Here's to Fish Emulsion

The first time I did IVF, I religiously followed the rules about no exercise, no alcohol, no lifting more than 5 pounds, set by my paranoid, clueless, unrealistic RE. I didn't touch fertilizer, even organic, to be safe. I didn't lift a shovel or weed the vegetable garden. I didn't go whitewater rafting when invited. I didn't swim or run or bike or any real exercise. I was bored. I was boring. I walked around listening to meditation CDs. I had A LOT of time to think about infertility. I was stressed.

So tonight, I wanted my nightly glass of wine. That's pretty much how I roll. I like wine. I like it with dinner only, but I feel very Mediterranean or something at heart, because I feel wine and food GO together. But this time last year, I deprived myself.

I am a long way to actually doing IVF, but I thought, "Should I be safe? Should I stop?" and then I thought what I wrote about a few posts ago, "two tears in a bucket..." Which is worse? People seem to get pregnant just fine with a lot more alcohol in their blood--in fact, it seems to me that alcohol increases the chances. I don't know if no wine helps, but I can't tell you if stress decreases my chances, either. And I might as well be happy. Because I already learned that self-flagellation doesn't get you pregnant.

So I swim a few sprints every morning and give my rosebushes organic fish emulsion and raise a glass every night to not being pregnant, at least for the next three weeks. Enjoy it while it lasts. No non-baby is taking that away.

Congratulations! You've Just Won a Set of Lovely Steak Knives

I used to think the best thing you could get when you did IVF was a whole mess of leftover embryos, for your next round, when you wanted baby #2.

It's amazing, because even after deploring the moms who breezily talk about getting pregnant like it's as easy as making toast, I got pretty breezy about having embryos. Because when they tell you that you're lucky if you get 2 or 3, I had SIX. SIX. I could have a whole messa babies with six embryos. Or so I thought.

So far, 5 out of 8 tell me that embryos do not a baby make. Three are still hanging out there, and if I don't get pregnant with this fresh cycle, I can try again with the frozen ones. I feel COMPELLED to try again with the frozen ones. Which is why I hope I don't get any more.

I know, it's horrible. When so many women would love to have frozen embryos, I dread them. I dread them because it means yet another chance to get my hopes up, and have them dashed. I am now so tired of this process, I would rather do it fewer times, even though it lowers my chances of success.

I am also a realist. If I can't get pregnant off the first 5, the ones that are supposed to be "better" ones, why would the last 3 work? And how many times do I have to hear "NO YOU ARE NOT GOING TO HAVE A BABY" before I get it?! I feel like I've had enough chances already. I did not win the grand prize. At least let me take my steak knives and walk away with my dignity.

Now I have more sense. The best thing you can get with IVF is a baby. Not just pregnant, not just embryos, but a baby. And if I'm not going to get that, I'd rather not have the steak knives, thank you very much.

Lookin' Good

I don't look good in a bathing suit.

I'm not being self-depricating: it's just the way it is. In clothes, I can disguise wide hips and what I like to call a Buddha belly, the existence of which DH denies but the mirror, particularly at the end of the day, tells me exists. I'm not fat, but I'm not skinny, either, and I look skinnier in clothes.

So I was suprised last week, when trying on suits, to find that my new swimming club has actually helped tighten things up. Things are looking not better, but not as bad as they used to look. The real test is looking in the mirror at the mirror behind you, and not being absolutely horrified. And I wasn't.

And then I got mad.

I got mad that pretty soon, I have to stop swimming, even though now I'm one of the fastest of the slow group or the slowest of the fast group, depending on how you look at it. I can swim 3 or 4 strokes decently. And I don't look hideous in a bathing suit right now.

And I have to stop. I have to stop to put myself through this horrible process, which will probably cause me to gain weight, which will cause shortness of breath now that I can FINALLY swim 7 strokes without taking a breath. And the worst part? It will screw my body up, but I still probably won't get a baby out of it.

Not Doing Anything...NOT an Option

Telling someone about infertility for the first time is humbling. I know it shouldn't be, but it is. Particularly with moms, because you have to tell them that something they can do, you can't. Not like the splits, or french braiding, or tying expert knots. Something more basic, but also more fundamental, that makes you think you're not a whole woman if you can't do it.

I was recently reminded of this humility when I saw a friend who I haven't shared this journey with. For the third year in a row, her well-meaning husband asked us if we were going on a camping trip that only parents are invited on.

The first year I found out about this trip, I bawled my eyes out. It was a group of friends of which DH and I thought we were truly a fundamental part. I was so hurt that we would not be included by people we loved because we didn't have kids, especially because some of them knew we desperately wanted them (not this friend, but others). In my typically self-absorbed way, I wondered why we were any less loved or treasured as a result of our inability to procreate--something already painful enough for us. More likely, as this friend did, they just figured we weren't interested in kiddie chaos, that we might just want to RELAX while camping. But in my infertility-centered universe, that's not what it felt like. It felt like rejection, abandonment.

I would like to say that when her husband asked this year, I didn't care. But I did. It still hurt, even though I knew they didn't mean it in a hurtful way, even though it's so clearly not about me. Maybe that's the problem. The problem is that it's not about me. So still, I cried. I cried again, and I told myself, "You have to tell her." You have to tell her so you can stop feeling the loss not only of the parent you thought you would be, but the community you thought you would have.

It was hard. It was humbling. Admitting, "I want what you have, and I can't have it, and I feel excluded, and that makes me feel worse." I was afraid to say it, afraid she'd call me crazy, or worse, ignore me entirely. It's happened--probably to every infertile person I know--that someone you care about treats you like you never told them, like you don't even exist. It deepens the humiliation, when you already feel like you're kowtowing, nose in the dirt, unseen and forgotten. I dreaded her response, for this reason. Nothing is worse than something, anything.

And yet, it was so simple. Doh, or the equivalent, at least. Sorry, I didn't know. And suddenly, all the dread and rejection melted away, and I just felt glad I'd told her. All that stress of hearing something that would hurt left in an instant, when I'd carried it in the back of my mind for three years (yes, pitiful). You didn't know to protect me, because I never told you. But now that you know, you will.

Another friend once told me that she lost a friendship from childhood because the friend did nothing to acknowledge her father's sudden illness and death. Her friend told her, "I just didn't know what to do." And my friend thought to herself, "Doing nothing is not an option." How true. We only need to hear that our pain matters.

So a friend can tell me not to worry, can tell me to just relax, can tell me it could be worse, and I'll get over the fact that she said the wrong thing. I can see that she cares enough to try and relate to me. But if a friend didn't call when she knew I had a miscarriage, or didn't tell me she was pregnant, or ignored my pain--isn't it okay, even healthy, for me to let go? Inaction, inertia, are not victimless crimes. Inaction--at least to me--is not an option.