wasn't a big deal, and added, "You're a big worrier, huh?"

"Gee, where'd you get that idea?" almost slipped out of my lips automatically, dripping in sarcasm. But I held it in. She did, after all, take another quick peek at my baby's nether-region, to remove what I thought was a shadow of a doubt left by the other tech that it was a boy (this one was certain). So I guess I owed her one.

I have placenta previa – the good old wand told us so. It means that the placenta is lying low in my uterus, covering my cervix. I have been told how common it is. How in most cases, it resolves by the third trimester. I have been told to avoid jumping, aerobic exercise and running (which is really going to put a damper in my nonexistent exercise regimen), and to keep everything out of my vagina until they scan again in about nine weeks. I immediately asked about the giant plastic probe that had just been in said vagina moments earlier, but for some reason that doesn't seem to count (having been granted immunity, apparently, by the vaginal customs agency).

I have been told not to worry.

I am trying. I vow to try to stay off of Google. To try and take comfort in the statistics (they are on my side) and to trust the textbook medicine that my smart providers rely on. I am trying.

Team Blue

2009-08-25T18:36:00.003-04:00

I always appreciate a good moment of comic relief when I'm overcome with anxiety. So I was actually more than a little relieved when the cap flew out of the gel bottle yesterday as the tech squirted gel on my middle in preparation for my 18-week anatomy scan, sending a big clump of warm goo sliding down toward the top of my pants. I laughed out loud, though the tech (who seemed, overall, lacking in humor), ironically, didn't think it was as funny as I did. It broke up the intensity of the moment.

She started the scan and, for inexplicable reasons, opted to first focus on one of the uterine fibroids that, yes, I am aware that I have. Can someone please tell me why they do this? Are they trying to drive us crazy? I came here to make sure that the child growing inside of me is thriving and healthy. Would you mind leaving that benign mass on the other side of my uterus alone until we get that 411? I asked her if she could please first take a quick peek at the baby to be sure he or she was okay ("go with the flow" is, unfortunately for health care providers, not my motto in situations like this). She assured me that she'd already seen the baby move before focusing on the fibroid, wrapped up her scrutiny of other parts and then panned over to the baby, whose steady, beating heart we saw immediately.

She slowly made her way across the anatomical landscape of the baby, pointing out the four chambers of the heart, the stomach, the kidneys, an arm bone and the umbilical cord. She spent a little too much time on the baby's brain, which sent my decreasing anxiety right back up the scale. Sensing this, she suggested that maybe she wasn't talking enough, telling me what she was doing. I told her a play-by-play would be really helpful, and it turned out to be, particularly as I squinted at the screen trying to decipher what I was seeing. Frankly, I don't know how they get anything from those images. I kept uttering "uh-huh" everytime she asked if we could see certain things, only because I felt it would be a poor reflection on my nascent motherhood if I admitted that actually, I couldn't see my baby's parts at all.

But I did see the baby's gorgeous, unmistakeable profile. The stretching out of long fingers and the adorable heel of a foot. A real, boisterous baby moving every which way inside of me. And oh, would it be impossible for someone to stop themselves from falling head-over-heels.

We'd told her that we wanted to know the gender, but as she was wrapping up she still hadn't gotten a clear view. She got a couple more pictures and then said she had everything she needed. Come again? She may have had everything she needed, but we were missing our one opportunity to get that critical information. I asked her, I'm afraid in a voice that may have had a tinge of whine in it, if she could do one eensy weensy last quick scan to see if she could find the gender-identifying part. I wasn't sure what she'd say – as I said, she wasn't the warmest – but she complied. And this time she found it right away. She asked if we could take a guess based on what was on the screen. I didn't see anything distinguishable, so I assumed a girl. "Look again," she said. "I don't think so." We took a closer look, and my husband (naturally) saw it first. She couldn't get a clear view of the whole thing, which made her think there was a small margin for error. But unless there is a random twig or pencil or other foreign object in there, we're having a boy. The other tech looked at it and said, 100%, it's a boy.

A boy. Oh boy. Let the fun begin. Though I felt terrible guilt admitting to myself that I was wishing for one or the other (how could I, after everything I'd been through, dare to hope upon hope that the baby would be anything but whatever it is?), I've always imagined myself as a mother to boys. Loud, rowdy, larger-than-life boys that I would drive around to hockey practice and other boy things. And here, spinning around in my uterus, is one of them. How can I describe the joy?

Take a Number

2009-08-18T18:00:00.004-04:00

I think I'm starting to get the hang of this prenatal visit thing.

You sign in, a nurse calls you back, you pee on a tiny matchstick-sized paper with two colored dots on it and show it to her so she can determine if the dots changed color or something (All I know is it is impossible to know what to do with this stick once you pee on it for the required few seconds. You are still on the toilet, peeing, and you need your hands to wipe and pull up your pants. But you're holding a tiny stick that has pee on it, so eeew, you don't really want to set it down on the sink because then you may put microscopic drops of pee on the sink that other people have to use. But you don't want to put it on the floor, either, so really, do you have a choice?). Then you go back to the waiting room. Then eventually they call your name again. But first you might learn that your doctor has been called to two deliveries. And you therefore might end up seeing a different doctor in the practice, but at that point you don't care because a) you've already been waiting an hour and a half, you have to pee again and you're hungry, and b) as long as someone with an MD from an accredited medical school (doesn't even have to be top-tier) tells you everything is fine, that afternoon, you know you'll be a happy camper.

Such was the case for me, last week, at my 16-week prenatal visit. Need I even tell you – I was incredibly nervous, upset stomach, blahblahblah. The doctor who finally met with us turned out to be the head of the practice (so yes, he had an MD, from Harvard it turns out, so he passed), a man with kind eyes and a demeanor that instantly put me at ease. He came in and asked how I was feeling. I told him a few of the symptoms I'd had (mainly headaches), which he pronounced completely normal. I asked him if it was normal for the ravenous hunger of the first trimester to wane a bit; he looked at my chart and suggested that, since I'd gained nearly seven pounds since July 15, I was probably eating enough.

Then he did measurements – felt where my uterus was (halfway up to my belly button, which apparently is where it's supposed to be), measured its height and listened to the baby's heartbeat. I took out my list of questions, mentally crossed off the more neurotic ones and asked him a few. Then my husband and I were on our way.

An hour and a half wait for a ten-minute visit. But I got what I went there for: reassurance and more reason for confidence. For that, I would've waited all night long.

Self-Fulfilling Normal Pregnancy

2009-08-06T20:52:00.004-04:00

This morning I had an appointment at the hospital for my second trimester screening. This is the last third of the integrated screening (first trimester blood work and ultrasound + second trimester blood work), and at the time that I made today's appointment it seemed quite far away and impossible that it would ever come to pass. I imagined that if the day ever did arrive and, miraculously, I was still pregnant and in need of the test, that I would have become a different person. That I would've passed through some imaginary force field on my way into the second trimester that made me much wiser, more poised, a vision of maternal serenity.

Yeah, that didn't happen.

Instead, I lost everything in my stomach three times over before finally breaking free from my house and driving myself to the hospital. Doesn't matter that I was just going for a blood test and wouldn't even get any sort of results today. Like Pavlov's dog my body has learned that hospital trip = good time for intestinal overdrive.

Once in the waiting room, I strategized how I might finagle a heartbeat check. The test is done in the maternal-fetal medicine section of the hospital, not in my regular doctor's office, so I knew it would take some smooth talking. Still, I thought, how could I possible leave the place without reassurance? I resolved to get it.

But a funny thing happened once I got called back and sat down in the chair. As the nurse started chatting with me, her making small talk about lighter traffic and me lamenting that my ID stickers now listed "33" as my age, I felt like a normal patient. Like just another pregnant girl who would come the nurse's way today for a routine test that would probably come out okay. And I realized that I wanted to be her – just another pregnant girl. I didn't want to be the neurotic patient the nurse had this morning who tried to get her to do a test she wasn't scheduled for. I didn't want drama, I wanted normal. And I realized that if I chose normal and calm it just might make me feel...normal and calm.

So, even though the nurse was super friendly and I quickly assessed that I almost certainly could have talked my way into a doppler heartbeat check from her, when the blood was drawn and the band-aid on, I stood up, thanked her, walked out of the hospital, got into my car and went on with my day.

It felt good.

Something So Right

2009-08-01T11:53:00.003-04:00

It's been a few weeks. I turned 33, the spotting finally, mercifully stopped, my in-laws were in town and we went to my husband's family reunion in upstate New York together (note to self: next time you're pregnant, if there is a next time, don't go to the middle of nowhere at the end of the first trimester. Hungry – no, starving – every hour is not a good state to be when the only food to be found is greasy, made of refined flour or artificial meat products). I've been living my life, trying to go about my business and keep on top of the worry. I'd say I've done an adequate, if not respectable job.

I know I sound ridiculous – I even bore myself – still sounding alarms when I've finally crossed into the second trimester and nothing about this pregnancy, not even the spotting, has concerned my doctors (or anyone else). But there's a reason for the term "battle scars." A war – no matter if it's fought on a battlefield or in a doctor's office – doesn't simply disappear, even if the ultimate result is victory. You remember how it felt to fight so hard, all the sacrifices that were made along the way. All the things you lost. And freedom, the more you taste it, becomes that much more difficult to imagine giving up again. You think, What if I had to fight that war again?

I remember this one time, a few years ago, I was shopping with a good friend of mine at a thrift store when a shady looking man started edging toward us. He was making a strange gesture so I glanced down and saw that he was, quite unfortunately, flashing us. Seeing a penis in a public store seemed so out of place it took me more than a second to realize what it was. Naturally horror was my first and most intense emotion, but there was little time to be horrified. I suppose at some instinctive level I felt it was important to get him to back away rather than letting him intimidate us. "No!" I said to him, wagging my finger. "Stop – you stop that right now. Leave us alone." He immediately recoiled and left the store. My friend applauded my bravery. I just sprang into action, she said, where she would've freaked and ran. I told her I wasn't willing to forfeit the bargains I'd found for some pervert. Later, once it stopped being scary, we laughed so hard about it that tears ran down our faces.

You see, I'm good in a crisis. And I'd gotten really good at crisis management over the past couple of years. What I'm having a hard time figuring out is how to turn off all that adrenaline and just enjoy the fruits of my struggle, without questioning what can go wrong and when. As Paul Simon sang so true, I can't get used to something so right. But I'm trying, and I'm learning even though it's slow (the nurse who has seen me three times now for extra doppler heartbeat listens can attest to that). It's new territory that I couldn't be more grateful to be exploring.

Out, Damned (Brown) Spot!

2009-07-08T21:40:00.003-04:00

Just in case I was missing the drama, in case I was allowing myself to inch too closely to a feeling of relief and total acceptance that this was really happening, a square of toilet paper this morning revealed another reason for concern: brown spotting. Or discharge. I don't know quite what to call it, and I'm sorry to be providing this kind of detail anyway, but it is germane to this conversation. All I know is that it was brown, and it was coming out of me while there is a baby in me. Actually it wasn't even quite coming out – it was just the tinest of amounts on the toilet paper itself. But still.

So...I called the doctor and the rest of the details will be too mundane and exhausting to recall here. But the bottom line is they tried using that doppler thing, the nurse claimed she heard the heart beating but I didn't, she quickly got the picture that I wouldn't be satisfied until I saw it beating and then they gave me an "unofficial" ultrasound. Which showed the heart beating, measurements of 11 weeks and nothing obviously awry. So you know what they do then? Absolutely nothing. Nada. They say it's probably nothing and send you on your merry way. But that doesn't make the spotting stop, and it doesn't make your mind stop either.

I then did what any girl who'd just gone through a heck of a lot to get to this point – I mean, I'm sorry, new doctor's office, but I am not one of your footloose and fancy free normal patients – would do: I obsessed until I came up with an explanation for the spotting. And that was the fact that I stopped my progesterone last week. But that didn't really solve anything – in fact it just created more complication and required more effort, like a call to my RE's office to explore that possibility, and then a call back to the OB's office. The bottom line: Nobody, absolutely nobody, thinks it's from low progesterone. Everyone thinks it's just some flukey, minor thing and I shouldn't worry about it. But I? Am going to the OB's office in the morning for a progesterone check. Because I can. And because I need to know that I'm doing all I can to prevent Bad Things from happening.

I swear that if the spotting really stops (it hasn't gotten any worse today and seems to be largely gone tonight) and my integrated screening (NT scan/bloodwork) goes well next Wednesday I am going to try – really try – to assume that things are going to work. So when something like this happens, I automatically think that it's probably nothing, instead of probably something. That will be my wish for myself tomorrow, as I blow out the candles and bid welcome to 33.

A Whole New World

2009-06-28T14:00:00.000-04:00

The waiting area at my new obstetrician's office was just as I'd imagined. There was some comfort in the fact that I could've been just another girl who threw out the birth control and peed on a stick after a carefree night. Waiting at the RE's office always felt like wearing a "Reproductively Challenged" sign on my forehead (I routinely imagined turning to the woman sitting next to me and asking, "What are you in for?"). So it was oddly comforting, in a way, to feel like just another pregnant lady doing what pregnant ladies do as I sat in this new waiting room.

Still, I felt like somewhat of an imposter, like an actress playing a different version of myself. I felt that once I got back to the exam rooms, at any point they would find me out – they would find something wrong, take away my newly bestowed pregnant girl credentials and send me running back downstairs to the RE clinic.

That's not what happened. Instead, my husband and I got called back for an initial consult with a nurse. She went over our medical histories and answered some questions about the practice. They then took at least half my blood supply, had me pee in a cup (first complaint to the OB's office: Could you please buy cups that are appropriately sized for peeing into? While urinating in the direction of one's hand, one prefers to be holding something larger than a tiny toy tea-party sized cup in said hand) and sent me back to the waiting room to wait for the doctor.

By the time we got called back to an exam room, I was worried about a few things. First, the nurse had said that typically an ultrasound is not given at that point – most patients wait until the integrated screening (NT scan/bloodwork) at 12 weeks. This information seemed unfathomable. Most women just walk in and walk out, taking brochures on pregnancy and talking about due dates without confirming that the pregnancy is, in fact, still going? I didn't yet know how to do it, but I knew I had to somehow convince them to give me one. Second, I worried that I wouldn't like my doctor. How could anyone live up to the ridiculously high standards set by my RE? And third, I worried that she wouldn't like me. Could she handle the bundle of nerves and barrage of questions that are my trademark?

Turns out (as with most things), I could've saved all that nervous energy. The doctor came in and, though I could tell she was a bit frazzled (a patient was in labor and she had to take a page in the middle of our conversation), she never made me feel rushed while I peppered her with my questions, many of them aimed at taking her pulse and sussing out her general philosophy (she seems to be "middle of the road" – cautious but not alarmist). Then she said that she knew I wanted an ultrasound, but that the techs were already gone for the day. I thought it would end there, and was mentally formulating how we might get around the absence of the people who do ultrasounds and still have an ultrasound when she added, I may be able to do a quick scan if you're willing to wait. I told her I would wait all night.

As she squeezed goop on my belly (ps I hate that word. If anyone has a better word for belly, please let me know ASAP. To me it's as irritating as "panties" and I hate to think about using it for the next 7 months.), she told me that when her friends get pregnant, they beg her to sneak them in for a quick scan between their appointments, which made me feel less like someone who needed unusual hand-holding and more like just another worried mom. And then suddenly, there it was on the screen (which, in this ultrasound room, is very conveniently positioned on the wall so you can actually see what's going on): a tiny little baby shape with that telltale frantic flicker. As if on cue, s/he did a little wiggle. A tiny, developing baby that is inside of me can move.

All of the above was confirmed on Friday when I went back in. I noticed a lot of pressure and pain on my right side, where my RE's office had told me a residual cyst was lingering. Thoughts of that cyst suddenly bursting and harming the baby were enough to overcome my desire to stay quiet – to avoid being "that patient" for the next few weeks until my integrated screening at 12 weeks. It was far easier than I thought to get an invitation to come in for a look, and though I knew everything was probably fine, how could I pass it up? I was there for nearly two hours, but I got another look at the kiddo (this time I got pictures) and reassurance that my ovary was not going to explode. What could be better?

Something dawned on me as I drove home on Friday. I seem to be the only one still worried at this point. My RE is clearly not – she gave me a due date and sent me on my way. My new OB (who was even better on Friday) knew the baby's heart was still beating before she even looked. My husband – well, my husband has never been worried (he's not the type). Yet I soldier on, an army of one in these mental battles against unforeseen (and unrealized) threats and complications.

I'm the only one still worried, and it's beginning to feel like lonely work. Perhaps it's time to consider a sabbatical.

Leave Your Bags Behind

2009-06-22T09:38:00.003-04:00

The thing about infertility is that the emotional baggage it brings with it doesn't get packed up and shipped off at the moment of a positive pregnancy test or a good ultrasound. It stays with you, keeping you from exhaling and believing that all will be well.

Today, I will be meeting with an obstetrician for the first time. When I walk into the waiting room – which I assume will be filled with pregnant women who, upon peeing on a stick and seeing two pink lines, began picking out names and crib bumpers – I will be just another pregnant person. Just another one, that is, until I begin telling my new doctor about my battle scars, warning her about my particular angst in a way that hopefully doesn't send her running for the door in favor of less neurotic patients. I am going to need some extra hand holding. I am used to getting it at the RE's office, and I'm not sure how to ask for it from someone who is used to dealing with women more busy blossoming and glowing than panicking and ruminating.

I want to unload this baggage. It's a difficult thing to do after carrying it for so many miles, so long a journey. But I'm trying to trust that I no longer need it.

Graduation Day

2009-06-16T20:50:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, it finally happened. I had wondered if they would hand me a tasseled cap or play Pomp and Circumstance, but instead it came without fanfare. It was just me and my husband sitting across from my doctor hearing these words: you're all done with me.

Wait – what? No more ultrasounds? No more tests or procedures? No more trying and pushing and struggling and working to make it happen? It's happened – really happened – and now there's nothing more to do but sit back and occasionally visit a regular old OB?

Apparently so. The ultrasound yesterday showed a baby (I would like your permission to call it – inaccurately but much more simply – a baby at this point. I have too much on my mind to worry about whether it is still an embryo or has officially morphed into a fetus.) measuring exactly on target at 8 weeks, with a heartbeat of 162. It had little arm buds (!) and you could actually make out a little human-like shape on the screen. And just when we thought we were done hearing good news, she told us there was no longer a blood clot visible in the placenta. So that bleeding? May have been a one-time thing.

I think I floated down the hall to meet with our doctor. She asked me how I was feeling and told me how normal I was for every anxiety I might have. When she took out that beautiful due-date calculator wheel, I just about cried tears of joy. I thought I might never get to see that wheel.

My new OB, recommended highly by my RE, has some huge shoes to fill. This doctor has helped give us a pregnancy, not only by meeting egg and sperm but by giving me the courage and confidence to go to these lengths to try. She is, quite simply, heaven sent.

I'm no Pollyanna – I am all too painfully aware that I will be carrying a degree of doubt, holding my breath just slightly until I'm holding a baby. But we've graduated to the world of good old-fashioned obstetric care, and I'm going to try (try!) to jump in with both feet.

The Coast is Clear

2009-06-11T18:35:00.001-04:00

The bleeding, thank goodness, seems to have been left behind at the ER (knock wood). But I think until I give birth (here's hoping), going to the bathroom and looking down may require serious mental preparation and deep breathing. Also, it is not helpful that one of the few subtle symptoms I've had is absolutely insatiable thirst – which means I'm spending an awful lot of time in the bathroom bracing myself.

I am encouraged by the many similar stories I've now heard. More than one person has quoted that about half of IVF pregnancies experience bleeding. I wish someone would explain to me, then, why you are not told at some point in this lengthy process that bleeding can be normal. I'm just guessing but I'm thinking that could've saved me from a good amount of panic on Sunday. Certainly not all, but some.

When I spoke to my doctor on Monday, I asked her when I might be home free. When you're holding your baby, she said. Actually, she added, When your child gets accepted to college. It's a scary business, this world of pregnancy and parenthood. All we can do is hope and pray for the best (right now I'm hoping and praying that Monday's ultrasound and doctor's appointment are reassuring). The rest isn't up to us, which is a hard lesson that I'm still trying to swallow.

Fear Has a Name

2009-06-08T08:45:00.003-04:00

...and it is early pregnancy bleeding.

I think seeing it last night may have been the shock of my life. It was so incongruous – like the last snowfall of the season when you've already unpacked all of your spring clothes. My husband was grilling dinner and I was about to start my laundry. I went to use the bathroom and there it was. And no, it wasn't the brown color that I'd heard is rarely anything menacing. It was bright red, like the clear start of a period. I yelled for my husband and together, two keystone cops, we fumbled for a phone and the number for the doctor on call.

I had two options, she said. Wait to come into the clinic tomorrow to see a doctor or go to the ER now. She did not recommend the ER, she said – so busy on a weekend night – but admitted that some women are not emotionally equipped to wait until the morning. Um, yes, I said – that would be me. She told me she would make a note that I was coming in.

We waited for about 45 minutes before being called back. I felt like I was bracing myself as I hurtled head-on toward a Mack truck at 80 mph. I was trying to prepare myself for what the impact would feel like, how I might survive the collision. My husband kept reminding me how sure I had been on Friday that we wouldn't see a heartbeat. You told me it was probably a 1 percent chance it would be good, he said. Well, I said, now I think there's about a half a percent chance. No one has ever accused me of being an optimist.

I finally got called back. They wanted to start with a pelvic exam, but the nurse questioned my husband being in the room: You really want him in here for this? Lady, I wanted to say, we have been through IVF and a miscarriage together. You really think there's anything he hasn't seen at this point? I verified with him that he wanted to be there and we both said yes. She began the exam, and told us two things: one, that the opening of my cervix was closed, which could be a good sign; and two, that she saw the bleeding and "some tissue." What kind of tissue? I asked. She didn't know. She would have to send it to the lab for analysis to know for sure. I wonder what the lab would've said about a big clump of Crinone, which is what the attending ob-gyn later told us she thought it was. Good going, nurse. Way to calm me down.

The next step was an abdominal ultrasound. She saw the sac and yolk sac in my uterus, but did not see a heartbeat. But don't worry, she said. These abdominal ultrasounds don't really tell us anything. You need a transvaginal ultrasound for conclusive information. Which means that clearly, that test wins the award for most useless exercise of the evening.

They took five vials of blood, had me pee in a cup and told me to wait for someone to come get me for the real ultrasound. When they finally did come and get me, relief and fear set in: in just a few minutes, we would know. On the other hand, we would know.

My heart hammered as the ultrasound tech and radiologist peered at the screen, which was turned away from us. The radiologist finally told us calmly, I do see a heartbeat – I will tell you more about it in a minute. Which I took to mean, there is something wrong with it. But when, after an eternity, the tech removed the probe, the doctor told us there was a heartbeat of 136 BPM. He mentioned a small ring of blood around the sac, but said that mine was measuring at 10 (whatever unit of measure they use), and they only worry if it's 25 or more. So no signs of impending miscarriage? I asked. Nope, he said. It was the same feeling I used to get when I studied all night for an exam, walked in thinking I knew nothing and got it back with a huge A planted on the top. They released me a while later after I spoke to the ob-gyn. And at that point, my bleeding had stopped.

This morning, my doctor was incredibly reassuring. She told me how often early pregnancy bleeding happens, and how the vast majority of women go on to carry to term. She told me that the fate of this pregnancy is already sealed – that we're just spectators, waiting to see what this embryo will do. That at this point, the signs are good. And – once again reading my mind – she repeated that there is nothing I have or have not, can or cannot do to influence the outcome. All we can do is watch and wait.

I've survived a lot of waits through this process. If anyone has any thoughts on how to make it through this one, they are most welcome. Also welcome: any happy stories on your friend so-and-so, who had bleeding and now has a gorgeous baby. I need all the optimism I can get while I wait.

My Beating Heart

2009-06-06T09:38:00.003-04:00

After a fitful night of sleep filled with vivid, unsettling dreams and losing everything in my stomach in the morning, we made our way to the clinic yesterday. My skin had about made way for me to jump out of it when the waiting room door opened and an ultrasound tech called my name. I'll give you two guesses which one it was, and the first one doesn't count. You got it – the one that did the fateful bad ultrasound back in December. I paused for a second, but then felt an instant, odd calm about it. I think an interesting phenomenon happens with a controlling and superstitious person like me. You work so hard to make everything line up the way you want it, uncluttered by bad juju, but then there comes a point when life is just too much for you to control. You have no choice but to go with it and hope that the coincidence of it all is too absurd – that lightning can't possibly strike twice. Also, she is my favorite tech: kind, patient, no unsolicited comments on how many fibroids I have.

She led us back (to the same exam room, no less) and got, according to my expressed wishes, my favorite nurse to come in with us. I told them, voice shaky and cracking, that I wanted a running commentary as it happened. The probe was in for about two seconds when she announced (with not a small amount of relief on her part, my husband and I both thought), "I see a flicker!" Which was very helpful to hear at that moment, given that mine was about to explode right there on the exam table. The sweetest relief ran through everything I could still feel. She focused in on the heartbeat and measured 120 beats per minute. It was a little tough for me to see the screen and I can hardly remember what it looked like, but it doesn't matter. It's there, and hopefully there will be many more opportunities to get a better look.

I am all too painfully aware that we are not yet out of the woods. There are weeks, and miles, to go, and I cannot from here imagine a point where I might exhale. I also can't imagine that I am the only person in the world who, upon seeing a beating heart inside of her, began to question every instinct she previously had that she might be somehow qualified to be responsible for another human being. But at 6w 3d, our embryo has a recognizable beating heart, and even with the fear, my own heart – and gratitude – can hardly be contained.

Limbo

2009-06-03T19:14:00.003-04:00

I'm in an odd place, this moment. I'm pregnant. I have proof in the form of a fuzzy black and white photo. And yet, there's something about these first tenuous weeks after a post-IVF positive beta that say "pregnant until further notice." I can't yet take any steps that might point to "definitely pregnant" – buy maternity clothes, look at nursery decor, think about names. Yet I can't do anything definitively non-pregnant either – buy normal clothes, drink wine, work out. I catch myself looking wistfully at couples pushing strollers, think "Why can't that be me?" and then realize with a start that it could be. I'm closer than ever.

I fell off the wagon a little bit from my determination not to pay attention to symptoms I may or may not have. Thanks to all who set me straight (though I can't promise I won't ever ask you to remind me again when you first felt like you were pregnant and not just suffering from the worst case of PMS ever). I just long for a sign that all is well. I crave reassurance. There ought to be a little porthole so we could see what's going on in there. If I could go in and demand an ultrasound every single day without fear that they would commit me? You bet I would.

I wouldn't trade this place I'm in. I'm so grateful to be here. I want it to keep going. I want to see hope in the form of a just barely distinguishable flicker of light.

Black and White

2009-05-28T19:33:00.002-04:00

At our ultrasound on Thursday, we saw one perfect sac with everything it should have at just past five weeks. It looked like a little whale, flashing its tail in the dark hollow of my uterus on the screen. What's not so clear is how I can survive the wait until our next look at that screen.

Everything about this pregnancy has been different. My numbers were high (particularly now that we know it's a singleton) – I only got a third beta (3,653) this past Tuesday because I called the nurse in an absolute panic, having convinced myself that I didn't feel any more symptoms and therefore was no longer pregnant (completely and irrationally ignoring everything she said about symptoms coming and going in a normal pregnancy). The first ultrasound was another sign pointing in the right direction. Everyone seems more relaxed and confident about this one – everyone but me.

I worry that my body doesn't know what to do from here. I worry when my boobs seem less sore, and that I don't feel nauseous yet. I worry because it's harder to imagine a good ultrasound. I worry about things I can control and I worry about things I can't (case in point: I woke up this morning drenched in sweat under too many covers – again – and was 100% convinced that I cooked the developing embryo). And then I worry about worrying too much.

I wasn't supposed to go back for another scan until June 15. I told them there is no way I can survive that kind of wait. I am an effective squeaky wheel: I have an appointment next Friday, the 5th. Until then, I'm in limbo. Praying there's a healthy heartbeat, right there in black and white, when we look next.

Climber

2009-05-24T09:31:00.004-04:00

The news from my second beta on Friday was good: it climbed to 902 from 212, which means it more than quadrupled, or more than doubled twice, in three days (further confirmation that this process is really sharpening my math skills). The nurse sounded pleased, and told me to come back next Thursday for an early ultrasound, during which they'll confirm that the pregnancy is in my uterus.

Here's the thing, I told her. The horrid experience of my last pregnancy ultrasound left me with PTSD. I simply cannot imagine getting up on that table for another one without a stiff drink, a valium or a trusted medical professional like my doctor in the room. Since the first two options are clearly out and she told me my doctor doesn't do ultrasounds, my nurse volunteered to come in with us on Thursday, and for the subsequent u/s to see the heartbeat. She's my favorite nurse, and I find her almost as calming as my doctor, so I did not hesitate to take her up on it. So that commotion in the ultrasound room next Thursday morning? That will be me and my cheering section collectively looking for a black blob (or two?) on the screen.

Here's how I feel: terrified, thrilled, bloated, awed, constantly starving and thirsty, panicked and over the moon. Whoever said you could finally relax and stop worrying obsessively when you got a positive pregnancy test is a big, fat liar. And, given what a worrywart I am, whoever (for example, the overzealous nurse at my transfer -- not my regular nurse -- who also said I should avoid ice cream, decaf coffee and most other foods you might consider consuming in modern life) said you must be relaxed at all times in order to get and stay pregnant is equally big, fat and liarish.

What a Difference a Beta Makes

2009-05-19T18:22:00.003-04:00

This morning's beta: 212.

Hallelujah.

Plenty of time to worry later. For now, just sheer relief and excitement.

Sixteen Cells and a Crazy Flag

2009-05-09T08:48:00.008-04:00

Things you might hear your doctor say in the course of an embryo transfer:

"This embryo could have come from an egg donor."

"I'm putting up a flag on crazy."

Luckily for me (really), I heard both yesterday. My own, amazing doctor was on, which was a huge help in so many ways: it instantly made me more comfortable, and we got a more in-depth explanation of our results. She started by reviewing our results last time, and the way the clinic grades embryos. The top two from the last cycle (the ones we transferred) were 6-cell embryos – they want to see 8-cell – with average ratings on fragmentation and symmetry. And the rest went downhill from there. I have seen these results a few times now, and every time I wonder how in the world I got pregnant (albeit temporarily) from that cycle.

Then she turned the page (in every way) to this cycle's results. I nearly leapt out of my chair when she told us we were transferring two 8-cell embryos, one of which (the one that "could have come from an egg donor") had excellent ratings on both fragmentation and symmetry. She called that one an "A++," the other a "B" (I'll take a B: solid. Respectable.). And then we went in to transfer them.

The other comment came after the transfer. We had just come out and I was sitting in the reclining chair for the requisite 15 minutes when I asked my husband to hand me my BlackBerry. And of course as he was handing it to me, the BlackBerry flew out of its case and landed right on my abdomen. Do I even need to explain what went through my head? I saw my doctor go by, so I called her over and explained what happened. She looked at me, head tilted, and told me I could get punched in the stomach and it wouldn't matter. Then she told me I was worrying too much and she was "putting up a flag on crazy." Which, counterintuitively enough, was exactly what I needed to hear in that moment. And is clear evidence of her brilliance.

The key over the next 10 days will be to keep that crazy flag at bay. It's more challenging to maintain a casual attitude once you have living embryos in you. But I am going to try my best to not worry about every twinge, every bump, every negative thought running through my head. It's out of our hands now. We did all the work, got the results we hoped for, and now there's nothing we can do but wait.

Fielding Error

2009-05-07T23:12:00.002-04:00

Let me get this straight. Manny Ramirez, formerly of the Boston Red Sox and currently of the LA Dodgers, is out 50 games for taking HCG? Cheating and dishonesty aside, I would like to inform any other male athletes considering getting this drug "from their doctor" as part of a doping regimen of a few reasons this may not be a good idea:

1. HCG is the hormone of pregnancy. It is what home pregnancy tests look for in your pee. It is also prescribed synthetically for the "final maturation of follicles" before an IVF egg retrieval or IUI. So unless you're the pregnant man, I am guessing it is probably not something you want coursing through your veins.
2. HCG does a lot of things. It gets you mature follicles. It doubles every 48 hours when you're pregnant. But "restoring balance" is not something that comes to mind for me when I think about HCG. Unless balance includes violent moodswings and unrelenting nausea and fatigue in your world. But I think nonstop crying is generally frowned upon in the dugout.
3. See #1. If Manny had taken a HPT during this time period, he would have gotten two pink lines. There are so many things wrong with this, I don't even know where to begin.

Seriously guys. If you're going to do this stuff – which is weak and phony and makes you no hero at all – can you please stick to real steroids? Stay off our turf.

Oh What a Night

2009-05-06T19:20:00.000-04:00

There was plenty of romance in the air last night at the Petri Dish Mixer. Out of 17 eggs, 14 fertilized. This, in case you're wondering, is an 82% fertilization rate, a significant improvement over the 53% rate in November (are you impressed with my math skills? And I was an English major!). So far, so good. Will get a call tomorrow with a time for a Friday transfer.

Factory des Oeufs

2009-05-05T18:30:00.001-04:00

They retrieved 17 eggs today from my overworked, underpaid ovaries. Sperm numbers looked good. Hoping there is a lot of courting going on at the Petri Dish Mixer tonight. Will know how many have coupled off when I get my fertilization report tomorrow. Fingers crossed.

Meanwhile, the egg factory is resting comfortably, watching good TiVo and eating whatever I fancy (I deserve it).

Family Planning

2009-05-03T15:37:00.005-04:00

The ability to mix injectable medications in syringes is a skill neither my husband nor I expected to cultivate. And honestly, I'm not sure we have: mixing and taking Repronex has been dicey, to put it mildly (using the Gonal-F pen is child's play in comparison). Sometimes I wonder how it is that they just let you loose with these medications with nothing but a homegrown video on the pharmacy website to guide you as you attempt to force them into your body with a sharp object. Shouldn't you need some sort of formal medical qualification for this?

The other morning, after a particularly challenging time with air bubbles and suction as we tried to draw back the medication, my husband looked at me. "Family planning," he said, as he sighed and shook his head. "It isn't what it used to be." Indeed.

Still, if this works, I know the details of mixing, sticking, wincing and injecting will dissolve into a distant blur. I will know in just under three weeks. I'm triggering tonight; egg retrieval will be Tuesday, with the transfer most likely Friday.

In the meantime, I must share this product recall, which I discovered via author Elizabeth McCracken's blog (If you do not know McCracken's writing, get to know it. Immediately.), and which made me laugh out loud. I'm sure that I do not need to point out the 1,000 ironies contained within this recall.

Movin' Right Along

2009-04-28T21:21:00.002-04:00

Well, subcutaneous injections haven't stopped sucking in the six months since my last cycle. And Repronex stings going in and leaves behind skin irritation, just as they told me it would. But it's happening, this second cycle. I'm back in the game.

There's something different this time – I'm different. It's as if the situation had to spin so far out of control – bad ultrasound, worse miscarriage, reparative surgery – for me to finally release my death grip on control. I get it now: There's nothing, beyond following my doctor's instructions, that I can do. And since there is nothing I can do, I'd rather do almost anything else than think about infertility.

Do I even need to say that I care? I do. I don't think there's any way that I could will myself to stop caring. But I guess where I've arrived, at this moment, for this cycle, is that when given the choice between obsessing nonstop about how many follicles I might have and diving into an entertaining book, I have started to choose the book. Because someone else is thinking about whether I should take medication A or B, or when I should trigger. And she went to medical school. And trained at a top medical center. Thereby freeing me up to read said book.

I don't know if I'm fooling myself, if maybe this is the peaceful prelude to a full-scale nervous breakdown that's been percolating quietly in my psyche. Or if, upon hearing any more bad news about my reproductive prospects, my new mentality will just shatter to bits. Maybe some of you are out there smiling knowing smiles, having been in this place before and having slid painfully back. But I do know that for now, I feel better – steadier. And while that may not be more likely to get me pregnant, it is a welcome shift.

Nervous Nellie

2009-04-18T13:24:00.004-04:00

The thing about going through infertility treatments is that the rest of your life doesn't wait for you to finish. You can't stop the world from turning, can't press pause on everything else. People – including people with medical degrees – tell you that stress is not helpful for conception. You resolve over and over to banish all stress from your life and shrug things off. And you quickly realize that absent becoming a recluse and talking to no one, that goal is a naive fantasy.

Forgive the term, but it's a vicious cycle. I spent the week feeling utterly overwhelmed by anxiety from work and other issues. My physical symptoms were so intense that on Thursday night the only thing that kept me driving to a work event amid a massive anxiety attack was the knowledge that the event would be attended by several doctors (it pays to work in health care). I figured it wouldn't be great professionally to interrupt the meeting with a heart attack, but at least I probably wouldn't die. Now, having survived, as I continue on Lupron (started Monday) and wait for my baseline next Thursday, I wonder what impact all of it could have on my cycle.

There's another spin to this vicious cycle. I wonder, too, how much my being overwhelmed by infertility contributes to my stress in other areas of life. Everything feels so intense right now, because so much of how I look at my life – so much of my definition of happiness and success – depends on this working. The unfairness of infertility makes other injustices we have to deal with seem even more bitter and unfair, other stressors all the more stressful. I feel acutely sensitive and self-protective.

I don't know that there's an answer (there rarely is), other than reminding myself that many women have gone before me, lived to tell after infertility, and had babies despite the burden of stress in other parts of their lives. Life goes on. And I have to do what I can to keep up. The best I can.

Hope in Bloom, Part II

2009-04-07T21:18:00.001-04:00

On Saturday morning, my husband called me over to the kitchen window to look out at the backyard, where I saw this.

They had sprouted in the middle of the still winter-brown yard, nowhere near our flower beds. We have no idea where they came from.

"It's a sign," he said. "Twins."

Hope in Bloom

2009-04-02T22:05:00.004-04:00

Not to rely too much on a cliche (though infertility will do that, among other things, to a girl), but this time of year is just really good for hope. It's as if the weather – and the world – has warmed and awakened again just in time to wish me well, to offer a pleasant backdrop for the happy ending I might dare to imagine.

All it took to deliver me back to this fantasy (which is clearly delusional; see previous year and a half of hell) was a straightforward, easy surgery last week and a 10-minute consult with my doctor this past Monday, during which she said magic words: because of the minor scarring she found, she doesn't even need to look (through another office hysteroscopy, which I'd assumed was in the cards) again. We can start right away with a new cycle.

And just like that, a clean slate. I can finally move on from my first, doomed pregnancy. There is a whole new opportunity before us, independent of anything that's happened before and yet encouraged by the fact (and, according to my doctor, a lot of scientific data) that my body proved through this pregnancy that it could be a welcoming home for a wandering embryo.

Now, I'm not going all Pollyanna on you (they gave me a hysteroscopy, not a lobotomy). I haven't forgotten the misery of these months, or the fact that loss happens, and happened to us. But I am amazed by the resilience of hope. I am slowly acknowledging that maybe I won't need to mourn this pregnancy for the rest of my life. A new pregnancy – one that leads with certainty to a healthy baby – could wipe it away. Based on the IVF schedule we mapped out the other day (carefully crafted to avoid major upcoming work events), that could happen at the beginning of May – which, as birds begin to chirp and buds break ground, feels like it's just around the corner.

Open-Legs Surgery

2009-03-28T12:07:00.000-04:00

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous before Thursday's surgery – terrified is more like it. And that I was able, over the past month before the procedure, to fully achieve my goal of living in the moment, somehow dodging the shadow of infertility for a while. I received such lovely, supportive comments in response to that last post, applauding my determination to focus on other things. It made me feel like a bit of a fraud.

I mean, the intention was there. And I did a lot of things that on the surface would signal someone going about her life. I got those pedicures. Saw those (amazing) friends. Read books. Laughed out loud.

But still. Even as you take a break, as you remember the way your life felt before this struggle took hold and made everything else feel insignificant, you're painfully aware that it's temporary. You can move on to other things right now, because there's no chance before you – it's easy to pretend it doesn't matter. But as soon as you can dare to hope again, when chance reappears and stakes are raised, you know that you will no longer be capable of pretending that other things are just as important.

And so I began the slow, reluctant creep back into the game with Thursday's surgery. I spent the whole week playing it out in my head (see earlier posts re: my absurd surgery phobia). Told myself repeatedly that it was nothing – it wasn't as if I were having open-heart surgery (giggled when I realized it was actually open-legs). So by the time we arrived at the hospital on Thursday morning, it felt like I'd already lived it 30,000 times. When my husband asked me in the waiting room if he could take my picture (he has this perverse desire to "document" everything) and wouldn't take no for an answer, my stress boiled over and I burst into tears. He put the camera away.

We got up to the surgical wing, where two things called me back from the edge: my calm, cool (yet warm) and collected doctor, and my new bff, Versed. For a good amount of the procedure I was awake, though very comfortably in some world halfway between a couple of Clicquots and unconsciousness. Before I knew it, my doctor was telling me it was over, at which point (since it was after 1 p.m. and I had nothing in my stomach) I requested a cheese pizza.

The big question going in was whether she would find more serious scarring beyond the initial bit that blocked her view of my full uterus during the office hysteroscopy. She didn't. There were two more minor adhesions inside, which she easily got. She told me my uterus is good as new and they sent me home.

Another hurdle down. I'll meet with my doctor on Monday (it was either Monday or May) to create a game plan. It's been five months since I've cycled, since I've had a shot. Everything – yet nothing – has changed. I'm eager to be back in the game. I know it means letting this one thing matter once again. Whether there's a way to go about my life as if it matters a little less this time remains to be seen.

To Have and Have Not

2009-03-01T12:21:00.006-05:00

I am currently reading An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination, a memoir by Elizabeth McCracken, who is a heartbreakingly talented writer with this heartbreakingly tragic story (the stillbirth of her first child) to tell. Among other observations (she is the kind of writer who finds precisely the right words for the most indescribable of emotional experience) McCracken describes this sense that when her baby died, the time that followed occurred in two tracks: "on one, he lived and we took him home...on the other track, the one I accidentally took, he died...."

What woman who has experienced any event on the spectrum of loss -- from miscarriage to the loss of a child -- could not relate to this? All I need to do is look at a calendar and I see, like a photo that stopped developing midway through, all of the experiences that I am not having these days and months. I am not starting to show and buying maternity clothes. I am not telling people about a baby that will be born this summer. I am not feeling excited about a late spring baby shower, or starting to worry about that looming due date and the labor and delivery it will require of me. But I could have been. I was so close.

There's this other duality that I've started to sense in this infertility journey. I live my life utterly consumed by my desire for motherhood -- by the piercing awareness that I lack the thing that I want and need most. It is often the first thing I think of as I force myself out of bed each morning, and the last as I get back in at night. I am constantly aware of this fight I have on my hands, the next battle a deep shadow over every thought, every action. Constantly aware of the life I feel I should be living.

And yet, there is this need to keep going, to sustain myself for the sake of myself. I have this fundamental sense that no matter how much I want motherhood, I have to keep something of myself intact or I will lose everything in my quest for it. I have to remind myself that what I have is inherently valuable and meaningful, not just a reflection of what I don't have. This requires keeping a healthy dose of denial at my disposal. It means waking up this past Wednesday and deciding that, no, I just cannot have another day of desperate sadness -- I've got to pretend it doesn't matter. It means going out to dinner with my husband on a Saturday night and rather than going through the motions, wishing we didn't have such freedom, really trying to relish that experience for what it is (which is pretty good). It means trying to live my life -- the one I have -- not biding my time until I get the life I want, the life I hope is out there somewhere.

My operative hysteroscopy is scheduled for March 26. Before then, there are movies to be seen, food and wine to be enjoyed, magazines to be read, pedicures to be had, friends to be laughed with. I'm going to try to stay focused on the life I have. The one that's real.

Hysterical over Hysteroscopy

2009-02-23T13:10:00.009-05:00

I wasn't worried about going in for the hysteroscopy this morning (although my nightmare about rats last night doesn't exactly reveal an uncluttered subconscious), but now I know that I should have been. Clearly my uterus chose not to heed my letter (I should have known), because it did not go well at all.

The procedure itself was fine -- at this point I am used to all manner of instruments, dyes and other accoutrements having their way with my reproductive tract. Although I will say that when she couldn't get into my uterus initially and tried dilating my cervix and going in again, I had to concentrate very hard on not screaming bad words. What made the whole thing really suck, though, was what the pictures of my cervix and uterus showed: scarring from the D&E. The kind that requires more surgery to remove. For someone who really doesn't like surgery very much I'm seeing a lot of that operating room, dontcha think?

As if that didn't satisfy my shit news quota of the day, I also learned that the pathology report from the D&E was back, and showed that our embryo had the genetic defect tetraploidy (i.e. it had four sets of chromosomes instead of two). On the spectrum of genetic defects that cause miscarriage this apparently is nothing standoutish, but it is sad and disturbing to hear all the same (the only upshot of this news is that I can finally stop irrationally blaming anxiety, the pedicure I had, what I ate and getting angry at my mother as possible causes of my miscarriage). Although the defect is relatively standard, they're running genetic typing tests on both me and my husband just to be sure it was a fluke. Which I guess should make me feel better -- we'll rule out more things -- but instead just makes me feel like there's yet another thing to worry about.

Also, I learned -- accidentally, by reading my doctor's computer screen -- that it was a girl. My doctor confirmed what I saw and said she was sorry I saw it as she knows that information can be upsetting. It was jarring and sort of emotional for a moment, but I don't know if knowing is any sadder than not knowing. I had this embryo. It was unhealthy. It would have been a girl if it had been healthy. But, again, it wasn't healthy. What more can I do or say about it?

I opted to work from home today (good choice), and I drove back home after the appointment feeling overwhelmed. So I did what any girl in my situation would do: I stopped at a pizza joint -- the really good place in town, not the pseudohealthy place that makes wheat crust -- got two slices of cheese and promptly inhaled them, with a diet Coke and without abandon or remorse, when I got home. This reckless behavior will likely continue tonight with the consumption of good-sized quantities of alcohol and chocolate. I'm just telling you -- I don't expect or want you to stop me.

PS: I just got a baby stuff catalog in the mail: the last straw for today, thank you. Called and told some poor call center lady that I am infertile and cannot be getting their catalog delivered to my home. Found this oddly satisfying.

An Open Letter to My Uterus

2009-02-22T16:33:00.003-05:00

Dear Ute:

You're on again tomorrow -- it's all about you, just the way you like it. It's been a while since we've had a good look at you, and I can only hope that you haven't been dreaming up any new tricks while unsupervised. Recall that only seven weeks ago your shenanigans put us in the hospital and led to the D&E that I'm sure was no summer picnic for you either. I appreciate your noble attempt to hold onto that poor tenant, but I'm sure you'll agree in retrospect that you were a wee bit slow on the uptake with that one.

At any rate, we've both had some time to heal since then, and I hope the break has been good for you. Tomorrow, a hysteroscope -- a medical term for paparazzi, I believe -- will pay you a visit and snap some photos, so please have your best Paris Hilton pose all ready to go. But it would be nice, particularly in the context of what you pulled back in December, if you could just be sort of boring. Look pretty, but please don't try to be particularly interesting. You'll have plenty of time to shine in a few weeks when we send two new prospective tenants your way. Hopefully, they'll be the kind that stick around.

Also, try to relax. I know these situations can be tense, but cramping up won't do either of us any good. So do what you have to do -- yoga, meditation, vodka martini, whatever.

Thank you in advance.

Happy thoughts,
Good Egg

PS: Say hi to those ovaries and tell them to rest up -- they're on next.

A Way Forward

2009-02-10T22:07:00.002-05:00

All right, something in me is trying to say. Time to perk up a bit. Loosen that death grip you have on your grief. As my family likes to say, Stop the wimp. The voice is tiny and tentative, but there it is. So I'll listen and make this post all about the path forward, even though doing so feels a bit like trying on an ill-fitting hat. Even though more of me would rather wallow here a bit longer.

Here's what I got from my (still fabulous in every way) doctor when we met for the infamous WTF appointment (this one being my most difficult yet -- the most fitting to ask, seriously, WTF?) post-miscarriage. The IVF cycle went well, but could be improved. Of 18 eggs retrieved 17 were mature, and 9 fertilized. Of those nine resulting embryos, however, only the two we transferred looked truly viable and only one looked really good. Of course, we'll never know which one implanted and it doesn't really matter since it turned out to be a total slacker anyway. She blames the miscarriage entirely on a run-of-the-mill (my word, not hers) genetic issue, which is one of those pieces of news that should somehow make you feel better but absolutely doesn't.

To improve embryo quality for the next cycle, she is adding the medication Repronex and scaling back the Gonal-f, which apparently will help by adding LH to the FSH mix. I believe that Repronex is made of urine from post-menopausal women (I read once that it was post-menopausal nuns from Italy, which seems too strange for someone to have made up), which probably should make me wince a little but at this point sounds positively dreamy if it will give me a live, healthy baby. Since no post-miscarriage period came on its own (as if), I took Provera and am now waiting patiently. Once it arrives, I will go on the Pill and will go in for an office hysteroscopy to make sure nothing strange is going on in there (girl parts convention? sorority party?) before getting started with IVF #2 and that new protocol.

I feel just as I would've guessed I'd feel at a moment like this: terrified, hopeful, pissed off. Wanting desperately to believe what everyone keeps telling me about all I have going for me. Oh, wait. I'm trying on this hat. Okay: I feel determined. And a little bit brave.

Pity the Fool

2009-02-04T20:06:00.002-05:00

Somehow after the humiliation of dropping off that first "sample," (See? I still can't even say it.) I dusted myself off and found the willpower to drop off the second. By the grace of God, my long lost high school friend was not at the lab the next day, the test results turned out to be normal a week later and my symptoms have largely subsided (save some heartburn which for me seems to turn up every now and again as a delightful companion to stressful life events). Still, with the luck I've had over the past several weeks I'm beginning to worry whether any other irksome medical issues want to demand some investigation. Perhaps a UTI is lurking, just waiting for the right opportunity to rear its frequent pee-making head.

Outside of my digestive tract, I've been trying to figure out what to say about how I'm feeling, which has been a challenge since I'm not sure how I'm feeling. Mostly my emotional existence has devolved into a state of pretty constant self-pity, and my friends, pity ain't pretty. Sometimes I start thinking of myself in the third person, as if I'm watching me on a movie or following my story in a novel. That's when I really lose the belief that I am capable of ever moving on and charging ahead. I feel so sorry for this poor girl who just can't seem to capture her commonplace dream, who instead sees her raw hope dashed time and time and time again. I cry for her and her poor beginnings of a baby that was never meant to be. It's so hard to accept the idea that her amazing marriage can't seem to evolve into a family, that they might never know what it's like to hear their own children run through the house.

There's no reason for me to think all of this. No one has told me it is not going to happen for me -- in fact, the people with actual qualifications to make such projections have told me there's every reason in the world to think it will. But these days, what I feel most acutely is the absence of my brief brush with motherhood, the gaping hole that it left behind and the fear that I am a fool for ever having hoped. And that I might never get there again.

Blast from the Past

2009-01-21T22:10:00.004-05:00

It's official. I'm cursed.

In the latest installment of "The Miscarriage That Refused to Die," I visited my primary care doctor on Monday. Because how could I let a federal holiday pass without interacting somehow with a medical professional? I really don't want to say why I went to her, except that it's crucial to the punchline of the story, which I will get to in a minute. You see, sometime while I was taking those antibiotics after my D&E, I started having, ahem, digestive issues. And since the symptom hasn't yet gone away my RE's office recommended a visit to the old primary care doc, an idea that seems somehow quaint at this point.

At any rate, my doctor said it probably had something to do either with the antibiotics killing good bacteria in my stomach (why does this concept of good bacteria remind me so much of Glenda the Good Witch?) or some random thing I may have picked up during my stay at the hospital (which is encouraging, because I was really lamenting not having a souvenir). And then she said something truly awful: the only way to know for sure would be to bring a "sample" to the lab. On two separate occasions.

I don't know about you, but at this point, I am totally fine with procedures involving my reproductive organs. Want to put foreign objects in there, look around, take some pictures, redecorate? Totally fine -- just show me the stirrups and have at it. Want to talk about what I do behind the bathroom door? Um, no freaking way. I would rather have a daylong root canal in a dark alleyway than discuss and/or deal somehow with that. Which is why I tried to avoid it for the past two days, hoping and praying that the probiotics I started taking would kick in and eliminate my symptoms and the need to do what she asked. But they didn't, so tonight I somehow willed myself to do the dreaded deed, hurry in the car and run the atrocious package to the (mercifully nearby) hospital lab.

And here's what confirmed for me that either someone has a voodoo doll with my name on it or that I'm starring, unwittingly, in a revival of Candid Camera/a very bad sitcom pilot: Upon walking into the lab, I found myself face-to-face with a woman I went to high school with. And she recognized me immediately.

I don't know if finally mustering the courage to poop in a jar and then delivering it to a lab that coincidentally employs someone you haven't seen in 15 years is the most embarrassing thing that could have happened tonight, but I do know that I wanted (still want) very, very badly to make it unhappen. That being impossible, I wish I could at least have explained to her the whole story -- for some reason it seems more pitiable, and therefore palatable, that I was there as result of a miscarriage than some random thing gone awry in that part of my body. I obviously couldn't get into it, but she was very sweet, just like I remember her when we were both over a decade younger and several pounds lighter. She will probably not tell anyone else she saw me under these circumstances, if she even stays in touch with anyone else from my hometown. It doesn't really matter if she does or doesn't -- I know this.

Still, please pray she is not there again tomorrow, when I steel myself and deliver installment #2. And then please pretend I never told you any of this.

From Patient to Nurse

2009-01-18T17:21:00.006-05:00

A lot has gone down. (Many thanks to those who've checked in on me -- my lack of posting has been due mainly to my trying just to stay afloat.)

When we last left our (dubious) heroine, she was recovering from a miscarriage gone bad and remorse over spilling her sad story to her mother. Her husband was also about to undergo knee surgery, which she didn't even mention here because it never even occurred to her (perhaps since hcg was still running rampant through her system and her reproductive organs still recovering) that it would be a big deal. Do I even need to tell you that it turned out to be a very big deal?

To make a very long, boring story a little bit shorter and more tolerable, ACL/meniscus surgery will turn an athletic, relatively tough (relatively being key, since it seems to me that all men become big crybabies when they are ill or injured) husband into an immobile, totally dependent, pain-ridden patient. And you, dear wife, will become his 24/7 nurse. You will handle everything around the house since he cannot walk on his injured leg for at least three weeks. You may frantically call the doctor the day after his surgery because he is writhing in pain and cannot get off of the couch without nearly passing out (and you, being substantially smaller than him -- at least on a good day -- are ill-equipped to pick him up). You will lug a 20-pound ice machine from the couch to the kitchen for refills at least twice a day. Upon realizing that your refrigerator's ice maker cannot keep up with the demand, you may find yourself buying bags of ice at the gas station at 6 a.m. during an ice storm. When a soda-delivery guy makes a really unfunny joke while he watches you do this, you may tell him that no, you did not miss the irony (you may also mutter something about him being an a-hole, but quietly).

I could go on, but I will spare you. What I will tell you is that I am sick of hospitals, and being either a patient or a nurse. That I am sick of having my stomach in knots, and getting no sleep and feeling like everything is turned upside down. That I have both welcomed the distraction and resented the timing of all of this, that I wanted to fully finish out my own recovery, both physical and emotional, before turning my attention to some other problem. I get that knee surgery is not the end of the world, but I was already operating at diminished capacity, and the surprise of having my husband suddenly be the needy one (and how) has been startling.

As for how I am doing. It depends on when you ask. I've been mostly overwhelmed. There are times, like when I was sitting across from my RE at our WTF appointment last Monday (more to come on that), when I feel hopeful and determined, ready to go at it again. There are times when I feel numb, like there's some robot switch someone turned on that makes me walk and talk and drive to work but without the involvement of my heart and soul. Sometimes I laugh and it feels genuine, and then I feel guilty and strange for having done it.

Overall, I guess I'm just searching for pockets of joy. For something to grab onto while I'm in this space, to sustain me while enough time passes and whatever needs to happen happens to get me to my baby. I am getting together with my amazing friends and ordering lattes and buying fun magazines and getting my hair done (color and all). I am watching mindless, kill-your-brain-cells TV (to the producers of The Bachelor and American Idol: The timing of your new seasons could not be better). I went shopping today and bought new towels -- huge, decadent, spa-worthy towels -- and it gave me the kind of thrill that only consumerism of the domestic sort can. I lugged the gigantic bag into the elevator back to my car, excited to get them home and put them in the rotation. A couple came on with their deliciously chubby-faced baby beaming in her stroller. And despite my shopping high, I couldn't help but think: They're taking home that baby. And I'm taking home a big bag of towels.

Diarrhea of the Mouth

2009-01-03T20:57:00.003-05:00

Today, I did something I swore up and down I would not do when we started this process: I talked openly with my mother about it. And now I wish I could turn back the clock and take it all back.

It had started to come out slowly. Several weeks ago, early in the IVF cycle, I told her I had PCOS and that we were "pursuing treatments" to try and have a baby. I suppose there's not a huge leap between telling her that and talking about IVF, but it seemed like talking about it in general terms left a veil -- however thin -- of mystery around it. "Treatments" could be almost anything -- injecting yourself every night with FSH before having your eggs harvested, or eating more broccoli. She didn't know the particulars, the mechanics.

Then came the miscarriage and I just felt like that changed everything. I found it impossible to get through Christmas Day without telling her -- it was an ugly elephant in the room -- so when we found ourselves alone that night and she guessed that I'd lost a baby, there was nothing to do but nod my head. I was tired of suffering in silence. And she made me glad that I told her. She was unconditionally supportive and it felt great to have another source of comfort, another outlet for expressing my overwhelming emotions.

She came over today to help me with a sewing project (lest you be impressed with the sound of that, rest assured that we didn't get very far with the sewing), and somehow I just started talking and it all came out: the Clomid, the failed IUIs, the arrival at IVF, the excitement of learning I was pregnant. I spent most of last night wide awake, thinking about everything that had happened, and I think it felt like a relief to talk about it for a while. To tell the whole story.

For a long time, I've wished that I could have my mother's support through this time. It just felt like too much of a risk to seek it. Our relationship, like many between mothers and daughters, is complex, and it makes me feel vulnerable to have shared all of this with her. I worry what she might do with the information, how she might process it, whether it might come back to bite me somehow. I worry about other people finding out. I'm not embarrassed about needing IVF (I've long been desensitized; it now seems more "normal" to me than doing the deed to get pregnant), and over the past year have grown more open about it. In fact, I see myself more and more as having a responsibility to share my story, as if in the telling I might somehow help another infertile woman somewhere. But I am still cautious; talking about it feels like revealing something deep and true about myself.

I wish I could take it back, but clearly my only option is to trust whatever instinct told me to put it out there today. And hope that soon, there will be a baby -- a child and a grandchild -- in front of us, and how he or she got there will be a distant memory and a minor concern.

Auld Lang Syne

2009-01-01T14:24:00.001-05:00

It wasn't over. Even after the horrible night on Monday, even after passing what appeared to be all of my internal organs, it -- unbelievably -- was not over. And I have a night in the hospital, marks from three IV sticks and another surgery under my belt to prove it.

Like some sort of miscarriage vampire, my symptoms had again disappeared during the day on Tuesday, only to return like clockwork at 7 p.m. Tuesday night. This time it became clear there would be no avoiding medical intervention. The bleeding was alarming, and everything just seemed "off." My husband called the on-call doctor again to let her know we were coming in to the ER.

I wish I could say that I felt brave during the hours that followed. That I felt more like a mother (albeit one losing her baby) than a child. But truthfully, I felt vulnerable and small. What we learned through hours of waiting, testing and more of the same, was that while the main "products of conception" (i.e., the gestational sac) were completely gone, my endometrial lining was still too thick at 12 mm (they wanted it under 10). I was also developing an infection -- my white blood cell count was highly elevated -- and they suspected the cause as retained products embedded in that thick uterine lining. I needed to spend the night in the hospital ("night" being relative, since at this point it was 2 a.m.), they said, so they could administer IV antibiotics while I waited for a very necessary D&C in the morning. I don't know if upon hearing this news I became the biggest crybaby the ER had seen, but I didn't take it well. I was exhausted, starving (they'd banned food and water since I'd arrived, apparently having seen enough of these cases to know where mine was headed) and anxious, and I just wanted to go home where I could feel safe in my own bed. But of course I knew what I had to do. Smart doctors were taking all of the mystery out of it, and even with my fear there was comfort in knowing that the ordeal of this failed pregnancy would soon be over.

Combined, my husband and I probably got a half hour of sleep all night. Once I got admitted to a room at 4 a.m., there were countless interruptions for bloodwork and questions about my health history and noises from the patient next door. Despite my having successfully conquered my fear of anesthesia for the egg retrieval in November, I still had reservations about having it again. I was also worried about potential complications from the surgery, including scarring (the one ovulation problem is more than enough, thank you very much). But I was well aware that the D&C was no longer optional.

The anesthesiologists, surgeon and attending physician trickled into my room once the light started filtering into my window. Even in my fatigue-, fear- and fever-induced delirium, I was adamant about their using as little anesthesia as possible. I am sure they all thought/knew I was a huge nutjob, but in the end the experience proved what you'd think I would have learned by now but so clearly have not: that my fearful anticipation is always, always worse than the reality of an experience. It's not like the D&C was fun -- I mean, I wouldn't necessarily want keepsake photos or anything -- but it was painless and over in a flash (I ended up with local and very light "conscious sedation"). And I instantly felt 1,000 times better.

I'm not sure yet what the big lesson is in all of this -- all of the physical and emotional pain of losing this pregnancy. I did learn that taking the miso*prostol to try to avoid surgery did nothing but prolong the inevitable and wreak havoc on my body. And that ER doctors are not the gentlest with a speculum (I mean, really. No pleasantries, all business. And ow.). I also learned that morphine is a very nice drug if you ever find yourself in the ER with excruciating cramping (ask for it by name). Maybe a bigger lesson will slowly come into focus.

There have been several points along the way of trying to conceive when I have thought that if I got pregnant then, I would be able to look back and think that getting there hadn't been so bad. That all of the pain and frustration and physical discomfort I'd endured would sort of fade away, as they say about the pain of childbirth. At this point, I can safely say that that seems like much less of a possibility. Still, as I look out on the snowy afternoon of this first day of 2009, finally feeling like myself again, it does seem possible that someday -- and maybe someday just around the corner -- these days might seem like long, long ago.

Spoke Too Soon (Or, Why My Girl Parts Deserve a Caribbean Vacation)

2008-12-30T08:38:00.004-05:00

You know how in my last post I made it sound like the miso*prostol was not as bad as you might think? How it seemed like the process was more or less over and I was feeling relatively fine physically?

When am I going to learn to keep my mouth shut?

Miscarriage is definitely one of those things that you really can't go into detail about in any kind of social situation. Some might call it bathroom talk. So, despite knowing that readers of this blog would have a higher threshold for hearing about it (at this point, it takes a lot to gross me out), I will spare you the specifics. Suffice it to say I've been up all night with some of the worst pain I've ever experienced. I don't even think you can call what I had "cramps" -- I think what I felt was in some sort of new category. And I sincerely feared bleeding to death in my sleep.

I think my reproductive organs have decided to go on strike. They can't take it anymore. And I don't blame them. They deserve a break, and so do I. My husband and I were considering booking a last-minute (warm weather) vacation later this week, but the way things are going it's now out of the question. I feel like crap and I don't want to be far away from doctors and medical facilities that I know and trust.

It's not fair. Such a juvenile, simple-minded protest, but I keep going back to it. It's not fair that my body is doing all of this work to get rid of something dead instead of bringing something to life. It's not fair that this miscarriage is happening in two parts -- the failed pregnancy with no end in sight. It's not fair that my husband and I have this rare and much-needed opportunity to get away and recuperate, but the miscarriage won't let us.

It's not fair. The girl parts and I, we need a break.

In with the New

2008-12-28T20:24:00.002-05:00

Christmas always seems to me a time of renewal. Of course the purest symbolism of the holiday is about hope and better things to come. And I think there's something about bringing in new things that always makes me want to clean out my closets, recycle old magazines, make bags of donations to charity and start fresh. This Christmas, with all of its complication and sadness and upheaval, is no exception. I long for a clean slate, to say goodbye to what's been and look forward to possibilities ahead.

It's been quite a journey from the shock of my first "bad" ultrasound to here. First, I had to endure a second ultrasound to confirm what we already knew. Unfortunately, through this experience I also learned what my due date would have been -- knowledge I had been trying desperately to avoid. I have no need for such a specific trigger for suffering. But now I know, and rather than share it here I am just going to try to commit it to that part of the brain where old algebra equations and what you ate for dinner last Monday go to disappear. Try.

Once we had this confirmation, I realized how ready I was for this process to be over. There was something so deeply sad about feeling pregnancy symptoms because my body still had not clued into the failure of this pregnancy -- and I wanted to release it from its duty as soon as possible. So I called my clinic and asked for the medication they use to enduce miscarriage. I thought they would just call in the prescription to the pharmacy. Not sure why I thought this would be this simple when nothing in this process ever is, but once again I was wrong.

Apparently because the drug is also used for voluntary termination of pregnancy, I had to go in and see a doctor to get it. And because there were no doctors that day at the local clinic where I'm usually seen, I had to go to the big hospital downtown. This created a few problems. One, I had no idea where I was going within the endless halls of that place, since the only other times I've been there were for my retrieval and transfer, in a different wing. So my husband and I proceeded to get very lost. That, combined with my alarm over taking this medication and my empty stomach (note to self: eat lunch before dealing with major life events), led to a massive anxiety attack. I was sure that I would become the first patient to require care in both the IF clinic and the cardiac care unit on the same day. But I recovered with some Sun Chips and deep breaths outside, and after a few minutes felt ready to go back in. When we finally found the right elevator for the clinic, the security guard stopped us. The floors above were on "lockdown," and I overheard his security guard friend on the radio say that someone had a nurse pinned against the wall. Perfect.

Once we were allowed upstairs, after an hour wait we saw a 12-year-old doctor (husband's assessment) for the prescription. I asked a ton of questions, and then waited some more while she went and got another doctor and the printed prescriptions. Apparently, because my doctor wasn't in, one of her senior colleagues was supposed to come in and make sure I wasn't overly depressed or confused or something. Unfortunately, the doctor available to do this was the one in the practice who missed bedside manner training day, and he proceeded to tell me that I still might need a d&c after taking this medicine. Thanks, buddy. That's great news, because clearly I'm looking for all the torture I can get, and more to worry about until then.

The next morning, Christmas Eve, I woke up and, hands shaking, took the miso*prostol, anti-nausea medicine and 800 mg of Motrin and settled in on the couch, prepared for the worst. What started happening six hours later was not pretty or painless, and I definitely wouldn't recommend this drug for recreational use or anything, but for me it turned out to be a very good alternative to surgery (note to anyone considering taking it: DO NOT read the horror stories available out there via Dr. Google). It was more or less over by Christmas morning, and an ultrasound on Friday showed that I'm now clear to just wait for my period to come (I have been assured it will once the hcg drops to zero) or the follow-up visit with my doctor scheduled for Jan. 12, whichever comes first.

There is so much I could say about a Christmas Eve spent on the couch having a medically induced miscarriage while my incredible husband baked pies (yes, you read that right) in the kitchen for my family get-togethers. About the exhausting effort of wearing a brave smile on Christmas so I wouldn't dissolve into a tearful heap over what might have been that day. It was deeply sad and painful in all the ways you can imagine.

But it happened -- for whatever reason, this miscarriage on Christmas has become part of my story -- and somehow, I survived. Crying more tears and feeling more anger over the unfairness of it all will not change this, and though the tears and the anger will still continue to come (they did today with surprising force), my overwhelming desire now is to move forward, out of this time and place. I want to feel hopeful once again that what's ahead is better than what I've left behind. I have to believe that. It's the only way I can keep going.

A Big Misconception

2008-12-18T21:39:00.003-05:00

I got an email from Joe Biden today. Well, me and millions of other people. I was sitting at my desk (Yes, you read that right: my desk. Somehow, for the past two days, I have hauled my sadsack self to the office. I don't know if the effort has been worth it, to be honest. I'm exhausted.) when I noticed the flashing red light of my BlackBerry signaling a new message to my webmail account. Since Monday, whenever that happens it feels like a beam from my own personal lighthouse. A lifeline, a message of comfort from a friend who knows what's going on. Something to hold onto. Something to help me breathe. But when I opened the message, it turned out to be from the VP-elect. The subject? "A Big Misconception."

Indeed.

This week has been like one of those disturbing, vivid dreams where people, places and events that shouldn't go together are suddenly intertwined, nothing makes sense and you can't wait to wake up. Except I can't. I feel doomed to spend the rest of my days in this time and place, mourning something too early to be a real baby but too late to be just another failed cycle. I am a zombie, a shell, a shadow that walks and talks and eats and types but doesn't really register feeling unless I'm crying or talking about my miscarriage.

And yet, it still hasn't really happened. One of the things you do not know until you go through this (because, really, they're not going to describe this to you when they tell you you're pregnant -- although, with miscarriage rates what they are, I'm thinking they'd be better off doing just that) is that the options you have when they discover that your fetus is not developing ("fetal demise" is what the report on the table in front of my doctor on Monday so delicately called it -- one of the many things I am sorry I saw that day) absolutely, horrifically suck. You can either stop your progesterone and wait for it to happen naturally, take a pill that essentially puts you into a violent form of labor to expel the pregnancy or have surgery in which they suck it out of you. Oh yeah, awesome choices. Just the kind of thing I wanted to be weighing this holiday season. Mistletoe, chestnuts roasting on an open fire and how to terminate a non-viable pregnancy.

The problem, I am learning, with conception is that it can end in misconception. And that feels so much heavier to bear, so much harder to ever get over, than no conception at all.

Too Good to Be True

2008-12-15T20:20:00.002-05:00

I just knew that if I dared to think for even a second that this might work out, that this positive pregnancy test and good initial scan might lead to a second good ultrasound and -- imagine -- a real live baby, that something would happen to prove that hope foolish. That I would then be left not just with a broken heart, but with a broken heart and vivid images in my head of those moments of hope, doomed to play over and over and over until I feel like I can't breathe.

Today was going to be either one of the best days of my life, or one of the worst. As the ultrasound tech started the scan that would seal the fate of this day and this pregnancy, my heart hammered in my chest and I struggled to catch my breath. I yearned for her to turn the screen toward me, to reassure me that there was a live baby growing in there. But she didn't. I looked at my husband, who raised his eyebrows and looked hopefully at the screen. I thought it was a good sign -- he looked positive -- but I later learned it was because he wasn't sure what he was looking at and thought the sighting of the sac was good news. Nothing -- nothing -- could have prepared me for what I heard next: that there was still a gestational sac, but nothing inside. No heartbeat. No baby. Nothing. Turns out, today was going to be one of the worst days of my life.

I wish there was something someone could do or say to take this searing pain away. Some medication they could give me to let me leave this head and the raw sadness for just a while. I want to box up all of these feelings and send it away somewhere so I never have to know them again. I don't even want to write this post, these words, because someday when it doesn't hurt so much I don't even want to remember how it feels to be me at this particular moment. I'm afraid of muscle memory, afraid this sorrow is leaving some indelible mark on me that might never fully disappear.

I was handled well today -- they did everything right and my amazing doctor said all the right things. She just couldn't say the words I most wanted to hear. No one can. And I literally don't know how to live with this kind of pain.

All in

2008-12-09T16:30:00.004-05:00

On Friday, we upped the ante. My favorite ultrasound technician (never an unsolicited comment, always the right amount of small talk) called my name in the waiting room at my clinic, and this time my husband went in with me. Because instead of looking at ovaries and follicles, we were looking for a developing baby. And before I even had time to get nervous, she found one: there, on the fuzzy black and white ultrasound screen, was the loveliest black blob I've ever seen in my life. I found out later, when the nurse called, that everything about this splotch/blob/black hole (as my husband so delicately called it) was 100% normal for this stage. Which means I should be able to relax a little, right? Wrong. So wrong.

That ultrasound raised the stakes. We're no longer talking about the success or failure of a cycle. We're talking about a real pregnancy. A real developing baby, albeit a sesame-seed sized one, that I saw with my own eyes on a fuzzy screen. And all the hope and the early plans that go along with it, that I've dared to make mentally for this developing being in my rare moments of sheer optimism.

I'm all in on this. And there's nothing left to do but wait and see what the next hand looks like next Monday, when we peer at that screen again, this time hoping, praying that we see a heartbeat.

Bye-Bye Betas

2008-12-02T21:51:00.003-05:00

Today's result: 1,236. I've crossed the finish line on betas, and the bruise on my hand from the first one has finally, finally healed. Thank you, God. And goodbye to all that.

Next up: a 3-D form of terror. First ultrasound scheduled for Friday morning. I'm bracing myself, though I'm also trying to exhale a bit since the next two days will be free from any kind of check on whether I'm still pregnant, and becoming more so. I need to seize the opportunity to stop being in a constant state of alarm, if only for 48 hours.

So far, pregnancy doesn't feel like pregnancy at all -- or at least not what I anticipated it would feel like when I thought about it the thousands of times that I did. The symptoms I've had so far have been subtle and not at all pointing undeniably to a bun in the oven. So the only proof I have are these numbers which mercifully have done exactly what they're supposed to do. Here's hoping the ultrasounds follow suit, and that I can start to feel something more tangible about this pregnancy, something to hold on to, something that makes it feel more real. Something that gives me permission to believe in it and -- imagine this -- enjoy it. (Just please let this something not be violent morning sickness as I loathe, and actually deeply fear, throwing up.)

Test. Worry. Repeat.

2008-12-01T21:00:00.000-05:00

Some early pregnancies go like this: blood test, yay! we're pregnant, let's start planning the nursery. Mine, so far, has gone like this: blood test, euphoria, anxiety. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Still, I am encouraged by yesterday's result: 622, again nearly doubling from two days before. Apparently I need to keep going in until I reach a beta of over 1,000, at which point we can do an early ultrasound. So hopefully, hopefully with tomorrow's beta I can officially be done with this every-other-day blood draw exercise. Fingers crossed.

Today's Forecast: Mostly Sunny

2008-11-28T08:59:00.003-05:00

Pregnancy is starting to feel like the weather in New England: You never quite know what will happen next, which makes trying to plan anything a challenge. And no matter how much of an "instinct" you think you have about what's coming, you quickly realize it's totally beyond your understanding or control.

This morning I went to the clinic for my third beta, my sense of dread having become an all-too-familiar sidekick as I entered the office. The nurses were even more understanding and sympathetic than usual about the difficulties of waiting, assuring me that this was all beyond my control, that they're looking for data points on what's happening and that's all we can do. They promised to walk my blood downstairs right away and call as soon as humanly possible. I left exhausted, my body and mind heavy with the consuming worry of the past two days. Once again, I was ready for the sad call. Every instinct in me said this was not going to turn out well.

Once again, I was wrong. They called, mercifully, within an hour. And once again, instead of the dreaded words I expected to hear, I heard reassuring news: my hcg has nearly doubled in two days, increasing from 183 to 337. They are "happy" with this result. It reflects an upward trend, well within the range they like to see.

They want me to come back on Sunday morning to check it again. I so wish I could be a "normal" pregnant person now, free from these betas as a reminder of how tenuous everything seems when you've tried so hard to get here and are desperate for it to work out. Free to just relax and enjoy it, without any concrete reason to think it won't turn out well. I wish I could feel 100% optimistic right now, instead of just strongly encouraged. But for the next two days I am going to try and tell myself that the forecast from here looks mostly sunny. It's all I can do.

Numbed by Numbers

2008-11-27T09:00:00.003-05:00

I'd been told that the angst of infertility doesn't end with a positive pregnancy test. But I guess I thought once I heard about mine I'd be able to let go of some of the worry and pessimism that had set in after so many failed treatment cycles and let myself enjoy it. I was wrong.

Yesterday's beta showed an hcg level of 183, which is about a 60% increase over my level of 112 on Monday. I could look at this two different ways.

If I had known nothing about hcg levels in early pregnancy when I finally got the call from the nurse at 2 p.m. yesterday afternoon (having mentally concocted worse and worse scenarios the longer I waited), I probably wouldn't be that worried. She said a 60% increase is "fine" and that they wanted to see me back on Friday morning "just to make sure everything is on track." Not so bad, right? A consult with Dr. Google (Yes, I admit it: I could not resist the urge. I am weak.) confirmed that in a normal pregnancy beta hcg levels double every 48-72 hours, and an increase of 60% or above over 48 hours is still considered normal.

My husband says I should focus on all of this. It did increase, and it increased within a range that could mean everything is a-ok.

And I've tried. I've tried to repeat those things in my mind, to focus on the fact that, for this moment, I am still pregnant. That I even can type those words is completely amazing to me.

But that's what scares me the most. These stakes are the highest yet. And that is why I can't shake this horrible feeling. Can't stop remembering that originally they'd said they wanted to see that number double in 48 hours. Can't imagine what will happen to me if something happens to this pregnancy. Can't understand how I am supposed to survive the next 24 hours until the next beta.

Pins and Needles

2008-11-24T20:14:00.002-05:00

This morning, after a sleepless night (and two weeks of nonstop anxiety and obsession), I walked, still symptomless, into the infertility clinic for my pregnancy test, my sense of impending doom growing with every step. I dreaded the day ahead, the call, the tears.

My name was called by the one medical assistant in the practice who can never, ever find my veins, which only darkened my mood. She asked me if I felt any symptoms. Not a one, I said. No sore boobs? she asked (really). Nope. This is just a guess, but maybe if she spent more energy focused on my veins and less trying to "diagnose" me, she may not have had to do what she did next: use my hand. If you've never had this experience, don't start anytime soon. Because let me tell you something about the top of your hand: It doesn't like to be stuck with needles. It hurts. Also, it's gross. It may have been the only time I've ever felt lightheaded about giving blood.

By the time I got back to my car, I was a sobbing mess. My blood -- the answer -- had been left behind and all I could do now was drive away and wait. The stinging in my hand felt like insult on injury and I decided, right there, that if there was ever a day to work from home this was it. Crying hysterically at work may not be career suicide but it sure doesn't help anything.

I settled into my spot on the couch and tried to remain calm. My husband, home waiting to go to his late-morning doctor's appointment, was in full keep-her-happy mode, making me a snack and doing pretty much anything I asked him to. He was sitting with me on the couch when the phone rang, much earlier than I'd expected. As my hands trembled and my mind braced for the bad news I thought I'd hear, I answered it -- and instead heard three words that I truly thought would never, ever be used in reference to me: Congratulations. You're pregnant.

Some (not nearly all) of the shock has worn off. I am now a whirlwind of conflicting emotion. There are many, many steps in front of us, I know. Many miles to go before we sleep. And yet, there is this victory. After a year of gut-wrenching, mind-spinning, heartbreaking effort with little to cheer us on, no incremental wins, just the head-down, blinders-on quest for a positive pregnancy test, we finally got one. I'm going to sit here for a minute and soak it in. And thank those reading this for every one of your words of encouragement, which mean more than you know.

Holding out Hope

2008-11-22T15:29:00.002-05:00

This two-week wait has been a rough road peppered with land mines. The end of it is near, and I'm not sure I like where it leads. Right now, all signs -- or lack thereof -- point to nowhere good. Still, I'm trying to keep my eyes on the road and pressing on, because I guess I know somewhere deep down (and therefore not always accessible by my overactive mind) that even if I'm not there yet, I may be headed in the right direction.

Two weeks after they put real, live, fully-formed embryos in my uterus, I feel absolutely nothing. Nada. I have heard countless women tell me that they, too, had no symptoms and dreaded the call from the nurse after their test -- but turned out to be pregnant. I have saved those friends' emails and read them obsessively, poring over every word like a heartsick teenager with a text-messaged love confession from her crush. But these messages from real people who have achieved real pregnancies do nothing to appease my growing sense of doom. Logically, I hear what they're saying. But logic can never shut the other part -- the worrying part -- of my brain up. Did they really not have one little inkling that something was going on? Couldn't I just have a sore boob for good measure? A little nausea for hope's sake?

Along the way, it appears I've been tested by the infertility imps just looking for a poor sucker to prey upon. That cute gifts catalogue I thought would be filled with unique holiday ideas? Also contained a baby onesie that read, "I was worth the wait." After I recovered from that hysterical crying jag I went into my office to search for something and found, instead, the stuffed dinosaur I bought when I thought this would be easy, because it was the softest toy in the land and I thought my baby should own it. Apparently, nowhere is safe for the infertile anymore -- not even her own house.

Another thing that was not helpful was my co-worker bursting into the cubicle where I was talking with a colleague and waving around the card she got for the birth of her granddaughter, which featured a disturbing photo of a baby's head being held by two hands, taken from the top of the head (Note to everyone I know: If I ever find myself holding a baby that is mine and am lucky enough to get a congratulations card from you, please do not pick the one featuring one or more babies in unnatural or vaguely humiliating positions or outfits. This includes being dressed up like flowers or animals. This practice is not okay and to my mind should be banned by law.). I'm not sure what her point was in showing this to us, although my sensitive/vaguely human side does see that one might be excited about a granddaughter. But still. I just really, really do not need to be reminded about my infertility while I'm at work trying to forget about it. Can we all agree to that? Yeah, thanks.

The other award for unhelpfulness goes to Dr. Google. Sure, doctor, you are always there -- 24/7 I know I can count on you when I want to fulfill my sick urges to search for "no symptoms after IVF" or "can you push out your embryos by coughing." You tell me what I want to hear, but my friends have told me you're unreliable. They question where your ivy league diploma is. So I'm quitting you. For now.

So here I am, somewhat exhausted by these two weeks and, in a way, just thankful that the wait will soon be over. On Monday morning, I will find out whether my first IVF, the thing that was supposed to be the holy grail, my golden ticket to motherhood, worked. So much depends on a positive beta. I don't know what life looks like beyond a negative, and I don't want to know. I don't know what there will be to hold on to. So for now -- for tonight and tomorrow -- I am holding out hope.

Classifieds: Womb for Rent

2008-11-15T10:40:00.000-05:00

Available:

One-room womb. Cozy accommodations. All board, including meals, provided with 9-month lease. Monthly rent is free. Plenty of room for one or two. Well-appointed and super deluxe. Environment particularly supportive of personal development and growth. A gem!

House rules: no wild parties. Must agree to an uneventful, painless eviction when lease expires.

Must be at least six cells to apply. Interested? Move right in and make yourself at home. (Please.)

Buns in the Oven

2008-11-10T17:06:00.004-05:00

I was a bit of a late bloomer myself. My first bona fide boyfriend arrived on the scene at about 16, and I didn't start getting really good grades until college. So it comes as no surprise that the two embryos they transferred yesterday are slow growers -- six cells each, to be exact. But you know, those embies are 6 cells going on 6000. I can just feel it. I hope to confirm this with my pregnancy test on the 24th (let me just reiterate my call for more advanced technology allowing for earlier post-fertility treatment pregnancy tests...come on, genius scientists across the world). In the meantime, all I can do is wait. And obsess (Can I go to the bathroom? Cough? Laugh? Are they still in there?). And obsess some more.

There are a number of ways I can look at this. The doctor who did my transfer yesterday did not seem concerned by the slow growth, and cited a couple of times the "excellent" pregnancy rates the clinic has for my age group. And I have heard and read several times now the fact that perfect looking embryos do not always produce babies and by the same token, imperfect looking embryos often do. No one seems to be at all gloom and doom about this news -- but me.

The problem is, we now have a photo. Before I got over my mental and physical stumbling blocks and did this IVF cycle, it felt like I had nothing but a wing and a prayer going into the two-week wait and, when those cycles failed, dashed hopes and despair for the intangible loss. But now, there is a photo. I can see what they've put inside of me, and it is real. And if it/they do not stick, it will mean the loss of that something real.

It's not that I wish I had refused the photo. The realness of it also means that the opportunity here -- the chance for something real to develop from all of this effort -- is that much greater. Plus, don't tell me you don't think it would be cool to show future children what they looked like in a petri dish. It brings a whole new dimension to parental guilt trips ("I have been looking after your wellbeing since you were just six cells!"), doesn't it?

So the wait has begun. Some moments I think it seems like an eternity; others, not so bad. Some moments bring hope; others, pessimism. And while I can look at the photo of my little six-cell slow bloomers for inspiration, I can also look at my post-embryo transfer discharge sheet for some comic relief:

"Progesterone: Crinone - one application per vagina tonight. Tomorrow change to morning administration."

(I don't know about you, but one is about all I can handle these days.)

We Came, We Saw, We Fertilized

2008-11-08T10:30:00.003-05:00

I did it. All it took was countless words of reassurance from my husband, friends, doctors and nurses, two IV attempts, some really strong anti-anxiety medicine, and my unyielding desire for a baby. Oh, and conquering a long-held phobia of anesthesia.

It got off to a rocky start. First, a nurse came out to the waiting area and told me they were running about an hour behind. Nothing like an extra hour to sit still with your belly empty and your mind full of worst-case scenarios. By the time they finally called me back for the pre-op stuff I was an absolute basket case. Their two long attempts at getting an IV in me didn't help. What finally did help was whatever brilliant anti-anxiety medication they put in the successfully placed IV. Thank you, Mr./Ms. Scientist who made that stuff! And goodnight everyone! My husband knew it was working when I asked him, not quietly, if he thought my surgical hair bonnet was "sexy." It was like gulping down five consecutive glasses of Veuve Clicquot on an empty stomach. From there, I remember being wheeled into the OR, looking up at all of the faces around me and trying but failing to form a coherent sentence, and my legs being placed in the crazy hanging stirrups. That's it.

Next thing I knew, they were telling me it was done and I was wheeled back to the recovery area, where my husband soon arrived (directly from the "men's lounge"). I asked the nurses repeatedly whether they were sure they had really done it (I give them major credit for not telling me to shut up). I was quite groggy and in a lot of pain, but mostly I felt this tremendous relief and gratitude that it was over. The embryologist came out and told me they had indeed gotten 18 eggs. I smiled, and after a short recovery got dressed, came home (I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy the wheelchair ride to the car -- in my groggy state I felt like Ms. America of the hospital), had a few bites of soup and went straight to bed by 7:30 p.m.

Yesterday came the call that I'd dreamed of receiving when we started IVF and before I was sure I would get through the egg retrieval: the fertilization report. Out of 18 eggs, 9 fertilized. In a dish somewhere in the IVF suite at a nearby academic medical center, we have nine fertilized eggs. For the first (known) time, we've actually put egg and sperm together -- and something (nine somethings) is developing from it. I probably shouldn't be this excited about it -- after all, it's the first of many, many hurdles to climb before I am holding a baby. But when your quest for a baby goes back several years and the past twelve months have been filled with pills and shots and ultrasounds and bad news, the positive movement toward a real developing baby is something of a thrill.

To get here, I've had to climb perhaps the biggest hurdle of all: fear. The egg retrieval was a bravery test, a question of whether my will to have a baby could win over the convincing strength of a childhood phobia. I passed this one, and we have nine developing embryos to prove it. One or two of the best looking ones will be transferred tomorrow. Let's hope the trend continues.

(Thank you again to all of you for rooting me on throughout this process!)

Numbers Game

2008-11-06T11:00:00.000-05:00

Egg retrieval: 2:15 p.m. today

Level of anxiety: astronomical

# of follicles (estimated): 18-20

# of irritable people in my house doing the IM trigger shot at 2:15 a.m. yesterday: 2

# of expletives flying around during the process: 15

# of asses in pain as a result: 1

# of times I screamed into my pillow after the phone call in which my mother said, "I didn't realize it [infertility] affected so many things" in reference to my decision to leave candy on the porch rather than answering the door for trick-or-treaters: 10

# of ACLs torn by my husband playing soccer last week, in case I didn't have enough to worry about: 1

# of weeks until his surgery: 4-5

# of times I've thought of calling off the egg retrieval due to severe anxiety over anesthesia: 200

# of times I've realized that is not an option: 200

# of hours I need to go without food before the retrieval: 14

# of fattening, indulgent foods I will eat as reward for making it through: 5-10

# of times I've felt immensely grateful for all of the supportive calls, emails and comments from good friends and fellow bloggers: countless

Fear and Bitterness in IF Land

2008-10-29T21:19:00.002-04:00

A lot has happened in the last week, the sum total of which is a general feeling of yuckyness and funk from which I am not sure how to recover. Suggestions are welcome.

First, my brother got married. Typing that as a negative makes me feel like a special kind of selfish and evil -- who sees her brother's wedding as a reason for bitterness? -- but there it is. Weddings, frankly, are not friendly to the IF crowd. All that talk about building their own family, looking forward to children, yadda yadda. It is all just so hopeful, it brings my back to my own wedding day when I was fresh faced and optimistic. And of course it now feels like there is this imaginary race toward birthing the first grandchildren. The multitude of questions I got from family and old friends about our "family plans" (this will never cease to amaze me) were also not helpful to my mood.

As Sunday night approached, with Monday morning's baseline -- the official start of my first IVF cycle -- hanging out there ominously, I grew more and more restless and less and less tolerable. You might think that by 32 I'd have learned how to manage my emotions and how not to convert anxiety over significant life events into virtual meltdowns over things like a missing sweater or a show that didn't TiVo, but you'd be wrong. And my husband (who, miraculously, still lives with me) would be the first to explain to you just how wrong you were.

Here's what did not do anything to improve things: waiting all afternoon to get the call with my baseline results, finally calling them in a panic at 4 p.m. when I still hadn't heard, finally getting a voicemail back at 4:25 when I really thought they'd forgotten about me, and having their message be different from my original instruction sheet (the Menopur that was on the original sheet was not in their verbal instructions). After several calls including a first-time-ever page to the on-call doctor and much hand-wringing over the confusion ("Is this the thing I'll look back on -- why did I not press the issue on the Menopur? What if it was the thing that would have made it work?"), I learned that it was simple human error. Apparently the order was never in my doctor's notes, and the nurse who wrote the instructions had included it completely inadvertently. Which makes me feel both better and worse, but I'm trying to move on.

All of this other angst is only aggravating my elephant-in-the-room anxiety over the impending egg retrieval. I simply cannot will myself to stop obsessing about it. It is the fear of the unknown -- I had the same consuming fears about my HSG test nearly a year ago, which turned out to be a breeze for me -- that is my worst enemy. I have learned to feel brave about everything else, from taking shots to all the morning ultrasounds and blood draws to the nurses telling me I'm not pregnant to relatives' voices asking me when I will be. I need to find a way to be brave about this part too.

Dear Infertile Friend (You'll Never Believe What My Kid Did!)

2008-10-18T14:36:00.006-04:00

So I'm sitting at my desk on Friday, minding my business and writing remarks for our upcoming fundraising dinner, when my little Outlook window shows I have a new message. One look at the subject and the bottom falls out of my stomach. It's just one word, the name of the daughter of a friend of mine (let's call her Kylie). Though every instinct tells me to ignore it -- even delete it, send it to a cyberspace black hole filed under "emails about children insensitively sent to infertile people" -- I open it. It's a story, sent to about five friends of this friend including me, about Kylie. I will spare you the details (I already shared them with two IF friends and subsequently felt huge guilt for subjecting them to it -- I should not spread the suffering around on this one), but generally, it's a saccharine story involving Kylie and her discovery of the moon the evening before.

I had several thoughts at once. First, I will give my friend the benefit of the doubt. Though I distinctly recall a get-together with another friend in which I alluded to there being "challenges" in my reproductive department (And honestly, I have been married for eight years. Eight years! She has known me since junior high and knows I love children. Is sensing that I am infertile such a leap? Maybe I should wear a button or a t-shirt.), I have never had a frank discussion with her about what I'm going through. Though I would love the comfort of confiding in her, her mother is known as our hometown's gossip and the risk that it could slip out and get to her (and the loss of control over my story that would ensue) is not worth the reward. So I will assume that it never occurred to her that it could hurt me, her friend who is scared senseless about going through her first IVF cycle.

Still, why would I get this email at all? Having never been pregnant, I have never even come close to being inducted into "the club," so maybe someone can explain it to me. What happens to you where you think this kind of story will be appreciated by others who do not answer when this child says "mommy?" What makes you think it will be entertaining for them?

Playing devil's advocate, I can hear critics of this post say that I am cold, that we're talking about a child, that it's human nature to find children adorable and entertaining. And I say that is BS. Do I find it awe-inspiring that my friends have these kids who are walking and talking little versions of them? Absolutely. Am I so happy for them and the family lives they've been able to create? You betcha. Am I going to find every excruciating detail of said family lives interesting? Not any more than they would find a play-by-play of my 2 p.m. meeting interesting. But somehow, when you're talking about a child, it makes it okay to tell these stories, even to those who might be hurt by them. The implication seems to be that we should just grin and bear it. That to protest is to seem like a kind of misanthrope, a cold-hearted grinch.

There are baby and pregnancy references everywhere -- ours is a baby-obsessed culture. You can do your best to shield yourself from them, but short of never watching TV, reading a magazine or book, or going to the mall (Can somebody tell me how many more fancy baby clothes stores this planet needs?), you can't hide completely from them. But when it comes to your friends, don't you have the right to expect that they'll spare you the kind of cyber hand grenade that was the email I got on Friday?

I'm tired of trying to be brave, of swallowing the tears. Tired of bearing the burden. Part of me wants to play the infertile card, to tell these friends that I'm going through it and ask that they leave me off these emails (The snarky side of me wants to email back one word: "Unsubscribe."). But I am still fiercely protective of my story, and the vulnerability I know I will feel after delivering such a response always keeps me from hitting send. And I guess there is some self-critical part of me that thinks it's a little selfish to ask them not to talk about their kids while I don't have them -- will it be okay for them to do so when I do? If I don't have a summer home, is it not okay for my friend to talk about her beach house?

The fact is, I do have friends with kids who talk about them in a way that does not stir this kind of angst (I can think of a few who read this blog, and it's important to me that they know this is not a blanket criticism of any friend of mine ever uttering a word about their offspring). I don't know if it's their general sensitivity to my condition, their restraint when it comes to the frequency of these comments, or the way in which they communicate these details (no "e-bombs," and often a question first about whether I am in a mood to hear them), but the combined effect is that it is okay -- in fact, it gives me hope that someday I will be sitting in their shoes, listening to some child of mine yammer on about what the opposite of "raining cats and dogs" is. But I promise, if and when that day comes, I will not share whatever cute thing s/he says with you unless I sense that you really, really want to know.

(How do you handle babygrams from friends?)

Someone to Watch over Me

2008-10-15T19:23:00.006-04:00

When I was little, I loved to fall asleep in the living room with the TV on and others still watching. It was comforting and cozy to think that life was still going on -- and that it would still be there when I woke up. That I would open my eyes and find not a dark, empty room but life and warmth. In the same way, I love hearing the silken voice of the announcer on the soft rock station (guilty pleasure) say, "Continuous soft rock all through the night," and (stay with me) waking up to the stock reports from Asian markets. It gives me the reassuring sense that the world is turning as planned, that others are keeping watch by night, that the sun will keep setting and rising on schedule. That, when I am just starting my Monday, people in Asia are already wrapping it up. Monday came and went on the other side of the world, and nothing catastrophic happened. They led the way and lived to tell about it. They were keeping watch.

I have never longed for this feeling more than now. I want someone to keep watch, to make sure my world keeps turning even when it feels like it's about to stop. To somehow keep me on course, to lead the way as I fumble in the dark.

This longing was sharpened yesterday as I shakily attempted to navigate the complex maze of IVF drugs and instructions. First, there was the realization that today, October 15, coincided with day 21 of my pill pack -- not day 23, as was written on my instruction sheet. Which direction should I follow -- the written date or the written pill pack day? The nurse I spoke with only complicated matters: the most important thing was that I overlap the pill and the Lupron for seven days. Since I was to stop the pill on 10/22, that meant I should start Lupron this morning. I thought that answered that -- until I consulted the calendar and realized that (and since math is not my strong suit, this took a few manual counts of the days) 10/15-10/22 actually equals eight days of medication. I called the nurse back and this time I stumped her. While I usually enjoy impressing with my sharpness -- who doesn't? -- it turns out that when it's a nurse in charge of the process that will create your baby in a lab, it doesn't quite provide the same thrill. She left a message for the original faulty instruction maker (who happens to be my favorite nurse so she gets some slack) to call me back today (I have started the Lupron).

Yesterday, take two: Having noticed the absence of a friendly UPS email telling me enough injectable drugs had arrived on my porch to feed a drug habit for a year, I called the pharmacy. The very earnest gentleman I spoke with looked up my account and assured me that, yes, my medications were just approved by insurance and would be delivered Wednesday afternoon. "Um, yeah, no," I told him. "I told you when I called Friday that I needed them today, as I start the Lupron in the morning." One messenger and one husband pulling into the driveway just in time to sign for it, and I had my medications. But, hello? Where is my infertility secretary and what has she been doing all day? She is so fired.

It's hard to keep up. It's exhausting to be vigilant, to make sure the drugs get into my body when they should. And to be confident that this process will go as intended, that my body will perform and create life out of this. To know that I can be sure and steady when I need to be. I want someone to keep track of the details, to give me comfort through the night. Someone to keep watch.

Falling for Hope

2008-10-10T20:32:00.004-04:00

There is something about fall that makes it easier to hope. Something about the crisp in the air that carries a sense of anticipation, a feeling that good things are just on the horizon. It makes me nostalgic for a time when this kind of weather would signal the need for school supplies, for Trapper Keepers and new corduroys and a glossy new lunchbox with the character du jour on the front of it. There was a sense of starting over, of wiping the slate clean, and this weather brings all of those memories rushing back. It makes me want to run out and buy number two pencils.

But it's harder now to think about what's ahead, because the stakes are so much higher. Gone are the days when my biggest problem is that I'm not crazy about my new math teacher. That my BFF isn't in the same homeroom. That my boyfriend is trying out for varsity track this year and may not have time to hang out.

On my drive to work, I look at the throngs of newly arrived students -- when you live in a college town it's impossible to avoid them -- and I just think, You don't know how lucky you are. Not that I would go back. I like being 32 and happily married and knowing now what I didn't know then. But would I escape from this limbo -- this time when I'm no longer a carefree 20-something with no real responsibilities but not yet a 30-something with the children I always knew for sure I would have by now -- if I could? Would I give up the burden of infertility and once again feel what it's like to live with unburdened hope ahead? In a heartbeat.

I don't know what to hope for anymore. As I prepare to start an IVF cycle -- something I swore I wouldn't do when we started this journey, before I felt the sting of failure and the irresistible allure of something bigger and better promising to deliver on my dream -- I am not sure if I dare to trust the better odds, the assurances that this is far superior to everything I've done before. In a way, it feels like I'm starting over, like this is where it might really get good. But I've been fooled into hoping before, and my horizon for hope beyond this is getting shorter and shorter.

I don't know what to hope for. So I'm trying to just enjoy the moments of this season that I adore, savoring the scent of dried leaves and apples and the veil of softer sunlight, and every so often, the sense it brings that something good might be just around the corner.

Dipping My Toe

2008-09-28T21:34:00.005-04:00

What I want to do is fast forward to the part where I get my happy ending. Where it's just me and him and our baby, living our normal life, and the scars of all of this failure and disappointment have faded to the lightest marks that you have to really squint at to see. Because right now, from where I'm sitting, I have nagging doubts about whether I'm cut out to get through what's in between.

Our meeting with Dr. A on Thursday confirmed what I felt after our first meeting: That she is the doctor that was meant to treat me at this time for this condition. Everything she says feels like it's part of the script for the movie, "What to Tell Good Egg to Calm Her Down and Give Her Hope." She told us that this past cycle was exactly what she was looking for (except for the not getting pregnant part). That she could certainly let us continue with injectible/IUI cycles to try to win the numbers game. But that, from a medical perspective, knowing the physical and mental toll this process takes, she would probably advise moving on. Bringing in the big guns. Going to the big show. IVF.

We knew going in that that was probably going to be her advice. And until I was sitting across from her I wasn't sure what my response would be. But as she said it, the failure of this last cycle still stinging, I knew she was right. Sure, we could keep trying the other way, and at some point we might actually get the result we want. But we could also trade in our cell phones for rotary. Sell our cars and get a couple of horses. Throw our iPods out the window and break out some 8-tracks. When there's better technology available to you, you use it. Because it's, well, better. Why should our quest for a baby be any different? I am ready to upgrade.

Still, I am, to put it mildly, apprehensive (some might say freaking out). Several things are overwhelming me at this moment. The first is the long list of instructions and new drugs that will be introduced to my babymaking regimen via this upgrade to IVF. I'd really gotten the injectible routine down, and there seem to be far too many opportunities amid this far more complex protocol for user error to come in to play.

There's also this feeling that I can't believe I'm here. Call me naive, in denial, whatever, but I really never expected to need this kind of intervention. Part of the blame goes to the OB/GYN I had when we first got married, who told me that the fix for my suspected PCOS would be, whenever I was ready, an easy course of "fertility lite" (Clomid) and voila: Pregnancy. Why wouldn't I believe him? Why would I imagine that years later we'd be knocking on the door of our last hope for biological conception? Despite the fact that it's been a long time since I lost that "infertility virginity," I guess part of me still mourns the fact that our baby will be created not on a fun evening with just the two of us and a bottle of wine, but with doctors and chemicals and stirrups. Needing IVF has brought that into sharp focus.

And of course, there's the thing I'd rather not mention but is the elephant in the room, the squeaky wheel in my head. My fear -- my phobia -- of anesthesia. Nothing like being pinned down on an operating table at the age of nine by insensitive doctors armed with a gas mask without having been prepared for said experience to really make a girl want to run screaming from the room whenever the words "surgical procedure" are uttered. Yes, I know they don't use the same general anesthesia they use for major surgery. And that I'm no longer nine years old. And that I'll only be out for 15-20 minutes. Doesn't help.

Still, I've dipped my toe in the IVF pond. And even with these doubts in my head begging me not to, I'm about to jump in.

Postcard from the Bell Jar

2008-09-23T15:38:00.003-04:00

Greetings from the saddest place I've been. It pretty much sucks and I don't wish you were here -- wouldn't wish this on anyone -- but I have discovered a few perks:

-I can indulge in nonstop emotional eating and still somehow lose weight. Is it nerves? Calories burned by nonstop crying? Who cares?
-My getting ready time in the morning has been cut significantly by my general lack of giving a damn what I look like.
-Similarly, I'm perfecting the whole Mary Kate Olsen vagabond look.
-I am acquiring a newfound understanding of the range of mind-numbing and often disgusting programming options (note to self: avoid the Discovery Channel at all costs) available on cable television.
-In a moment of economic crisis in our country, I am singlehandedly boosting the stock prices of companies that make Kleenex, Aleve, those stick-on headache patch thingys, wine, chocolate and refined (so not PCOS-approved) carb products.

So I guess every cloud really does have a silver lining. Which is good, because I've been here a few days and I don't yet see a way out.

A Lesson in Heartbreak

2008-09-20T15:57:00.008-04:00

I recently heard that when a female giraffe gives birth for the first time, she does so standing up -- and fifty percent of newborn giraffes will not survive the five-foot plummet to earth. So when she feels labor coming on for #2, she does what any concerned mother recalling the horror of losing her first baby would do: She lies down.

In the pursuit of a healthy baby, we all keep trying and looking for lessons and working to get it right. So tell me: What am I supposed to learn from my negative home pregnancy test this morning? Just tell me what it is I'm doing wrong, and I'll fix it. If someone could please just tell me how I can work harder, want it more, prove that I'm worthy, I'll do it. I. Will. Do. Anything.

I've been here before. I've seen this puffy face before, these raw, seared eyes. Felt simultaneously like eating everything in the house and never eating again. Had the odd sensation of being totally disconnected from the world, from life, and yet acutely aware of life's force -- pain, drama, feeling. Wanted to crawl out of this skin, out of this pain, away from this reality which can't be mine. Each time, the shocking sting has worn away. The brightness of each morning has seemed less offensive. Somehow, I have found my way back to hope. To the essential belief that one day I will look back and not only feel that this pain has been worth it, but need to struggle harder and harder to remember what it felt like at all.

This has happened to me every other time I've been here. But how many times do you have in you? What is to say that you can find your way back time and time and time again? How much is too much to bear? And how do you know when it's coming? When you're in it? Because right now, it feels like too much to bear. I am too far gone.

What am I supposed to learn from this?

Welcome to My World

2008-09-13T13:33:00.004-04:00

Ooh, was that a twitch in my uterus? I think I just felt my right boob tingle, too. Let me go read what twoweekwait.com has to say about it. Let's see...okay, so it sounds like if you have any of the following you might be pregnant: afternoon fatigue, morning sluggishness. Pain or cramping anywhere down there. An intense crying jag upon watching a sad movie. A canker sore. Dizziness. Irritability. Hunger. Anything weird happening to your boobs. A stuffy nose. A runny nose. A general feeling of restlessness. Having to pee a lot/badly. A good vibe. A bad vibe. A headache. Anything at all that you happen to notice about your body or the way it functions.

Hmmmm. That was helpful.

The feeling is gone anyway. There's no way I'm pregnant. I am a miserable failure at all things reproduction. I am going to become one of those old ladies who collects cats/old newspaper clippings/knit doilies because she has no children or grandchildren to keep her busy. What a sad, sad existence. I can't believe this is happening to me.

Wait a minute, was that a wave of nausea? I know it's early for that, but let me go see how many people felt it at 6dpIUI.

How, my friends, am I going to survive another 10 days of this?

Spin Me Right Round, Baby

2008-09-08T20:27:00.005-04:00

After all of the shots, the trips to the clinic, the ultrasounds and blood draws and phone calls from nurses, it seems incongruous that the final act of an IUI cycle is a five-minute procedure which feels like nothing more than a pap smear, a 15-minute wait on the table and a hurry-on-your-way. Talk about anti-climactic. It's like training for a marathon, running it and then coming home not to a congratulations party with all your friends but to a night of sitting your couch watching PBS while eating dry toast. You think, was that it?

The silence that follows the initial flurry of activity is deafening. Because no matter how stressful it is to anticipate how many follicles will show up on the screen in the morning and what the nurse might say when she calls you in the afternoon, at least you are taking action, doing something. It feels like progress. You can have hope, because your chance is still ahead of you, unmarred by the doubts in your head and the symptoms -- or lack thereof-- in your body. And the idea that in the moments, the hours and the days that follow there is not some definitive sign, some message from the heavens, some clear and unmistakable symptom that tells you whether you are or are not in fact pregnant as a result -- it seems impossibly cruel.

This is what brings you down from the high of finally reaching the end of a cycle, successfully, with two eggs to fertilize, to the angst-filled low of the two-week wait. It's the emotional tail-chasing that really gets to you. In no time at all, I go from a mantra of "I am going to be a mother. This could really work," to waving the white flag, ready to accept the defeat of another failed cycle. The disbelieving voice in my head says that I would feel it in my bones if it had worked. That the IUI was poorly timed, that I should have done two. That the sperm count was too low. That I've been too tense. Too pessimistic. Thought too much about it. Thinking that, I try to push myself back to optimistic -- or at least neutral -- ground. Around and around it goes.

Despite my best efforts, my prayers, my good luck charms, I can't seem to settle into this two-week wait. I know that some women are able to look at the wait as two weeks of assuming, against all odds, that they are pregnant. Seems like an unattainable ideal rife with so much potential disappointment. But maybe if I can find a way to stop my head from spinning I can at least inch a little bit closer to the possibility.

The Secret Life of an Egg

2008-09-06T16:00:00.000-04:00

What do you suppose eggs do between trigger and release? Do you think they put on their finest suits and dresses to get ready for the big show (I think mine go for Armani -- classic, sophisticated, not too trendy)? Do they have one last champagne fete to celebrate their imminent release? Break out maps and compasses and plot their journey from ovary to fallopian tube? Read advice books on the best way to attract a sperm?

I hope mine are doing all of the above. I hope they are type A, overachieving eggs -- the kind that go to class early and always do the extra credit question. I hope that, whatever they are doing right now, they are the kind that get me a baby.

Trigger Happy

2008-09-05T18:23:00.004-04:00

After almost a year of fumbling toward pregnancy, the number of times I actually have had a statistically significant shot at it is disproportionately low at just three. It's par for the course when the diagnosis is ovulation-related, I know, but it's a troubling fact when so much effort and angst is poured into every cycle. So when I reach the finish line, when I actually have a chance, when pregnancy feels like more than a pipe dream, it is an important victory.

This cycle turned out to be exactly what my new doctor promised: slow. Only over the past few days did anything finally develop, and my expectation that that would be the case didn't prevent me from feeling discouraged and, yes, bitter (see "Happy Not in Labor Day" for evidence) at times. Still, as compared to previous cycles I was able to maintain a relative sense of calm which, under the circumstances, is a miracle I can only attribute to finally having a doctor I fully trust, who I know is totally familiar with my case and focused on my cycle. It truly has made this cycle feel more "real shot at pregnancy" than "total and complete drunken shot in the dark."

I'm taking that shot -- literally -- tonight when I trigger my two mature follicles (three if you count the 12 mm which may or may not contain an egg), with my IUI scheduled for Sunday morning. Having slowly crossed the finish line on this cycle, I'm just going to sit here a minute and soak in the victory.

Happy Not in Labor Day!

2008-09-01T11:40:00.006-04:00

Is it just me, or is the unfortunate moniker of this holiday a kick in the ovaries to the infertile among us? Although I certainly appreciate any day off -- regardless of what they call it -- in my world, right now, it would be more aptly called "Not going into labor now or anytime in the foreseeable future" day. Particularly given what's going on with my ovaries. They are really holding out. Playing hard to get.

In keeping with my fine, fine tradition of dates with the ultrasound wand on all major holidays, I was back at the clinic at 8:15 this morning. You see, when I imagine a whole day off, stretched out in front of me in all its leisurely glory, no activity seems more fitting to get it started than a blood draw and a little spelunking around in my girl parts with a lubed-up probe. And the craptastic news that my lead follicle only grew one -- yes, one -- millimeter (to a grand total of 11 mm) since my last check on Saturday really put me in a holiday spirit. Now I can spend the rest of my day off -- at least until the call from the clinic -- worrying about why, after almost two weeks of stims, I have one follicle that is barely measurable. Good times. This must be what they call a helliday.

Oh, note to my ultrasound tech this weekend? Your vag cam school called: They want you to come back and take the course you missed called "Bedside Manner 101." I hear the prerequisites for the course are sensitivity, common sense and discretion. Required reading includes, "Don't shake your head at the screen and keep repeating, aggressively with a touch of glee, 'They really haven't changed at all since Saturday. Nope, not at all!'" and "Why you shouldn't come out to a crowded waiting room and self-righteously belt out to a patient that the tech from the other day was wrong and no, she did not have a 12 mm follicle -- just a 10!" Oh, and they wanted me to remind you that an ultrasound tech is not, in fact, a doctor. You can call them back at 800-GET-A-CLUE.

Would you, too, like a little bitter in your Labor Day barbeque?

Ask and Ye Shall Receive Snark

2008-08-25T17:22:00.001-04:00

In honor of that cherished American tradition of asking others -- without regard to Emily Post, privacy or closeness of friendship -- when they're having kids, I've prepared the following list of ten fabulously snarky comebacks:

1. "How much do you want to know about my girl parts?"

2. "If I could answer that, I'd teach at Harvard Med."

3. "Maybe you can give me some tips, because no baby yet, and we've sure been active upstairs (wink)."

4. "When are you getting your tubes tied?"

5. "Wow, this topic reminds me of the hour I spent weeping in my therapist's office the other day."

6. "I'll ask my ovaries -- I'm seeing them again on Wednesday."

7. "Why would we do that, when infertility is so much fun?"

8. "Speaking of taboo subjects, can you believe Barack finally picked his running mate?"

9. "I was hoping you'd just give me one of yours."

10. "Well, I was wondering the same thing while I was in the stirrups this morning. Here, let me reenact it for you -- could you move the salt and pepper?"

What's on your list?

Off to the (Slow) Races

2008-08-19T18:43:00.004-04:00

It had been several weeks, and frankly, I missed them. Missed glimpsing those fuzzy black splotches on the screen reminding me that yes, I do in fact have girl parts and yes, they are loaded with eggs just jonesing to make a baby. Missed the morning rendez-vous with the giant wand poking around in there -- well, okay, maybe not that part (definitely not that part). But it was good to see my ovaries on TV again this morning.

And my baseline ultrasound was delightfully uneventful. The girls weren't growing cysts or talking smack or plotting their escape. They were just quietly hanging out, awaiting their next instructions. So dear ovaries, if you're listening, here they are: Grow two follicles. Just two. Don't go showing off. I know you can grow way more than that -- I remember your 25-follicle extravaganza back in February. That was nice and all (if you enjoy the feeling that your ovaries will violently explode every time you sit down, which I do not), but let's dial it back this time. Think more quality than quantity. More tortoise than hare: Slow and steady wins the race. Let's go for a healthy singleton, not a scary litter.

And on the other hand, can you step it up just a bit from the last cycle? That one follicle barely crossed the finish line. (I don't mean to be critical, dear ovaries, but if you can't be honest with your own reproductive organs....)

Here were my instructions today: Take 37.5 IU of Gonal-F for four nights, and return on Saturday for monitoring. I can follow those instructions. We'll see after a couple of weeks of "low and slow" FSH injections whether my ovaries can follow theirs.

Shit-Colored Glasses

2008-08-14T17:51:00.005-04:00

The thing about infertility is that it is all-consuming. The thing is, it makes you feel like it's the only thing you can handle.

That's why this other medical symptom I'm having is driving me so insane. I don't even want to get into what it is because a) it all sounds so melodramatic and b) so far, after a few tests, the signs are pointing away from "serious, life-threatening medical issue" and toward "girl, you are stressed OUT!" Which is just really, really embarrassing. I hate to be one of *those* people. Especially since it started right when I got back from vacation. Although I could see my body going into a bit of shock -- I mean, really, when was the last time I actually relaxed?

Like 3-D glasses at the movies, infertility seems to hand you shit-colored ones at the time of diagnosis. The things about your life that used to seem pretty rosy now look, well, all murky and dark. Infertility takes the pep from your step and the joie de vivre right out of your spirit. And it makes any other problems that may pop up appear impossible to manage. It takes away your power to cope.

I hope the medical student who looked at me, smug smile on her lips, and inferred that the cause of my symptom is likely stress -- I hope she is right. (Is it wrong, by the way, that I was giddy inside when my doctor came in and told said smug med student that she "wouldn't have mentioned to the patient" the typo in my test report that said "serious abnormalities" instead of "no serious abnormalities" as it would cause "needless worry"?) Although it would be another item on the growing list of inconveniences and side effects infertility has wreaked on my life, at least it would be one less thing to deal with right now.

Gold Medal in Peeing on a Stick

2008-08-10T16:14:00.005-04:00

As I sit motionless on my couch in front of the TV watching people run, throw, swim and contort their bodies into all sorts of inhumane positions in their quests for gold or silver (Does anyone really want bronze? Isn't it a bit like picking the wrong Let's Make a Deal curtain and going home with the goat?), I'm wondering what sort of competitions would be held at the Infertility Olympics. I have a few ideas and would welcome your input before I go ahead and write the IOC.

Opening Ceremony -- I'm thinking rows and rows of women in johnnies marching with flags of ovaries, uteruses, follicles and sperm. And someone would of course sing our anthem to start the games:

O say can you see by the speculum light
All the broken girl parts that are causing my plight

Who's the tool who asked me when I'll have a baby --
Don't they know they risk wrath from my hormone-pumped body?

And the follicle wait
Do I have one or eight?

Gives proof everywhere
That life isn't fair

O say does that egg and sperm banner yet wave
For the infertile girls, so determined and brave

Toilet to stirrups sprint -- Who will set the world record for shortest time from the pre-ultrasound "bladder empty" to assuming the position in the stirrups?

The stick pee -- How many OPK and HPT sticks can you cover in one stream?

Verbal fencing -- Gold medalist will produce the snarkiest comeback for "When are you having a baby," or "You know, having kids will really change your life for the better."

Needle sticking -- Who can do it without flinching, whining or drawing blood?

Specimen Dash -- A men's event: Winners are the fastest to get sperm in a cup. Gold medalist will have high counts, good motility. Pants down! Grab your porn! Go!

Two-week Wait Distraction -- Top performers will fill up every minute of the two-week wait with busy work and meaningless activity.

I'm starting training later this week. I'm thinking I want a gold in the marathon to my baby.

The Best Laid Plans

2008-08-06T20:34:00.006-04:00

I remembered something on the drive to work this morning that made me laugh out loud.

A few years ago, when I naively thought the only people who would be in the room when I got pregnant would be my husband and I, we decided that I would go off the pill in the spring. Why? Well, it would be very inconvenient, I thought, to be hugely pregnant in the summer months. It's too hot and I didn't want a giant belly making it even hotter. This way, I would get the early stuff out of the way in the summer (because according to my plan I would definitely be knocked up in two months, maybe three at the most) and be waddling around during my favorite season, fall. I could dress up as a pregnant lady for Halloween!

Oh, you dear girl. Such a quaint little plan!

Over the course of trying and trying and treatments and more treatments, this carefully crafted, time-sensitive plan has devolved to this: I would take a pregnancy in the heat of hell.

In the cold of the arctic.

Inside, outside, upside down.

In a boat. With a goat.

I have decided to think of this minor setback in my plans as an opportunity to learn to be flexible and nimble as preparation for excellent parenting. For example, I won't miss a beat when confronted with a spontaneous projectile vomiting episode in the back of the car when I'm running late for a meeting. And I will handle nuclear-level meltdowns in Target with the greatest of ease.

Meanwhile, I have been tagged by Res Cogitatae to do this meme. I'm clueless and don't even know what a meme means but it seems fun so, since I have no vomit to clean up or meltdowns to attend to, here goes:

Rules: Answer each question with one word and tag four others to play.

1. Where is your cell phone? bag
2. Your significant other? R.
3. Your hair? blondish
4. Your mother? creative
5. Your father? kind
6. Your favorite thing? learning
7. Your dream last night? forgettable
8. Your favorite drink? wine
9. Your dream/goal? contentment
10. The room you’re in? living
11. Your hobby? reading
12. Your fear? failure
13. Where do you want to be in 6 years? vacation
14. What you’re not? patient
15. Muffins? wheat
16. One of your wish list items? dog
17. Where you grew up? Massachusetts
18. The last thing you did? pedicure
19. What are you wearing? sweats
20. Favorite Gadget? blackberry
21. Your pet? cats
22. Your computer? frustrating
23. Your mood? optimistic
24. Missing someone? grandmothers
25. Your car? hybrid
26. Something you are not wearing? maternity
27. Favorite Store? many
28. Like someone? husband
29. Your favorite colour? orange
30. When is the last time you laughed? laughing
31. Last time you cried? days

In keeping with the rules, I'm tagging egg dance, Maybe I Will Have a Glass, Family of Two and Fractured Rainbows. If you feel like it (it's fun in a middle school sort of way, a la MASH).

Greener Pastures

2008-08-04T20:29:00.004-04:00

This one goes out to the 25 screaming kids (I wish I were kidding) and parents (who were screaming too) who descended on the tranquil al fresco breakfast my husband and I were trying to enjoy the second morning of our vacation last week. You almost made me consider trading in my FSH-laden syringes for some Ortho-Cyclen. Almost.

Lest you think I've returned from said vacation still heavy with bitterness, rest assured: The only heaviness I brought back is from butter-drenched seafood dishes, an array of fine cheeses and glass upon glass of Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc. My mind, spirit and stomach are happier than they've been in a long, long time. Almost as soon as we got to our rented condo, I felt so much of the tension of the past few months evaporate. I would be lying if I said I didn't think about infertility (and I know you'd see right through it anyway). But I could almost pretend we were just your average married couple, pre-kids, on a weeklong summer vacation.

Of course, the same things that draw a childfree married couple to a seaside town also draw scores and scores of fertile people and their spawn. The stroller-to-people ratio felt like 3:1 at times. And nothing makes a barren girl feel more barren than watching a cherubic little face devouring an ice cream cone as his or her adoring parents look on.

As I observed all of this and started to slip away from my blissed-out vacation mode back into sad, stressed-out territory, something occurred to me which, though it might be supremely obvious to anyone with an objective point of view on the topic, had not previously made its way into my oft-irrational mind. What if those couples I was looking at with such envy as they took up valuable sidewalk real estate with their MacLarens (another topic for another time) were, when I wasn't paying attention, looking wistfully back at me and my husband and our long, leisurely, non-"family style" dinners that never, ever, included the words, "I have to go potty?" What if, someday in the not-too-distant future, I think back to this week we had and wish we could get in a time machine for a visit?

Maybe those parents of the 25 kids who invaded our breakfast wished we could take them off their hands for a while. Maybe they wanted to go to the beach and just sit there, reading like me, instead of building sandcastles and "burying" children in the sand. Maybe someday I'll look back on this time, when we hung in the delicate balance between couple and family, between two and three (or four?), when it was still just us with the hope of something more, and, knowing that the pain would eventually stop and the longed-for baby would arrive and all the joy of that was still ahead of me in this moment, feel a certain longing.

Until then, all I can do is pick up the torch again and keep chasing the dream. It starts tomorrow, with bloodwork to confirm I'm not pregnant (insert sarcasm here) or ovulating on my own. Barring that miracle, I'll start Provera and, about a week later, a new injectable/IUI cycle with my fabulous new doctor. As green as the grass may be on this side, I'm not giving up on my search for something greener.

Holiday

2008-07-24T20:59:00.001-04:00

I started infertility treatments eight months ago. In the time that has passed since, I have: taken pills that didn't help me ovulate but did help me become a raving lunatic bitch; injected myself every night for weeks at a time; snuck out of a dinner on a Saturday night to give myself an HCG shot in my car like a desperate drug addict; nearly passed out twice at the shock of getting my period early; experienced the return of teenager-worthy acne thanks to PCOS; gotten intimate with the ultrasound wand too many times to count; had even more blood draws, several of which took many tries thanks to my thin veins and at least one inept medical assistant; nearly had my cycle canceled unnecessarily; found a new doctor (see previous item); and cried too many tears for one person.

The sum total of this? I. Need. A. Vacation. Seriously.

So, I'm taking one. On Sunday, my husband and I are headed for the first weeklong summer vacation we've had in forever. And it couldn't come at a better time. I hope I come back all rested up and ready for more of the above. Because the saga continues in a couple of weeks.

Girl Power

2008-07-21T20:34:00.004-04:00

Sometimes I wonder what infertility would feel like if I weren't the "broken" one. Would it be somehow easier without the burden of knowing that my body is the problem? Without having the success of a cycle hinge on my PCOS ovaries' ability to produce just enough -- but not too many -- eggs? Would I feel less pressure if I didn't have this vague feeling of inadequacy at my inability to fulfill this "womanly" role every single time I saw someone else's child?

The irony, of course, is that even with male factor infertility, the woman is often the one to go through treatment. And frankly, although there are days when I would gladly hand the burden over to my husband -- or, really, anyone else -- I think this is for the best. With all due respect to men, their tendency to whimper at the first sign of a cold and avoid the doctor's office at all costs doesn't do much to convince me that they'd be terribly good at handling this stuff. Women are tough, and perhaps no one is tougher -- by necessity -- than a woman going through infertility. We bite the bullet and take the injection. We talk through tears. We subject ourselves to relentless poking and prodding. We chew on our lip when we want to yelp in pain. We keep going and ignore the voice inside that says I can't do it anymore. And sometimes we even manage to look cute doing it. I don't know about you, but some days the only thing that helps me leave the house is a pair of fabulous shoes.

All told, I am amazed at what we all are able to endure. I am reminded of the scene in Sex and the City after Charlotte's miscarriage. She's been sitting by herself, catatonic, for days, when she flips on the E! True Hollywood Story on Elizabeth Taylor, in which Taylor says, "Now is the time for guts and guile." The phrase brings her back to life; soon she is walking into Brady's child-centric birthday party looking flawless and ready to take on the world. How many times has each of us done the same -- returned from that desperate place of grief to brush ourselves off and walk on?

I know we would all do anything to cancel our memberships in this club. But since I'm an official, card-carrying member right now, it's such a relief to know that I'm not alone. You're all out there, surviving, showing me what it means to have guts and guile.

Chemistry 101

2008-07-16T17:10:00.005-04:00

If you've ever sat down for a consult with a new RE, you know that in many ways it's like dating. You're searching for someone who shares your outlook, someone with whom you have that chemistry, that je ne sais quoi, that (as Carrie Bradshaw called it) za za zu. In this case, of course, I'm looking for someone to fix my broken girl parts. To get in there with speculums and ultrasound wands and medicines and washed sperm and get me knocked up, already. (Sadly, though this kind of dating ends with someone getting in my pants, I'm not even getting a free dinner out of it.) This week, I met with two and I have to say, I'm smitten. With the wrong one.

My search for a new doctor is a long time coming. Since starting treatment in November, I really haven't felt comfortable with my current doc, or confident that he was invested in my case. When he (incorrectly) nearly canceled my last cycle halfway through, the nurses gently suggested that I meet with another doctor in the practice (let's call her Dr. A) if I didn't get pregnant. I eagerly agreed, but secretly thought that this crossroads offered the perfect opportunity to make a fresh start with a different practice. So I also made a second consult appointment at another clinic, and saw the meeting with Dr. A as doing my due diligence, to get another opinion but seal my suspicion that I needed to move on. To stay, I thought, Dr. A was going to have to be fabulous. And, in keeping with the rest of this infertility journey which seems to be full of surprises, she was.

She immediately took charge. She told us she believes in patient education, and proceeded to explain, from the beginning and in detail (with drawings), what was wrong with me, what is happening with my cycles. She said my last cycle was actually ideal, though she would have kept it going until my one follicle was a big larger. She prepared me for "low and slow" injectible cycles (perhaps up to 30 days) if she were to treat me. She said things like, "After you get pregnant we'll put you on the pill until you try for #2." She told me it's likely a question of when, not if. Mostly, she made me feel that if I went with her, she'd want success as much as I did. She was caring, but all business. A girl after my own heart.

Prospect #2 -- Dr. B. -- was a nice, nice man. He had caring eyes and a soft manner. He listened carefully and thought about his answers. But I found myself wanting to get a rise out of him. He put several options on the table without expressing a strong opinion on any one. I realized that I want to go to my friends to chew on things and get tender words and looks of sympathy. From my doctor, I want the bottom line and a strong opinion on how to achieve success. Want someone who plays to win.

I really didn't want to stay in my current clinic. But you have to mesh with your doctor, and you can't force chemistry. When it comes to the journey to my baby -- just as I did in the journey to my husband -- I'm learning to follow my heart. And my heart tells me Dr. A is the perfect match.