I Didn't Know IVF Could Be a Door Prize

Only a branch of Resolve (the national infertility organization) based in my hometown of Lancaster, California could be so ingenious or sick as to think up IVF as a door prize. But that's what they're offering, if you sign up to attend a "fertility symposium" later this month in Southern California. I'm guessing they're picturing a Washington Mutual-like run on the event, all of us pounding on the doors in the desperate hope for our chance to win a free shot. No pun intended.

Who would have thought? There was a time when just $20,000 was enough to tempt anyone. But now it comes with the joy of swollen ovaries and fluid-filled follicles and sky-high estrogen and surgery. I think I'll stick to the lottery.

Maybe It's Better I Don't Have a Baby, Because I Can't Afford Anything

It's not enough that DH and I are swimming in student loan debt. It's not enough that our house is worth less than we paid for in 2004. It's not enough that we just blew $20,000 on IVF that didn't work. On top of that, our retirement accounts must have been obliterated today. I can't even bring myself to look.

Sometimes I think, why be responsible? Why be traditional? I mean, if I was partying in Ibiza all year long I might not have a liver, but I'm guessing I wouldn't have all this debt either. And it hardly seems worth it right now--the house in the 'burbs, the station wagon, the money dutifully poured into the 401(k) each month. So I can be a good, stable parent and my children won't have to take care of me when I don't have teeth. And of course, I have to pay extra cash for those children, too.

Is it really worth a liver?

Now That I'm Not Pregnant, I Can Do All the Fun Stuff

When you're not pregnant, there are many fun things you can do. Like skydiving, or a safari in Africa, or learn how to surf. Or paint. Painting is definitely an option.

We sort of put off a lot of maintenance stuff on our house all summer, occupying ourselves with trying to get pregnant and focusing on being extremely healthy, which meant no toxic paint or other fumes. But with that out of the way, I could spend all weekend doing it. Oh joy! Good thing there's nothing pesky like a fetus to protect...just my own respiratory system. Paint fumes r' us.

It was probably better that I kept busy. Surprisingly, I was in pretty good spirits this week. It's funny when you go through severe depression--okay, maybe not funny, but interesting--and then when you just feel like a normal person, when you feel like you can get out of bed every day, it makes you feel totally elated, almost superhuman. It felt awesome just to feel normal. I still can't lay in bed more than 10 or so minutes each morning--more than that and my mind wanders to places it hurts to go--but throughout the day I can laugh at my dog or watch a movie and be entertained and not need to sit only in the fetal position. I'm going to enjoy it while I can.

On the other hand, lots of people I know (and I know more, now that I'm reaching out to women struggling with fertility problems) had a really tough week. I don't feel like I should betray any confidences, even if I don't name names. But I will say this: enough nice people had things go wrong this week that I felt 100% sure this has nothing to do with fair. Though I may struggle with it when I think about myself, convincing myself it's because of something I did, I know these women deserve good things. Deserve motherhood.

Infertiles for Obama

I probably shouldn't reveal my political tendencies, but today I decided to go online to the "Barak Obama Store" to make a donation and buy a lawn sign--a little late in the game, but hopefully not too late. (Besides, I'd rather my dollars fight McCain than Clinton.) I live conveniently close to a polling place, and I have a nice corner lot, so I figure I can catch some attention while people are on the way to the cast their ballots. Not that it will matter much in the conservative farming community where I live (the guy across the street likes to talk about the "tree huggers"!). Besides, by the the time they're at the polling place, all but the fabulously senile usually know who they're voting for. But I figure it's worth a shot: that one senile lady may come along and have eyesight good enough to see my yard sign...

Anyway, Obama has all these clever signs available, depending who you are, to make sure you feel like you belong. "Hebrews for Obama," "Latinos for Obama," "Women for Obama," "Catholics for Obama." One he didn't have was "Infertiles for Obama." If he did, I would have chosen that one. I couldn't find anything on his website that speaks to infertility specifically, but since his health care plan (and general attitude and political philosophy) seem more generous than McCain's, I'm guessing it's more likely that someday, IVF will be covered just like any other medical procedure. I can't imagine not having to pay for this, or that there is a wondeful land called Arkansas where you don't have to. (When you start fantasizing about Arkansas, there is definitely something wrong.)

Not that it makes it easy. I really romanticized how wonderful getting it free would be until I talked to a friend who's sister in law is French. She'd had two rounds of IVF in France and it turns out, strangely, that the drugs make you just as crazy whether you pay for them or not. Same with the depression and stress! Obama may cure some things, but he can't cure all...

Age is a Number, Old is a Lie

I remember, when I was younger, watching an episode of McGyver that freaked me out. In the episode, a group of scientists are developing a chemical that will make plants age quickly, so they can grow immediately and save starving children everywhere (I think they gave Monsanto ideas, used for more sinister purposes). Anyway, one woman gets trapped behind a glass door with the chemical released in the air, and in a matter of moments, she ages and dies, a beautiful young blonde to a withered old woman, while McGyver watches from the other side, helpless without his duct tape.

I feel like this is what happens in the world of fertility. By most accounts, I'm young. I haven't done many things I want to, like visit every continent or learn to sew. But in the fertility world, I'm reaching the end of my innocent youth. I'll be 33 next week, and suddenly I feel like the old spinster in a Jane Austen novel.

Because it seems, at 35, only two short years away, a magic light goes on. I go from being young to being old. There is no in between, which is where I feel I really am. At 35 you need special tests and they start questioning your egg quality and they stop telling you dismissively, "You're young, you have plenty of time."

That's just stupid, and I hope other women don't buy into it. Yeah, I get that things change as you get older. Maybe my eggs but also other things, that used to be perkier or prettier or less gray. But things don't change overnight. And everything keeps working. As hard as all this is, no woman needs to hear that on top of all the other stuff she can't control, she's too old. There is no magic light.

The Easter Bunny is Crazy Too

So I was eating grapes this morning, with seeds, while working. And I dropped one of the seeds on the keyboard, and in the process of trying to remove it, I actually wedged it in there. So now every time I hit the "L" key, I get this weird noise--that of a permanently lodged grape seed.

This reminded me of something I've read on fertility forums about grape juice. I don't really understand why, but apparently grape juice can make you more fertile or help implantation or something, so you're supposed to drink a lot of it, particularly after embryo transfer (sadly, wine is out). Grape juice and pineapple. So of course I think to myself, "Maybe I should have done that on my last IVF cycle." Maybe if I did, I'd be successfully pregnant. Maybe.

I used to live in Bolivia. Bolivians have their own ideas about what makes you healthy. Chewing coca leaves cures altitude sickness (I found it just made my mouth numb, and I felt like a squirrel, with my big wad of leaves). If you feel a cold coming on, drink leche del tigre (milk, sugar, and grain alcohol--disgusting). Or, in our town, if you're into the Western thing, go to the pharmacy and buy a pill (only one) from chain-smoking Dona Anulfa, who ran the place. ("Pharmacist" would have been a glorification.) I never did try to get pregnant while there, so I don't know what the advice would have been. Maybe to eat chicken foot soup more often, or turn aroud three times before I got into bed. Who knows.

Anyway, my point is that it all feels a little random. Like there's this intricate set of instructions, and can all of them be right? Or are some of them totally misguided? And are my instructions the best? You may think the Bolivian way sounds crazy, but then think about describing an American way of doing things. Like Easter. "There's a giant bunny, and it goes around hiding eggs, and kids have to find the eggs." We tried to explain that to some Bolivians, and I have to agree: It all sounds crazy.

A Miscarriage is Just Like a Job Interview

A few days ago, DH and I were out for a hike, and I was feeling down. He must have been feeling pensive, because he told me he understood, and then he shared what he must have thought was a brilliant (or at least not horrifying) analogy for the experience of miscarriage after IVF.

"It's like I've been unemployed for a really long time," he said earnestly. "I've been unemployed and suddenly I get a job interview. And I am really excited about this job. I really want it. And I get an interview. And I don't get the job."

Yeah.

Not exactly.

So I said, "That's not how I feel at all."

And then he got upset. "Why don't you ask me what I mean, help me explore it?" he asked.

Because I know what you meant. You meant that a miscarriage is like interviewing for a job you want that you don't get. Not too complicated. Is it really so weird that I understand, but still think you're crazy? When he asked me how it feels for me, I said, without hesitation, "It feels like I keep getting kicked in the stomach, over and over again." So yeah, basically just like a job interview, only without the job and with the kicking.

I think there are some things about infertility that I must accept as truths. One is that my husband, as wonderful as he is, is not going to break the boundaries of gender identity. He may come to every single appointment, he may let me cry when I need to and rage when I need to, but he is still going to make bad analogies and love the REs office because it has Sports Illustrated.

Maybe I should just buy him a subscription.

There's So Much I Don't Know!

So my newest discovery is online fertility forums. I mean, I kind of looked around on them before, but everyone always seemed so...not pregnant. So I avoided spending too much time on them because of a vague, misguided notion that if I didn't admit I wasn't pregnant, well, I wouldn't be. Not pregnant, I mean. Meaning I would be pregnant, at least I would be soon, so there was no particular need to educate myself further.

That was a really stupid decision. Because it turns out there is a community of supportive, educated women out there. I still can't find my way around most of the time--I feel overwhelmed by the number of forums out there, and the number of subgroups in each forum. But everyone is kind and patient and doesn't think I'm crazy for all the things I worry make me crazy. I now find myself shaking my head in understanding when I read those overly detailed questions I used to think were signs of true neuroses. Infertility, I've learned, breeds doubt, and it's wonderful to be somewhere that you can admit the doubt, you can be understood, you can be encouraged.

You Didn't Break It, And You Can't Fix It

DH keeps asking me, "Are you okay? Are you okay?"

No. No, I am not okay.

I mean, I say that. I say it just like that. It doesn't feel weird to me to feel it or to say it. Why should I be okay? This just happened, and it's major, and it hurts. And yet, it's so hard for him to accept. He gets painfully cheerful, to try to make me happy. Then upset when it doesn't make me happy.

I'm not happy, not today.

But it doesn't mean I'll never be happy. It doesn't mean I want to sit in my figurative seven-days-in-a-row pajamas until I'm buried in them. It just means it's hard now, and it will get better, but it isn't yet. He just can't stand that he can't fix it.

It's funny what you learn over the years and what you just can't learn, no matter how hard you try. I can remember early in the relationship when I'd explain a problem and he'd immediately offer a solution. And then I'd explain how I wasn't looking for a solution, and he'd look very bewildered and say something like, "Then why did you tell me this?" Aren't we really, truly, just having that discussion again now?

It truly, truly scares me when my life starts to sound like a bad sitcom. (Luckily, they don't make bad sitcoms about infertility!) I keep imagining some horrible show like According to Jim. While I've never watched a full episode, I've always been turned off by the "look at all the horrible sex-based marriage stereotypes" humor, no matter how true they may be (and seriously, Jim Belushi and a hottie from Melrose Place?! Give me a break!). Is my life According to Jim?

No, no, no...I refuse to believe that. DH will hear the message: I ain't telling you so you can fix it. You can't fix it. You didn't break it. I'm telling you so you'll know it's broken, and you'll handle it carefully.

It Doesn't Pass the Straight Face Test

In law school, we had this very distinct way of saying, "Yeah, that sounds like a load of bullshit to me." It was "that doesn't pass the straight face test." As in, how could you possibly say that with a straight face and expect anyone to believe you?

Today I got a message from the friend who somehow failed to mention to me, in the last nine months, that she was pregnant. (Would she ever have told me? Would I have found out she had a kid when invited to his wedding?) She wrote, "Sorry I didn't get a chance to tell you." That is a very nice way of absolving oneself of responsibility. As in, "It's a shame the Pony Express is so slow, as it did not give me adequate opportunity to send this message well in advance. But I assure you, I had ever intent of notifying you forthwith." That, versus "Sorry, I've been really busy with my sister's wedding" sent via iPhone, 3 months ago. Yeah, the sister's wedding...and maybe being 6 months pregnant?! Somehow she forgot...I mean didn't get a chance...to mention that.

I mean, at least be honest here. You don't forget you're pregnant. You don't forget to tell a friend when you don't call her back (I thought that was weird--she always calls back!) and then send a message like the one she sent. She mentioned her sister's wedding in her message today too, as if all she did in the last nine months was deal with that, an event that overshadowed bringing a baby into the world, somehow. Again, the straight face test tells me otherwise.

And I may be flattering myself here, but I feel like we know each other well enough that in other circumstances, circumstances in which she did not know I was infertile, I would probably know that she was having a baby. Like BEFORE the baby was born. Like not by reading it on Facebook.

It sounds really bitter, but it's not. In truth, I'm really sad. Cause how do you get over this--or really, what's the point? Sure, we've known each other ten years. But is it worth ten more, like this? Hard to imagine why--and that's sad.

Yeah, If You Could Tell Me When You're Having a Baby, I Won't Feel Like Such a Royal A-Hole

So I have this friend who lives on the other side of the country. We don't talk much, but I've thought of her as a good friend. We were roomates when we studied abroad 10 years ago. We went to each other's weddings.

She's an acupuncturist, and she treats infertility. When I first started seeing an acupuncturist, I consulted her. We talked about my problems. I told her when I started the blog. She sent a hurried message about three months ago, explaining her sister was getting married, she'd been busy, apologizing for not being in touch. I told her not to worry about it, to call me when she could. We usually have 1-2 hour phone sessions every 6 or 8 months, so this didn't seem like a big deal.

I'm no Facebook guru, but I am on Facebook. And so is she. And when I went on today, I got a notification that she had changed her profile picture. And for some reason I clicked on it. And there was a picture of this beautiful little baby. Her baby.

It felt like such a knife through the heart. Not only because of all the stuff I've just been through, but because this is my friend and she didn't tell me that she was having a baby. I mean, yeah, we live on opposite sides of the country, so I guess she could get away with not telling me, but why would she do that? She mentioned once feeling like she didn't want to make her patients feel bad, if she got pregnant, after they'd been struggling. I am guessing she didn't want me to feel bad either.

But I feel horrible. I feel like I missed the opportunity to see pictures of her pregnant and find out whether she wanted to do a natural birth and whether she was scared or liked being pregnant or hated it. I didn't get to find out how exciting it was to find out she was pregnant or whether she found out his gender ahead of time or whether she and her husband fought over names. I feel like she didn't love me or trust me enough to know that I'd be happy for her and I'd want to know and tell her what I told her, which is that he's beautiful. Yeah, it's hard and it sucks to not have a baby when it seems everyone else is, but I still love the people in my life that do. I still want to know about it. I still want to meet these new people in their lives, these people who mean everything.

And of course, we won't talk about this now. Not when she's just had a baby. She's too busy and she shouldn't be worrying about a random friend, from 10 years ago, hundreds of miles away. And not when I've just lost a baby, and couldn't possibly tell her.

Please, No More Stories About That Woman Your Friend Knew

Particularly lately, I've been getting a lot of those stories, "You know, I know this woman who had a friend who tried for years and years to have kids and did all these infertility treatments and it never worked. And then all of a sudden, 10 years later, she got pregnant!"

I know these stories are meant to be encouraging. And I believe they are true (except when people tell me that someone struggling with infertility suddenly got pregnant with multiples, naturally, in their 40s. My sister-in-law told me sextuplets. Wow! Really?! Doesn't that seem just a leeetle implausible?).

But I'm struggling now. I don't want to hear about what might happen to me, randomly, after 10 years, when all this other stuff fails. Like, "yeah, this horrible strain and pain and $25,000 is a waste of money and time and energy, but after you ___ (adopt give up relax) you'll get pregnant!"

Also, it's not like we don't know why we don't get pregnant naturally. It's nothing uncertain, in our case--though we pray, especially after this loss, it's the only reason. But I particularly hate it when people act like it's all a big mystery that nature will solve on its own. In our case, there is absolutely nothing mysterious about it. They tell us, at each IUI or at IVF, how many sperm there are. And we know whether that's enough or not. I'm not a pessimist, but I am a realist, and I know that it makes absolutely no sense to rely on random chance.

DH and I were joking the other day that statistically, we have about a 1% chance of getting pregnant each month, if sperm alone is the issue. So if we just have sex faithfully at ovulation every month for 8 years, then maybe, just maybe, we can be someone else's friend of a friend of a friend of a sister of a cousin.

More D.F.L.: Is That Possible?

It seems like there should be a limit on how much d.f.l. any one person should have. Of course, in considering this possibility, it helps if I have tunnel vision. It helps to forget all the advantages I was born into, the luck I always took for granted.

But let's just say, in the scheme of my life, that infertility is in itself my d.f.l. Then how is that I also have the d.f.l. to have a beautiful looking embryo that also happens, by chance, to be chromosomally abnormal, while all the rest are fine? At this point, that seems to be the doctor's primary suspicion.

Of course, that's the preference here, that this is one unusual event, not significant of a larger problem. But at the same time, a larger problem would give this a reason. This seems like insult to injury--you just can't have it because you can't, you just have to lose because you have to. When I asked Doctor G yesterday what he would do differently in another fresh cycle, he said, "Nothing." Normally, they tweak your drugs or run more tests or do SOMETHING. But everything went the way it was supposed to, as far as anyone could tell. I even got pregnant. I just don't get to actually have a baby.

A friend, trying to encourage me, told me this would make me a better person. And I wanted to ask her, "Aren't I good enough already? After the things I've learned from two years of infertility? You got pregnant right away--does that mean YOU don't need to be a better person, but I do?" It's easier, maybe, to let it go, to let it be what I hope it is: more d.f.l.

Looking for My Stars

Last night I went to see Greg Mortensen, author of Three Cups of Tea, speak. It's the inspirational story of a failed attempt to climb K2 that turned an avid mountclimber into an activist who builds schools, primarily for girls, in Pakistan and Afghanistan.

Hearing someone else's inspirational story helps you not get too caught up in your own bullshit. But it was impossible to avoid my own bullshit entirely. And one moment brought me to selfish tears. It was the words of a Persian proverb, printed in simple block letters, blazing across a screen that had been filled with the breathtaking grandeur of K2; the touching images of young girls sitting outside in the dirt with slates in hand, staring avidly at their teacher, soaking up knowledge; the photo of young boys going to school in an old shipping container, cheerful and hopeful. And for me, for my own pain and loss, two small lines:

When it is dark enough
You can see the stars.

I'll keep looking for them. I don't see them yet, but I know they're out there.

Thank God I'm Not the Only One

I've never been to a support group before. I've never been one much for groups of any kind, actually. I can remember sitting awkwardly in the youth group at our church in my younger years, caught somewhere between the nerds and the cool kids, waiting for my parents to arrive. I had a college roomate who was in a sorority and held some strange ritualistic post that involved a secret song book. I don't get it. Sitting in a group I don't have anything in common with, trying to force conversation.

Only this time, I did have something in common with these other women--our infertility. There were only a handful of us, and everyone was so different. We'd probably never come across each other otherwise. But what I learned is that no matter who you are, infertility really sucks. It's stressful and expensive and lonely for everyone. It doesn't seem fair and you can admit you don't like baby showers and you're pissed about all the money you have to spend and how much you hate shots. And no one, no one will have had kids effortlessly and say you to, "It will all be worth it" or "Breastfeeding really hurts."

It's a nice reminder that I'm not alone, outside my usual sea of baby showers and boppies and Robeez and long discussions about the specifics of childbirth. I am not alone.

Why Doesn't Anyone Tell You About This Stuff?

At 12, I remember I was totally fascinated by what it was like to have a period. Of course, this was before the Internet, when girls asked you in the locker room, after summer break, whether you'd "become a woman" yet. Elusive, exciting. Do you use tampons or pads? Is it like, really red? Do you have it every month?

The next year it was kissing. Is it gross? Does it feel good? Then sex. More and more to be curious about, right up to getting pregnant and giving birth, trying to understand why some women get on their hands and knees to pop their kids out, while others scream like hyenas.

What you don't ever wonder about it what it feels like to have a miscarriage. What no one ever tells you. And I guess I didn't realize something would happen, all at once, since I'd been bleeding for a few days. But it did, at least to me.

It was hard and painful and sad, but it was also awe-inspiring. Because what went in to me was microscopic, and what came out had grown. It fit in my hand and I could see it. Strangely, it's comforting to have something to say goodbye to, something that confirms why it hurts. You really do lose something, and it's not just an intangible, a potential, a feeling. I'm just glad I have something to say goodbye to, something to cry for.

We've Only Just Begun

I used to think, "If I just get to IVF I'll get pregnant and I'll put this whole infertility mess behind me."

It doesn't work that way, not always, even if that's how it's worked for almost everyone you know. I told a friend this, about my fears about how if it didn't work the first time it would never work, and she said, "Well, I don't know anyone who it worked for on the first try, and they're all mothers."

To her I say thank you, thank you, thank you, my dear friend of many years who's put up with a lot in that time.

I think too many people were surprised by this--they all thought it would work. I got too many "don't give up yet(s)," too many "there's still a chance(s)." I already feel like anything from here is a last ditch effort. What I need is just what this friend gave me: This is a long journey. You've only just begun.

I wanted to be done quickly, as painlessly as possible. It doesn't always happen that way. It does happen. But it's not always a sprint to the finish. As she said, so wisely, "Get ready to walk this path for awhile."

If you know me, and you read this, please do not tell me, "you still have another chance." I already feel desperate, and afraid, and this makes me feel even more so. So tell me this, "you have six embryos and a fresh cycle. It's hard, it's painful, but your journey's just begun." And if you can tell me, in the same breath, that you'll walk the road with me, I will be eternally, eternally grateful.

In Case You Didn't Know...You've Had a Miscarriage

I went in for my final blood test today. (I try not to think about the fact that in the last two weeks, I've spent $200 on pregnancy tests.) The waiting room was full and one of the people who was in it was the woman who'd had egg retrieval the same day as me, the one I heard, all loopy from the drugs. But she looked happy, which tells me she was probably pregnant, because why else would she be in on a Saturday except to get another beta?

And it isn't right and it isn't nice,but I felt like, what the hell have I been doing staying in shape and getting acupucture and eating organic? Because it apparently has nothing to do with actually getting pregnant, since looking at her I realized I could have been overweight and unhealthy and possibly achieved a better result. I know--it's not a nice thought, but try to imagine why you'd have it after two years of trying wheatgrass powder and maca root and vitex, all of which taste like armpit. Statistically, one of us was going to get pregnant--and well, it wasn't me, despite all my ridiculous and expensive efforts.

Well, that's not exactly true. I did get pregnant. But when I went in today, I knew I wasn't anymore. They didn't call me until about 6 hours after I went in, and I already knew the news wasn't going to be good (like DH said--you can find anything on the internet, and I hadn't found anyone with numbers as low as mine who stayed pregnant, so it was a pretty good indicator).

Nurse R called me to deliver the news. I've talked to her before (she's not my regular nurse), and I'd thought she was a little melodramatic. This time confirmed the impression. I felt like she wanted me to be hysterical. (She should have seen me last week, when I was bawling my eyes out with my head buried in my nurse's chest, a la Police Academy.) She made a point of saying, "You've had a miscarriage. We know how hard that is. It's a baby. You've probably chosen names and everything. You've lost your baby."

As if I didn't feel bad enough knowing that my 0ffspring was coming out onto a maxi pad. I seriously just felt like this woman was trying to work me up into an emotional frenzy, which is easy enough to do. I started to wonder if she was some kind of deranged psychopath, who derived pleasure from making other people feel like they'd actually killed a baby. In a way, it actually made me feel better. At least I'm not as crazy as that lady.

Not Everyone Wants to Hear Your Bitching and Moaning

So what I've learned in the past few days is that everyone has a different tolerance level and ability to deal with the crappy situation that is listening to your infertile friend (the same one you've been listening for the last two years) crying because she knows she's going to lose a pregnancy before she actually does. I've found the reaction I appreciate most is some variation of a simple, "I'm sorry." That sucks. It's not fair. It shouldn't have happened.

The weirdest reaction I got made me think I was really wallowing in my own sadness way too much. I emailed a friend I hadn't spoken to in awhile and explained what had happened with the IVF and getting pregnant but it not being viable. Granted I was feeling a little sorry for myself, so maybe I droned on a bit, and I hadn't told her the whole story about how many eggs there were and how many frozen and the egg retrieval, so I shared all that. And she wrote back, "I hope you get pregnant soon!"

Huh? I guess she's a little tired of sorting her way through my pit of despair. Because I felt like I'd been pretty clear that yeah, I am pregnant, like, right now.

This tells me that clearly (1) I need to stop blabbing to everyone I know about this process, if I'm not ready to hear their honest reactions, and (2) I am complaining so much that people are literally tuning me out so much so that they don't read "I'm pregnant" when it's written right there, in front of them, on paper.