DH and I had the most luxurious day yesterday. We went to a popular hamburger restaurant nearby and pigged out on hamburgers and beer with a couple friends at like 1:30 in the afternoon. We've recently become part-time vegetarians (nixing meat 4 days a week: I couldn't go whole hog, no pun intended), and our meat consumption in general has been cut way back, so a 1/2 lb. burger was quite a challenge. I admit--mine was turkey, on the wimpy side in terms of causing food coma. I didn't even have my own beer, just sipped off his.
Nonetheless, when we got home at around 3, we were both soooo sleepy. So we did something we never, never do. We climbed into bed at 3 p.m. on a Saturday, snuggled up comfortably, and fell asleep.
Snuggling seems to be all I want to do these days (or a good portion of the day, at least). At first I thought I might be depressed, because I didn't want to get out of bed, but I don't want to lay there by myself. It's great to just lay there and fall asleep together, drift off having ridiculous conversations and maybe drooling on his chest, and wake up and start over. Maybe I'm just savoring the fact that unlike the first IVF, when we were both just confused and sad, now we're actually able to see some hope in the future. Even if it's without kids. Maybe instead it will just be more burgers, brew, and snuggle. I can't really complain about that.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Romancing the Bone
When Luna the Bolivian street mutt gets a treat, and she's not desperate to eat it right that moment, she goes through a routine we like to call "romancing the bone." Romancing the bone involves throwing the object of affection up in the air, watching it fall, and then barking at it with her butt in the air, like they're playing together. (No matter that it's inanimate--a mere technicality.) Then she tries to bury it her bed. Despite having done this many times before and learning it doesn't work, she'll start crying and whimpering when she can't hide it even from her own eyesight, much less mine, and start carrying it around the house, looking for the appropriate private spot. That bone is precious cargo, even if she's not ready to eat it.
I feel that way about our embryos. Okay, so now there are only three. But at this point, they're the only viable way DH and I could ever get pregnant. And in my own way, I've been romancing the bone. The acupuncture. The grape juice. The bed rest. I mean, does any of this actually make you pregnant?If it's really a bottle of cheap vodka and a weak moment that does the trick, this romancing the bone starts to look a little silly.
Still, I'll keep guarding these little frosties like they're actually kids. A few weeks ago, before the transfer and BFN, we drove by the clinic and waved at our six snowbabies. Gotta believe that these little guys, that mean more than anything, are that precious.
I feel that way about our embryos. Okay, so now there are only three. But at this point, they're the only viable way DH and I could ever get pregnant. And in my own way, I've been romancing the bone. The acupuncture. The grape juice. The bed rest. I mean, does any of this actually make you pregnant?If it's really a bottle of cheap vodka and a weak moment that does the trick, this romancing the bone starts to look a little silly.
Still, I'll keep guarding these little frosties like they're actually kids. A few weeks ago, before the transfer and BFN, we drove by the clinic and waved at our six snowbabies. Gotta believe that these little guys, that mean more than anything, are that precious.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Throwing Embryos at the Wall
So my nurse tried to comfort me, via email, to encourage me not to give up hope. After all, I responded beautifully to the stims, we had a whole mess of good quality blasts, and our problem should be easy to overcome. To provide that ray of sunshine, she said, "Sometimes, it just takes several tries."
Only statistically, not so much. Statistically, if it was gonna happen, it shoulda. And I want there to be some really scientific reason this hasn't worked. Like, "Well, even though everything looked perfect and grew beautifully, it turns out your embryos are mutants from the Plant Zoron." Not the noncommittal, "hey man, keep tryin'--you never know when the vibe is right."
What I thought to myself is this: these embryos are not like spaghetti. I don't want to keep throwing them at the wall to see if they stick. I mean, I only get a finite number of tries at this. It's not like, "Eh, well, this month this didn't work out, so let's throw another $20k at it next month." So stick, damn it. I've already left you in the pot long enough.
Only statistically, not so much. Statistically, if it was gonna happen, it shoulda. And I want there to be some really scientific reason this hasn't worked. Like, "Well, even though everything looked perfect and grew beautifully, it turns out your embryos are mutants from the Plant Zoron." Not the noncommittal, "hey man, keep tryin'--you never know when the vibe is right."
What I thought to myself is this: these embryos are not like spaghetti. I don't want to keep throwing them at the wall to see if they stick. I mean, I only get a finite number of tries at this. It's not like, "Eh, well, this month this didn't work out, so let's throw another $20k at it next month." So stick, damn it. I've already left you in the pot long enough.
Just Like Her
I have always wanted to have a baby girl, to name her after my grandmother. My grandmother is kick ass. She is the grandmother everyone else wants. One friend even said that. He said, "I like your grandma more than mine. I wish I had yours."
She is a survivor: the oldest of 8 kids, the only one to stand up to her controlling, traditional father. She never went to college--she went to internment camp, where she met my grandfather. She raised four kids. She worked until she was in her late 80s. She made my wedding dress. She taught me that I was allowed to be whoever I wanted, that I didn't need to be "submissive" to a man--a direct contradiction to what I'd been raised to believe. A few years ago, we were at my parents' church and the crazy conservative pastor was talking about how spouses should be kind to each other. He said, "Husbands, when you come home from work, don't say to your wives, 'Make me dinner!' say "Honey, would you please make me some dinner?"
I whispered to my grandmother, "I don't know what I would say if some man said, 'Make me dinner.'"
And she, all 80-plus years of her, leaned back and said, sharp and fiesty as ever, "I'd say, 'Go to hell!'"
She is so strong. But her body is weak. She's in the hospital, and each day she looks smaller and smaller against the pillow. We believe and hope she will recover. I say to her silently, Please stay.
Please stay, I want to give you a Yoshiko.
She is a survivor: the oldest of 8 kids, the only one to stand up to her controlling, traditional father. She never went to college--she went to internment camp, where she met my grandfather. She raised four kids. She worked until she was in her late 80s. She made my wedding dress. She taught me that I was allowed to be whoever I wanted, that I didn't need to be "submissive" to a man--a direct contradiction to what I'd been raised to believe. A few years ago, we were at my parents' church and the crazy conservative pastor was talking about how spouses should be kind to each other. He said, "Husbands, when you come home from work, don't say to your wives, 'Make me dinner!' say "Honey, would you please make me some dinner?"
I whispered to my grandmother, "I don't know what I would say if some man said, 'Make me dinner.'"
And she, all 80-plus years of her, leaned back and said, sharp and fiesty as ever, "I'd say, 'Go to hell!'"
She is so strong. But her body is weak. She's in the hospital, and each day she looks smaller and smaller against the pillow. We believe and hope she will recover. I say to her silently, Please stay.
Please stay, I want to give you a Yoshiko.
Monday, January 19, 2009
All the Symptoms...None of the Joy
So DH and I spent a night in San Francisco over the weekend. It was great. We walked around our old neighborhood, ate at favorite restaurants, went running on the beach.
At dinner we had a major breakthrough: we talked about child free living. As in, we may do it. As in finally, finally, we may be pushed to the point that we're willing to accept defeat. That infertility may get the best of us.
Or perhaps, just that it isn't worth it. That there's something to be said for just learning to be happy for the things that made us happy before this big ugly mess.
With our first IVF, we were so far apart. We fought and suffered and tried to understand each other but didn't. But this time, we were just in love, tender and thoughtful as we comforted and appreciated one another. A couple facing a challenge, facing it together, knowing that no matter what happens--we have each other. We'll be okay. Maybe life's joys and journeys will be different than we expected. But we know that this is not the end of joy. If anything, maybe letting go of this dream means we'll get joy BACK, joy that feels lost right now.
We talked about this over dinner at one of our favorite restaurants, realizing if we had kids, there's no way we'd be there at 9:30 at night (we would have had to take the only other reservation time the restaurant every seems to offer--5:30). We took two hours to eat, and we ate too much, and we spent too much, and drank wine. It was lovely.
And then we went back to the hotel, and I got violently ill for no apparent reason. I threw up my entire dinner. And I couldn't help but think, "pregnancy symptoms, but not pregnant. Great."
So maybe we're not done yet. But soon.
At dinner we had a major breakthrough: we talked about child free living. As in, we may do it. As in finally, finally, we may be pushed to the point that we're willing to accept defeat. That infertility may get the best of us.
Or perhaps, just that it isn't worth it. That there's something to be said for just learning to be happy for the things that made us happy before this big ugly mess.
With our first IVF, we were so far apart. We fought and suffered and tried to understand each other but didn't. But this time, we were just in love, tender and thoughtful as we comforted and appreciated one another. A couple facing a challenge, facing it together, knowing that no matter what happens--we have each other. We'll be okay. Maybe life's joys and journeys will be different than we expected. But we know that this is not the end of joy. If anything, maybe letting go of this dream means we'll get joy BACK, joy that feels lost right now.
We talked about this over dinner at one of our favorite restaurants, realizing if we had kids, there's no way we'd be there at 9:30 at night (we would have had to take the only other reservation time the restaurant every seems to offer--5:30). We took two hours to eat, and we ate too much, and we spent too much, and drank wine. It was lovely.
And then we went back to the hotel, and I got violently ill for no apparent reason. I threw up my entire dinner. And I couldn't help but think, "pregnancy symptoms, but not pregnant. Great."
So maybe we're not done yet. But soon.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Nutting Butt Strings
DH and I did a frozen transfer. Silently, quietly, telling only a few friends and family members, hoping that the privacy would somehow spare us pain if it failed to work out. It is funny that you feel guilty for letting people down. You feel guilty for not being able to listen to the, "buck up, it will be okay," speeches you get when it doesn't work. The "I know you'll get pregnants," the "you'll be a great moms," the "everything happens for a reasons."
It didn't work.
It didn't work despite perfect conditions, good embryos, drinking grape juice and eating pineapple because supposedly that was supposed to do something. Laying on my back for three days; praying, praying; wishing, wishing.
I knew it didn't work. I started peeing on sticks. But still, you hope. Our blood pregnancy test was on Friday, and although I'd been doing tests at home every day, I didn't do one that morning. I didn't want to see the negative. I wanted to go in with a little hope.
But I knew in my heart it was hopeless. Of course it was hopeless. On the way home from the test (it's so hard to have your blood drawn when you know it will only bring you pain to hear the results!), I was distracted. I looked up at a billboard for a casino that listed its upcoming shows. One was "Nuttin' But Strings." And without even thinking, I said, out loud, "What are nutting butt strings?"
When I realized what an idiotic thing I'd just said, I started laughing. And it's amazing, that line between laughter and tears, because then I was crying, hysterically. At the same time. Miserable, and mirthful. Amused, and befuddled. Hopeful, and hopeless.
It didn't work.
It didn't work despite perfect conditions, good embryos, drinking grape juice and eating pineapple because supposedly that was supposed to do something. Laying on my back for three days; praying, praying; wishing, wishing.
I knew it didn't work. I started peeing on sticks. But still, you hope. Our blood pregnancy test was on Friday, and although I'd been doing tests at home every day, I didn't do one that morning. I didn't want to see the negative. I wanted to go in with a little hope.
But I knew in my heart it was hopeless. Of course it was hopeless. On the way home from the test (it's so hard to have your blood drawn when you know it will only bring you pain to hear the results!), I was distracted. I looked up at a billboard for a casino that listed its upcoming shows. One was "Nuttin' But Strings." And without even thinking, I said, out loud, "What are nutting butt strings?"
When I realized what an idiotic thing I'd just said, I started laughing. And it's amazing, that line between laughter and tears, because then I was crying, hysterically. At the same time. Miserable, and mirthful. Amused, and befuddled. Hopeful, and hopeless.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Our Little Miracle
I was sitting in the acupuncturist's office the other day, looking through a photo album of all the babies his patients have had--mostly birth announcements. I was amazed at how many included language like, "God's special gift," or "Our little miracle." Does Shutterfly write this stuff or something?!
Maybe it's cynical because it hasn't happened for me--at least yet--but I see myself writing something more like, "What was up with that bullshit, right?" I have to believe that there's something wonderfully transformative about the power of parenthood that you forget not only the discomfort of pregnancy and labor, the stress of the early days with late night feeds and explosive diarrhea--but also the tremendous, burning, rip-your-heart-out pain of infertility.
The fact that these people can see it as a miracle at all amazes me. From where I sit now, the miracle is that it doesn't happen. That for the world's overpopulation, the fact that except for aberrations like me, 1/2 the population can do this, often repeatedly, without exerting much effort (in the getting pregnant part, anyway), the series of drugs and precise scientific steps involved in fertility treatment, I still can't get pregnant. Yes, that strikes me as miraculous. But I guess they don't make a greeting card for that.
Maybe it's cynical because it hasn't happened for me--at least yet--but I see myself writing something more like, "What was up with that bullshit, right?" I have to believe that there's something wonderfully transformative about the power of parenthood that you forget not only the discomfort of pregnancy and labor, the stress of the early days with late night feeds and explosive diarrhea--but also the tremendous, burning, rip-your-heart-out pain of infertility.
The fact that these people can see it as a miracle at all amazes me. From where I sit now, the miracle is that it doesn't happen. That for the world's overpopulation, the fact that except for aberrations like me, 1/2 the population can do this, often repeatedly, without exerting much effort (in the getting pregnant part, anyway), the series of drugs and precise scientific steps involved in fertility treatment, I still can't get pregnant. Yes, that strikes me as miraculous. But I guess they don't make a greeting card for that.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Dinks...Stinks
When I was a kid, my aunt and uncle's house was like a giant playground for me and my 3 siblings. My grandparents lived close by, and my parents would stay there, and we'd hang out at Auntie L's and Uncle D's. They lived in a big, beautiful, new house, with the kind of furniture I wanted when I grew up and a big screen T.V. and a laser disc player (remember those?!). But what was really great was going to bed late, getting up and watching cartoons without making our beds first, banging away on my uncle's drums--a break from the normally strict household we grew up in, and I like to think we all got along better with each other as a result (but that part may just be me recreating history a little).
My aunt and uncle didn't have kids then, and it never occurred to me, as a 8 or 10 year old, that they might want to. I think we all naively assumed that they were there just to give us a vacation from our parents. It was a place where each of us felt loved and none of us felt judged. It was heaven.
My parents called my aunt and uncle "Dinks"--to their face, and behind their backs. Way back in the 80's, when "Yuppie" was a new word, "Dink" was even newer. It meant, "Double Income, No Kids." I think it was my parents' way of dealing with the jealously they must have felt, since they were loaded down with four kids, on one income, with pretty much nothing left over for them. They saw my aunt and uncle as free wheelin'. Since my parents called them "dinks," we did too.
How I wish, wish I could take that back now. My aunt and uncle struggled for many years to have children. I can't imagine how hard it was to watch my parents do it, again and again. (A couple who is not above telling you, "It was so easy for us!") To be taunted for the nice things they had, when knowing what I know now, I'm sure they would have given it all up if they could have just been parents. How they gave us so much love, so much acceptance, when (if they're anything like to me) they couldn't help but think, "why can't I have my OWN children?" They didn't love us less, but they had more to give.
Thankfully, they were able to. They had a son. The pain ended in something positive. I wish I could say the same for that horrible label, the label I regret, the one that I know may have hurt them, the one I naively and insensitively used. I wish I'd known better.
My aunt and uncle's house is still that haven for me. And they've been able to help me on my own journey, sharing the pain of an experience close to home. There's a lot better words I could use to describe them now. Like THE BEST.
My aunt and uncle didn't have kids then, and it never occurred to me, as a 8 or 10 year old, that they might want to. I think we all naively assumed that they were there just to give us a vacation from our parents. It was a place where each of us felt loved and none of us felt judged. It was heaven.
My parents called my aunt and uncle "Dinks"--to their face, and behind their backs. Way back in the 80's, when "Yuppie" was a new word, "Dink" was even newer. It meant, "Double Income, No Kids." I think it was my parents' way of dealing with the jealously they must have felt, since they were loaded down with four kids, on one income, with pretty much nothing left over for them. They saw my aunt and uncle as free wheelin'. Since my parents called them "dinks," we did too.
How I wish, wish I could take that back now. My aunt and uncle struggled for many years to have children. I can't imagine how hard it was to watch my parents do it, again and again. (A couple who is not above telling you, "It was so easy for us!") To be taunted for the nice things they had, when knowing what I know now, I'm sure they would have given it all up if they could have just been parents. How they gave us so much love, so much acceptance, when (if they're anything like to me) they couldn't help but think, "why can't I have my OWN children?" They didn't love us less, but they had more to give.
Thankfully, they were able to. They had a son. The pain ended in something positive. I wish I could say the same for that horrible label, the label I regret, the one that I know may have hurt them, the one I naively and insensitively used. I wish I'd known better.
My aunt and uncle's house is still that haven for me. And they've been able to help me on my own journey, sharing the pain of an experience close to home. There's a lot better words I could use to describe them now. Like THE BEST.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Strangers Become Friends
Okay, today I had a deep thought of the Jack Handey variety. Remember those, from Saturday Night Live, in the 90's? Who knows, maybe they still do them. It's just I can't stay awake for Saturday Night Live Anymore, so I wouldn't know.
Here's what I was thinking: in the past year, friends have become strangers, and strangers have become friends. Okay, it's hokey. But it's really true. I have all these relationships that have pleasantly surprised me. Some, people I was already close to, my aunt, my sister, a few good friends who've been better friends than I ever could have hoped for. But also, the unexpected. The friend who began as a friend of a friend, but shared her infertility story with me, and just checks in now and again. Or the friend who had a baby and struggles with her health and her daughter's, but wrote to me the other day, to see how I was doing. The women of my infertility group, who can commiserate when a family member says something hurtful, a treatment doesn't work out, or a drug just makes me crazy. What a loving, kind gift each of these women has given me.
But it's bittersweet. Because on the other side are the people who I'd thought would love and support me who haven't even bothered to call, to ask how I'm doing, to even offer general support, regardless of whether we talked about my infertility journey and how painful it's been. It doesn't matter what I do, trying to be a good friend: I know that they will never pick up the phone and say, "wow, what you're going through is really tough. Are you okay?" Forget that: I know they're not even going to pick up the phone at all. When they all had babies and I didn't, they stopped calling.
In the end, I know I am really, really lucky. Because someday, something a lot worse than infertility may hit my life. And I want the right people on my side, who will help me through it, who will help me weather tough times that seem insurmountable.
And I have them.
Here's what I was thinking: in the past year, friends have become strangers, and strangers have become friends. Okay, it's hokey. But it's really true. I have all these relationships that have pleasantly surprised me. Some, people I was already close to, my aunt, my sister, a few good friends who've been better friends than I ever could have hoped for. But also, the unexpected. The friend who began as a friend of a friend, but shared her infertility story with me, and just checks in now and again. Or the friend who had a baby and struggles with her health and her daughter's, but wrote to me the other day, to see how I was doing. The women of my infertility group, who can commiserate when a family member says something hurtful, a treatment doesn't work out, or a drug just makes me crazy. What a loving, kind gift each of these women has given me.
But it's bittersweet. Because on the other side are the people who I'd thought would love and support me who haven't even bothered to call, to ask how I'm doing, to even offer general support, regardless of whether we talked about my infertility journey and how painful it's been. It doesn't matter what I do, trying to be a good friend: I know that they will never pick up the phone and say, "wow, what you're going through is really tough. Are you okay?" Forget that: I know they're not even going to pick up the phone at all. When they all had babies and I didn't, they stopped calling.
In the end, I know I am really, really lucky. Because someday, something a lot worse than infertility may hit my life. And I want the right people on my side, who will help me through it, who will help me weather tough times that seem insurmountable.
And I have them.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Talk About Self-Centered
As fun as I find it to be surrounded by my family, it does sometimes seem like the holidays are all about other people and how much you're failing to please them or make them comfortable. I've had a lovely couple of weeks, but I'm exhausted--running around, here and there, hoping I made everyone from out of town feel loved and comfortable and special.
I tend to get a little resentful, I must admit--to think people are being self-centered when they're not showing up when I want them to, or saying the things I want them to, or refraining from saying the things I wish they wouldn't.
Today we had a get together and a good friend came, bringing her adorable 9 month old. He laughed and wiggled and giggled and batted his eyelashes. My mom wanted to hold him, my aunt wanted to hold him, my grandmother wanted to hold him. And inexplicably, this made me feel guilty. Like they'd want to hold my baby, if I had one, and somehow, I was letting them down.
As if they're holding a beautiful baby and blaming me for something. Or feeling like it has anything to do with me. Seriously, some people are so self-centered.
I tend to get a little resentful, I must admit--to think people are being self-centered when they're not showing up when I want them to, or saying the things I want them to, or refraining from saying the things I wish they wouldn't.
Today we had a get together and a good friend came, bringing her adorable 9 month old. He laughed and wiggled and giggled and batted his eyelashes. My mom wanted to hold him, my aunt wanted to hold him, my grandmother wanted to hold him. And inexplicably, this made me feel guilty. Like they'd want to hold my baby, if I had one, and somehow, I was letting them down.
As if they're holding a beautiful baby and blaming me for something. Or feeling like it has anything to do with me. Seriously, some people are so self-centered.
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