So last time I did this whole fresh cycle IVF thing, I had one embryo that got the doctor salivating. It was "very high quality" and it appears probably did get me, albeit so temporarily, pregnant.
Now, though, I'm not sure if it was overblown, to make me feel good, or if it was really an exceptional embyro. Because now when I talk to other people, they had the same quality or better, so maybe the doctor was just making me feel good. I think it's sort of like when you're a kid, and you bring home some really horrendous picture of a dog that really looks like a big brown blob, and your mom tells you it's beautiful, and you believe her because your picture isn't next to the one drawn by a child who could actually make a dog look like a dog. You get the idea. I thought that embryo was mighty fine until it was sitting next to everyone else's. (And of course, the only reason I cared is because it didn't make a baby.)
Anyway, we found out today that 3 of our embryos were frozen. This makes me happy because (1) it means we won't be transferring embryos forever and ever (we have a total of two frozen cycles remaining, and if it can't work by then, I'm pretty comfortable saying that it probably can't work at all and that I gave it a good old, overachiever's try), and (2) I bet my husband there would be three, which makes up for the bet he won about how many eggs we'd get at retrieval (my guess: 10) and now means I don't owe him the pizza he won.
But the really good news is that, although we got two embryos I'd classify in the "eh" range, we did get one with the grade "AA," the best you can get and even BETTER than the one the doctor oohed and aahed over last time. This is good news, right? But then I started to think--maybe that was my golden ticket. If the AA was sitting in the dish, does that means the ones that were put back in were crappy? And can't make a baby? Because what are the chances of getting two AAs? And how badly will I feel if I transfer that AA and STILL can't get pregnant?
How is it that I can turn this success into a failure? Welcome to infertility! There's only one golden ticket out there...
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
You Really Can Pee for Ten Seconds
Don't you hate it when you make a plan with someone, and then at the last minute, the person asks you if you really want to do it, and you wonder if they doubt it or if it seems like you doubt it and that's why they're changing things? Like you're going to get Thai food, and you get to the restaurant and then your friend says, "we can go somewhere else if you want." So you think: Do you want to something else? Do you think that I want something else? But what you're really thinking is, No, I just want to stick to the damn plan and get my green curry and pretend you never said that.
On Friday morning, the embryologist called to tell us things were moving along as they'd hoped. All 9 embryos were still plugging away. If we wanted to, we could wait until day 5. We had enough that were looking like they were supposed to look on day 3 to go to day 5.
But no, we already agreed to day 3. So let's not change the plan.
And then we got the clinic. They were running late--they'd called us to tell us to come 2 hours later than our original time, and were still behind--and I couldn't help but wonder if they'd erased us off the day 3 list and put us on the day 5 list, thinking we'd go for it. Sure, their success rates are higher with day 5 transfers, but I DID a day 5 transfer, and we all know how that went. So I wanted to mix it up. Like we'd agreed.
Anyway, they make you start drinking water before you arrive, and then they were behind, and by the time the doctor was ready for us, I was starting to feel...peaked. Dr. Yoda sat us down and he told us that things looked great--we had four "perfect" embryos and everything else was at varying levels of good or decent. Then HE started in with the "you could wait until day 5." And I'm thinking, No, I am sitting here right in front of you with urine in my eyeballs, so let's do this thing. But I just said, "No, let's stick with the plan," which he seemed to think was fine.
And then he said, in his calm, Zen voice. "Are you uncomfortable?"
Well, I did just drink 32 ounces of water and sit around waiting for an hour, so you could say that. So he says that I have to go empty my bladder part of the way. Like I can pee for a count of 10, and then I have to stop. I want to throw up I have to pee so badly, I'm fantasizing about the near orgasmic relief of urination, and I'm being told that I have to cut it off after 10 seconds.
The crazy thing is, I did it.
I did it, and it totally worked. I felt better. I felt calm. I went into the transfer room and had the chocolates again, and the sappy music, and I watched the shot of light as those three little perfect embryos were placed in the nice cushion of my not-too-thick-lining, and I shut my eyes for a moment and just wished. And I wondered if I was foolish or hopeful to do this again, when statistics tell me no, when they SHOULD have said yes because I am young and healthy. I wonder if it is foolhardy to risk this disappointment. I wonder if I have not learned that perhaps, this is not meant to be. I wonder if I have not learned anything.
But then I remembered this: if I have learned nothing else, I have learned that I can make myself stop peeing on command.
On Friday morning, the embryologist called to tell us things were moving along as they'd hoped. All 9 embryos were still plugging away. If we wanted to, we could wait until day 5. We had enough that were looking like they were supposed to look on day 3 to go to day 5.
But no, we already agreed to day 3. So let's not change the plan.
And then we got the clinic. They were running late--they'd called us to tell us to come 2 hours later than our original time, and were still behind--and I couldn't help but wonder if they'd erased us off the day 3 list and put us on the day 5 list, thinking we'd go for it. Sure, their success rates are higher with day 5 transfers, but I DID a day 5 transfer, and we all know how that went. So I wanted to mix it up. Like we'd agreed.
Anyway, they make you start drinking water before you arrive, and then they were behind, and by the time the doctor was ready for us, I was starting to feel...peaked. Dr. Yoda sat us down and he told us that things looked great--we had four "perfect" embryos and everything else was at varying levels of good or decent. Then HE started in with the "you could wait until day 5." And I'm thinking, No, I am sitting here right in front of you with urine in my eyeballs, so let's do this thing. But I just said, "No, let's stick with the plan," which he seemed to think was fine.
And then he said, in his calm, Zen voice. "Are you uncomfortable?"
Well, I did just drink 32 ounces of water and sit around waiting for an hour, so you could say that. So he says that I have to go empty my bladder part of the way. Like I can pee for a count of 10, and then I have to stop. I want to throw up I have to pee so badly, I'm fantasizing about the near orgasmic relief of urination, and I'm being told that I have to cut it off after 10 seconds.
The crazy thing is, I did it.
I did it, and it totally worked. I felt better. I felt calm. I went into the transfer room and had the chocolates again, and the sappy music, and I watched the shot of light as those three little perfect embryos were placed in the nice cushion of my not-too-thick-lining, and I shut my eyes for a moment and just wished. And I wondered if I was foolish or hopeful to do this again, when statistics tell me no, when they SHOULD have said yes because I am young and healthy. I wonder if it is foolhardy to risk this disappointment. I wonder if I have not learned that perhaps, this is not meant to be. I wonder if I have not learned anything.
But then I remembered this: if I have learned nothing else, I have learned that I can make myself stop peeing on command.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Creepy
I got the call yesterday. Of my 12 eggs, 9 were mature. All 9 fertilized. So I have 9.
Just like last time at this stage.
Do do do do, do do do do...
(That was the twilight zone, but I guess it doesn't translate well in "dos.")
Tomorrow is transfer day. Let's hope that the same # doesn't mean the same result.
Just like last time at this stage.
Do do do do, do do do do...
(That was the twilight zone, but I guess it doesn't translate well in "dos.")
Tomorrow is transfer day. Let's hope that the same # doesn't mean the same result.
Selfish Bastard
In the last few years, there's been a former classmate of mine who only contacts me when he wants something. I thought we were friends, but time has shown me that actually, I am just an endless supply of something good off which he can leech. Donations for a charity ride, but he never responded when I asked how it went. A good word with another acquaintance, with whom he was interviewing. It's a list of "random" hellos--at least that is how he characterizes it, when he contacts me out of the blue to ask me for something.
I thought the last time he called, when he wanted me to help a friend get a job where I worked at the time, I was cold enough to be clear. Also, I was less tolerant than usual, because in "catching up"--that is, sharing a few random facts about himself before asking me for something--he told me how he and his partner were trying to grow their family, and how it was more difficult than expected. I'd just done my first IVF, had my loss. The last thing I wanted to hear about was the travails of this self-absorbed acquaintance. (His partner, mind you, is a saint...I always liked him better, though you aren't supposed to say that.)
Anyway, out of the blue last week, I get another email from him. How am I, and how is DH. It's been so long. Now he wants a job where I work, and if I think it appropriate, would I pass his application materials to the powers that be?
Apparently, that wasn't a request, it was more of an order. Because this week I got another email, clipped and peeved, asking me to please pass the materials on because he wants to know they're getting to the right people. (Just send them yourself, dumb ass--the address is right there on the job advertisement, and it doesn't say "Attn: Former classmate you can leech off.")
I wonder--does this guy KNOW he's contacting me at the most inopportune times? I'm sure not, but still, I relished the response a good friend, who also knows him, sent me. So much so that I had to share it, both because it says what I wish I could say to him, and because it says something very real and raw about my journey in the last few years. So here it is:
Dear John,
I'm sorry that I didn't respond to your email within a time frame that is acceptable to you. I'm sorry I've acted selfishly and that my focus on my own problems has prevented me from appropriately prioritizing your needs.
Now, before you jump to your own defense by asserting that, gosh golly, you didn't realize I was going through a rough time right now, consider this. If you'd made any attempt at all to stay in touch during the times when you didn't need something from me, you'd know that I have been going through hell for the last few years trying to have a baby. You'd know that I've had all manner of people up in my female business, poking and prodding, testing, extracting, and reinserting; it's been painful, humilliating, violating. You'd know that I've had to surrender the idea that the process of creating a new life with my husband would involve any sense of privacy or intimacy. You'd know that I've been taking pills, sticking myself with needles, pumping myself full of hormones and hope. You'd know that my hopes were crushed when I had a miscarriage, that I had to endure a grief you will never know or understand, that I had to find a way to come to terms with that. You'd know that I've been agonizing with elemental questions of who I am as a woman. You'd know that I've had to redefine relationships, and re-draw the boundary lines in some friendships, that I've had to bear the weight of unintentionally cutting remarks and well-meaning but infuriating advice. You'd know that at the time you sent me your materials, that I was once again sticking myself with needles, that I was preparing my body for surgery - the surgery that would leave me in pain, but that would hopefully retrieve the eggs that will make a baby. You'd know that I was mentally preparing myself for what it means if this cycle works, while simultaneously strengthening my mental armor because I know all too well what it means if it doesn't. If you actually treated me like the "friend" that you call me in these once-a-year, "can you do this for me?" emails, you'd know all this.
Okay, maybe I shouldn't be enjoying this so much. But it helped me see two things: this guy has no idea where I am, and this friend knows EXACTLY where I am.
I thought the last time he called, when he wanted me to help a friend get a job where I worked at the time, I was cold enough to be clear. Also, I was less tolerant than usual, because in "catching up"--that is, sharing a few random facts about himself before asking me for something--he told me how he and his partner were trying to grow their family, and how it was more difficult than expected. I'd just done my first IVF, had my loss. The last thing I wanted to hear about was the travails of this self-absorbed acquaintance. (His partner, mind you, is a saint...I always liked him better, though you aren't supposed to say that.)
Anyway, out of the blue last week, I get another email from him. How am I, and how is DH. It's been so long. Now he wants a job where I work, and if I think it appropriate, would I pass his application materials to the powers that be?
Apparently, that wasn't a request, it was more of an order. Because this week I got another email, clipped and peeved, asking me to please pass the materials on because he wants to know they're getting to the right people. (Just send them yourself, dumb ass--the address is right there on the job advertisement, and it doesn't say "Attn: Former classmate you can leech off.")
I wonder--does this guy KNOW he's contacting me at the most inopportune times? I'm sure not, but still, I relished the response a good friend, who also knows him, sent me. So much so that I had to share it, both because it says what I wish I could say to him, and because it says something very real and raw about my journey in the last few years. So here it is:
Dear John,
I'm sorry that I didn't respond to your email within a time frame that is acceptable to you. I'm sorry I've acted selfishly and that my focus on my own problems has prevented me from appropriately prioritizing your needs.
Now, before you jump to your own defense by asserting that, gosh golly, you didn't realize I was going through a rough time right now, consider this. If you'd made any attempt at all to stay in touch during the times when you didn't need something from me, you'd know that I have been going through hell for the last few years trying to have a baby. You'd know that I've had all manner of people up in my female business, poking and prodding, testing, extracting, and reinserting; it's been painful, humilliating, violating. You'd know that I've had to surrender the idea that the process of creating a new life with my husband would involve any sense of privacy or intimacy. You'd know that I've been taking pills, sticking myself with needles, pumping myself full of hormones and hope. You'd know that my hopes were crushed when I had a miscarriage, that I had to endure a grief you will never know or understand, that I had to find a way to come to terms with that. You'd know that I've been agonizing with elemental questions of who I am as a woman. You'd know that I've had to redefine relationships, and re-draw the boundary lines in some friendships, that I've had to bear the weight of unintentionally cutting remarks and well-meaning but infuriating advice. You'd know that at the time you sent me your materials, that I was once again sticking myself with needles, that I was preparing my body for surgery - the surgery that would leave me in pain, but that would hopefully retrieve the eggs that will make a baby. You'd know that I was mentally preparing myself for what it means if this cycle works, while simultaneously strengthening my mental armor because I know all too well what it means if it doesn't. If you actually treated me like the "friend" that you call me in these once-a-year, "can you do this for me?" emails, you'd know all this.
Okay, maybe I shouldn't be enjoying this so much. But it helped me see two things: this guy has no idea where I am, and this friend knows EXACTLY where I am.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Same, Same--But Different
One of my favorite phrases from touring around Southeast Asia comes up, as so many catchphrases do, when a talented salesperson is trying to get you to buy something you really don't need. Let's say you're looking for a spoon, and all the vendor has in his little stand of random stuff is a pair of chopsticks. To convince you how well these chopsticks will work as a replacement for a spoon, the vendor will pretend to listen to your needs, hold the chopsticks up, shake them for emphasis, and say "Same, same. But different." As if they're exactly what you need.
Today was same, same--but I hope different. Like last time I did a fresh cycle IVF, I ended up with 12 eggs. But this time, I am hoping those 12 eggs are different in that they lead to an actual baby. I won't know until tomorrow how many eggs are mature, how many fertilize, how many actually grow so that they can transfer on Friday. I no longer care if it's 3 or 12 that make it to day 6. I only care about getting 3 on day 3, transferring them, and then being able to say we did all we could. Hopefully, a baby. But if not, at least peaceful.
So things are same, same, but they ARE different. We mixed things up, and I think things are better balanced both physically and emotionally. If our clinic thought it was a "perfect" cycle before (they said that! Two doctors said it to a woman who didn't have a baby!), they must think this is extra perfect. Hopefully, the results are same, same, but different. And if not--at least I hope I'M different.
Today was same, same--but I hope different. Like last time I did a fresh cycle IVF, I ended up with 12 eggs. But this time, I am hoping those 12 eggs are different in that they lead to an actual baby. I won't know until tomorrow how many eggs are mature, how many fertilize, how many actually grow so that they can transfer on Friday. I no longer care if it's 3 or 12 that make it to day 6. I only care about getting 3 on day 3, transferring them, and then being able to say we did all we could. Hopefully, a baby. But if not, at least peaceful.
So things are same, same, but they ARE different. We mixed things up, and I think things are better balanced both physically and emotionally. If our clinic thought it was a "perfect" cycle before (they said that! Two doctors said it to a woman who didn't have a baby!), they must think this is extra perfect. Hopefully, the results are same, same, but different. And if not--at least I hope I'M different.
Monday, August 24, 2009
All Right, Here We Go
I can't believe it: tomorrow, they're pulling my eggs. It feels real because (1) I'm a little bloated and uncomfortable, and (2) I just GORGED myself because I can't eat again until it's over, and I don't want to be too hungry. So I pigged out. (And have been trying to calculate how long it will take me to lose the overeating/medicating weight of this cycle, which I have to discount by adding back in the setback of my nightly glasses of red wine. My dear red wine--I DO miss you).
But here I am, ready to do this. And today I was talking to a friend and I said something and suprised myself by realizing it's actually true: getting pregnant no longer bears relation to me being happy. Is that crazy or what? Not to say I won't feel happy about being pregnant, if it happens. But it isn't straightforward, either. I'll have to worry about it not working out in the end, and feel apprehensive about the future and having a baby to take care of, and marvel and fret about being responsible for helping another person find his or her way in this world.
And also, it not working is not a death knoll to happiness either. Sure, I'll probably feel sad. And sure, my ego will be wounded, because try as I might, I am still shallow enough to believe the line of garbage that comes out of smug mothers, about how it's the most meaningful thing you can ever do, and it's what makes you a "woman," even though I already feel like a woman, even though I see a whole, complete person when I look in the mirror, even though I am afraid of that person being swallowed by a giant belly and then a small person with giant demands on my time, my energy, my career, my heart. If doesn't work, there are doors unopened, avenues unexplored--and it's exciting.
So there's a part of me that can hardly wait, just to know, that's bursting with excitement about what comes next, either way. To move beyond this, to feel it is no longer a weight I must carry and feel when I see an old friend with her baby, when I watch another belly grow, when I am asked a question about my child-bearing future that is not meant to injure. Oh sure, I'm obsessed with how many eggs I'll get, and if my lining is just right, and if my estradiol is high enough when last time it was too high. Hours of research say it's all where it's supposed to be, and being type A, that makes me feel "average" instead of blessedly, thankful, wonderfully normal. You can't take the type A out of the girl, ya know? If this is unsuccessful, I'll always care it never worked, but partly just because I think it should because I want it to, because all the conditions were right, because it should. Because I want to control it and can't. But hopefully, I've learned enough to appreciate the things that come with it not working. Not working doesn't mean failing anymore. Not controlling it doesn't mean things aren't exactly as they should be.
So wish me luck. I don't know what tomorrow brings, or the days beyond. But it's a start to something new, something I feel ready for. So here we go.
But here I am, ready to do this. And today I was talking to a friend and I said something and suprised myself by realizing it's actually true: getting pregnant no longer bears relation to me being happy. Is that crazy or what? Not to say I won't feel happy about being pregnant, if it happens. But it isn't straightforward, either. I'll have to worry about it not working out in the end, and feel apprehensive about the future and having a baby to take care of, and marvel and fret about being responsible for helping another person find his or her way in this world.
And also, it not working is not a death knoll to happiness either. Sure, I'll probably feel sad. And sure, my ego will be wounded, because try as I might, I am still shallow enough to believe the line of garbage that comes out of smug mothers, about how it's the most meaningful thing you can ever do, and it's what makes you a "woman," even though I already feel like a woman, even though I see a whole, complete person when I look in the mirror, even though I am afraid of that person being swallowed by a giant belly and then a small person with giant demands on my time, my energy, my career, my heart. If doesn't work, there are doors unopened, avenues unexplored--and it's exciting.
So there's a part of me that can hardly wait, just to know, that's bursting with excitement about what comes next, either way. To move beyond this, to feel it is no longer a weight I must carry and feel when I see an old friend with her baby, when I watch another belly grow, when I am asked a question about my child-bearing future that is not meant to injure. Oh sure, I'm obsessed with how many eggs I'll get, and if my lining is just right, and if my estradiol is high enough when last time it was too high. Hours of research say it's all where it's supposed to be, and being type A, that makes me feel "average" instead of blessedly, thankful, wonderfully normal. You can't take the type A out of the girl, ya know? If this is unsuccessful, I'll always care it never worked, but partly just because I think it should because I want it to, because all the conditions were right, because it should. Because I want to control it and can't. But hopefully, I've learned enough to appreciate the things that come with it not working. Not working doesn't mean failing anymore. Not controlling it doesn't mean things aren't exactly as they should be.
So wish me luck. I don't know what tomorrow brings, or the days beyond. But it's a start to something new, something I feel ready for. So here we go.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Paper or Plastic?
We had an appointment today, first thing in the morning. When we pulled up, there was a guy sitting in his car in the parking lot, and he looked familiar. And then when he came into the clinic, I realized who he was. He's a checker at my grocery store.
So one of two things is going on: either the guy from the grocery store who asks me if I want paper or plastic and gives me 5 cents for using my own bags, is either a sperm donor, or stuck in the infertility pit himself. I started to imagine him as a sperm donor, and think about how if he was and we used one, how weird it would be if it was him, and then we had a baby, and brought it to the grocery store, and he was the genetic father. Okay, that was a little far fetched, since we're not going to use a sperm donor, and if we were, I'm assumng we'd know who he was, at least a little. But it was interesting to let my mind float.
So my next thought was, I guess you never know. I guess someone else can live their normal life, that parallels your normal life, and yet--you're both stuck in the same mire. It makes me feel a little less sorry for myself. My pity party has to grow beyond one. I'll hope good things for him, and I'll hope good things for me. Paper, plastic, or...baby.
So one of two things is going on: either the guy from the grocery store who asks me if I want paper or plastic and gives me 5 cents for using my own bags, is either a sperm donor, or stuck in the infertility pit himself. I started to imagine him as a sperm donor, and think about how if he was and we used one, how weird it would be if it was him, and then we had a baby, and brought it to the grocery store, and he was the genetic father. Okay, that was a little far fetched, since we're not going to use a sperm donor, and if we were, I'm assumng we'd know who he was, at least a little. But it was interesting to let my mind float.
So my next thought was, I guess you never know. I guess someone else can live their normal life, that parallels your normal life, and yet--you're both stuck in the same mire. It makes me feel a little less sorry for myself. My pity party has to grow beyond one. I'll hope good things for him, and I'll hope good things for me. Paper, plastic, or...baby.
Monday, August 17, 2009
All the Single Ladies
What's just as bad as smug pregnant women is smug attached women. The kind that lord the fact they they have a partner over everyone who doesn't--we all know them. It's like the Seinfeld episode when the lady keeps yelling, "Where's my baby? What happened to my baby?" Meaning in her case, her boyfriend. And then Elaine pops up with, "Maybe the dingo ate your baby." (If you haven't seen it, you should--I'm sure it's on you tube.)
Anyway, I'll admit there seem to be fewer smug attached than there used to be, but I attribute this to 2 things. One is I'm attached, so they can't lord over me that they are. The other is a lot of them had babies, and are now lording that instead.
In any case, it's so frickin' obnoxious. And as catchy as Beyonce's tune may be, she still goes home to Jay-Z. I can't believe I know that, but there you go. We can all give our support, but the truth is that no one knows like the person stuck there.
I thought about this recently because I hung out with a few different friends that are unfairly unattached. I say "unfairly" because they don't WANT to be unattached. They just got kinda screwed in the "attached" department. And I feel crappy about it, just like I know they feel crappy about my infertility. But I know I also don't know exactly what it's like to be there, and I feel badly about that, because here I am complaining that I can't get pregnant with my husband. I mean, I GET a husband.
So not to be smug, but damn if I don't need to be a little appreciative. My husband is amazing. He's been doing all my shots and he has NEVER missed an appointment. He is making me dinner right now. We don't get it all, and it's not fair, but I get a lot other women get cheated out of--again, because IT ISN'T ABOUT DESERVING. I wish it was because some of those smug ones would step in dog poop every day or something. And to all the single ladies: you'd get it ALL. Whatever you wanted. You deserve it.
Anyway, I'll admit there seem to be fewer smug attached than there used to be, but I attribute this to 2 things. One is I'm attached, so they can't lord over me that they are. The other is a lot of them had babies, and are now lording that instead.
In any case, it's so frickin' obnoxious. And as catchy as Beyonce's tune may be, she still goes home to Jay-Z. I can't believe I know that, but there you go. We can all give our support, but the truth is that no one knows like the person stuck there.
I thought about this recently because I hung out with a few different friends that are unfairly unattached. I say "unfairly" because they don't WANT to be unattached. They just got kinda screwed in the "attached" department. And I feel crappy about it, just like I know they feel crappy about my infertility. But I know I also don't know exactly what it's like to be there, and I feel badly about that, because here I am complaining that I can't get pregnant with my husband. I mean, I GET a husband.
So not to be smug, but damn if I don't need to be a little appreciative. My husband is amazing. He's been doing all my shots and he has NEVER missed an appointment. He is making me dinner right now. We don't get it all, and it's not fair, but I get a lot other women get cheated out of--again, because IT ISN'T ABOUT DESERVING. I wish it was because some of those smug ones would step in dog poop every day or something. And to all the single ladies: you'd get it ALL. Whatever you wanted. You deserve it.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Little Boxes on the Hillside
When I first started going to my fertility clinic, I was bummed it was so frickin' far away. But I chose it because a friend got pregnant on an IUI there (HA! That was SO two years ago!), so I thought my chances were good. And I drove 30 or so miles in each direction, over and over and over again. And eventually, I started to hate the commute.
But now I'm GLAD it's so far away. It's not anywhere near my quaint little town, with it's tree-lined streets and historic homes. Instead, it's in a thriving, vibrant community of four lane streets, big box stores, and women who've had "work" done. If you've ever seen Weeds, it's kinda like Agrestic. You know, "little boxes on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky tacky..." (Well, if you haven't seen the show you should, because at least the early seasons are wicked funny.)
I'm realizing as I do this that I'm kind of already done. I've kind of already let it go, and I'm kind of ready to live the rest of my life, without babies. So the easier it is to disassociate the experience of fertility treatment with the realities of my life, the happier I am. Besides, I'm not ready to picture myself as a pot-sellin' soccer mom.
But now I'm GLAD it's so far away. It's not anywhere near my quaint little town, with it's tree-lined streets and historic homes. Instead, it's in a thriving, vibrant community of four lane streets, big box stores, and women who've had "work" done. If you've ever seen Weeds, it's kinda like Agrestic. You know, "little boxes on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky tacky..." (Well, if you haven't seen the show you should, because at least the early seasons are wicked funny.)
I'm realizing as I do this that I'm kind of already done. I've kind of already let it go, and I'm kind of ready to live the rest of my life, without babies. So the easier it is to disassociate the experience of fertility treatment with the realities of my life, the happier I am. Besides, I'm not ready to picture myself as a pot-sellin' soccer mom.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
The Biggest Loser
Today I went in for my first IVF appointment, to make sure I'm all normal before they go pumping me with drugs that make me entirely ABNORMAL. First, I got my blood drawn by the same medical assistant who was my personal cheerleader a year ago. She asked me, "Is this your second try or your third try?"
Oh. My. God.
This is totally my third try. Like practically everyone who gets pregnant from IVF is already pregnant, and here I am again. I mean, how many times do I need to be left behind?
And I had this wave of rememberance, all of a sudden. Of talking to DH about someone we'd known who'd done IVF three times, and wasn't giving up. And we thought, "What more do you need? The writing is on the frickin' wall."
And now who can't frickin' read?!
I felt like the biggest loser. Not in the good, drop 500 pounds kind of way. But like the, "this is so not going to work," kind of way. And the, "wow, you really didn't get what it takes to finish this, to say you're done" kind of way.
So now, I won't say I'm never doing this again, or be so judgmental about people who do it 10 times and never get pregnant. We all draw a line in the sand somewhere, and the sand shifts, so our line does too, or at least becomes so blurred we can't see it all the time. Or maybe it gets washed away, and when we redraw it, it's a little farther up the shoreline.
But damn if I didn't feel like an idiot. It wasn't enough to eat my humble pie, I had to choke on it.
Oh. My. God.
This is totally my third try. Like practically everyone who gets pregnant from IVF is already pregnant, and here I am again. I mean, how many times do I need to be left behind?
And I had this wave of rememberance, all of a sudden. Of talking to DH about someone we'd known who'd done IVF three times, and wasn't giving up. And we thought, "What more do you need? The writing is on the frickin' wall."
And now who can't frickin' read?!
I felt like the biggest loser. Not in the good, drop 500 pounds kind of way. But like the, "this is so not going to work," kind of way. And the, "wow, you really didn't get what it takes to finish this, to say you're done" kind of way.
So now, I won't say I'm never doing this again, or be so judgmental about people who do it 10 times and never get pregnant. We all draw a line in the sand somewhere, and the sand shifts, so our line does too, or at least becomes so blurred we can't see it all the time. Or maybe it gets washed away, and when we redraw it, it's a little farther up the shoreline.
But damn if I didn't feel like an idiot. It wasn't enough to eat my humble pie, I had to choke on it.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
If Not Better, At Least Different
Shortly after our first IVF failure and chemical pregnancy, a friend told me that it would make me a better person. I wanted to knock her over the head with a bowling ball. Who wants to be a better person? That's what Mother Theresa is for. Or Princess Diana. Or Michael Jackson. Or--I don't know--someone who isn't me. I am JUST FINE the way I am, a little too self-absorbed, I grant you, but still. (And I was just kidding about Michael Jackson, and sort of about Princess Diana. If you couldn't tell.) I wanted to be a mother, like her, screw a better person.
I don't know what "better" means. But as I start my last fresh cycle and what I consider the beginning of the end of my fertility journey, I know this: I wouldn't undo any of it.
I know. That is some F*&ked up s$%t. But here's the thing: I don't know where I begin and infertility ends anymore. I don't know what kind of person, what kind of mother, what kind of partner I would be if I hadn't lost a part of myself to this. And gained a part of myself too. I am not the same person, because of what I've been through.
I used to think jealously about what moms knew that I didn't, about who they were that I wasn't. But now I see parenthood as something separate from me, something I may never experience. And so I see it more honestly than I might have. Perhaps a wiser woman would have seen these things, these things that make her an individual, apart from motherhood. But I am not that woman. Parenthood was a destiny.
And now it's not. So I see it differently, like a hidden camera, for what it is. And I can see that it is easy to love and hard to live. And infertility has woven itself so tightly into who I am that I can not extricate, and do not want to. So I can say: I have lost myself to infertility for too long, and no matter what, I will never, never lose myself to parenthood.
I remember this cheesy quote from some years back, the kind you write in yearbooks. It said something like, "I am not like anyone else. I may be no better, but at least I am different." This is true. And in this, I can see infertility is a gift--not a death sentence. It made me different. And now, I want that difference, perspective, clarity. I treasure it. I am lucky. I am blessed. So maybe yes--I am BETTER. Better not than anyone else, but who I used to be.
I don't know what "better" means. But as I start my last fresh cycle and what I consider the beginning of the end of my fertility journey, I know this: I wouldn't undo any of it.
I know. That is some F*&ked up s$%t. But here's the thing: I don't know where I begin and infertility ends anymore. I don't know what kind of person, what kind of mother, what kind of partner I would be if I hadn't lost a part of myself to this. And gained a part of myself too. I am not the same person, because of what I've been through.
I used to think jealously about what moms knew that I didn't, about who they were that I wasn't. But now I see parenthood as something separate from me, something I may never experience. And so I see it more honestly than I might have. Perhaps a wiser woman would have seen these things, these things that make her an individual, apart from motherhood. But I am not that woman. Parenthood was a destiny.
And now it's not. So I see it differently, like a hidden camera, for what it is. And I can see that it is easy to love and hard to live. And infertility has woven itself so tightly into who I am that I can not extricate, and do not want to. So I can say: I have lost myself to infertility for too long, and no matter what, I will never, never lose myself to parenthood.
I remember this cheesy quote from some years back, the kind you write in yearbooks. It said something like, "I am not like anyone else. I may be no better, but at least I am different." This is true. And in this, I can see infertility is a gift--not a death sentence. It made me different. And now, I want that difference, perspective, clarity. I treasure it. I am lucky. I am blessed. So maybe yes--I am BETTER. Better not than anyone else, but who I used to be.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
