laughingthroughinfertility

An Update

2010-04-08T19:20:00.001-07:00

I didn't know anyone read this, anymore, but a few days ago, someone asked for an update. I'm touched that anyone cares, and at the same time, conscious that I don't want to hurt anyone out there on her own journey, who still finds it painful to hear of others' successful journeys or confused by the fact that people who are pregnant still find things to complain about. I must warn you--we do.

There have been a lot of things I've thought about writing since I got pregnant. A lot of funny things. Pregnancy has its own little weirdness, it's own moments of hilarity.

But it had its heartache too. It hasn't been easy. It wasn't easy when I started bleeding at 14 weeks, and was told I had a subchorionic hematoma and a 60-70% chance of losing the pregnancy, that there was nothing I could do but wait. I hemorrhaged and cried and held tight to my husband and to my hope--but I didn't lose them.

It wasn't easy at 26 weeks, when a funky test result suggested I might deliver in the next two weeks, with dangerously premature babies. I had a steroid shot to mature delicate little lungs, and I held my breath and try to stay calm--but I didn't deliver.

So now here I am, 34 1/2 weeks pregnant, and hoping and ALMOST ready to expect that in a matter of a couple weeks, I'll be the mother of two beautiful baby boys. But you know what? Life stayed complicated. I still fear, sometimes, that they're not going to be born. Or something is wrong with them. Or I won't be a good mom.

I know it a blessing, a blessing, to be here. But the update is--life goes on. And I'm still wishing the best for all of you out there, on your own journeys.

Just a Regular Pregnant Person

2009-11-07T04:05:00.000-08:00

When I used to ponder whether I'd ever get pregnant, I worried about the uncertainty that came with it-the lack of assurance of staying pregnant and having a baby. I'd talk to friends who had children about moving from the uncertainty of infertility to the uncertainty of pregnancy. And they'd say knowingly, "Get ready, because it's going to be that way for the whole nine months." Which caused me to believe that being pregnant would be just as stressful as infertility.

That, I can say with some experience, is bullshit.

Not to say I don't worry during pregnancy. Not to say that I don't have trouble sleeping the night before an ultrasound, before I'm going to make sure my babies (yes, babies! Two!) are still growing the way they're supposed to. But the fear of holding on to something you already see within your reach, with a steady, steady heartbeat, with hands and arms and legs, is so different than the fear that you'll never get that chance at all. There's a lot of uncertainty in pregnancy, but there's a lot of reason to be hopeful too. Whereas infertility is a time of such immense fragility, where the unknown hits you again and again with such disappointment that you must protect yourself from believing it will ever be different, or risk of coming completely unglued. For me personally--I can't even compare the two.

At first, I tried. A few weeks ago, when I first "graduated" from the infertility clinic, I was complaining to a friend about what little attention I was going to get from my ob. Two ultrasounds! Two, the whole pregnancy! Whereas during IVF, you have them every other day, and that's just to look at your frickin' OVARIES, not babies. (Of course, I paid a pretty penny for those daily glamour shots.) And what she said was, "Yeah. I guess you're just a regular pregnant person now."

In a way, I guess I am. I made it through the first trimester, and I didn't develop a rare complication, and my babies don't look deformed, and they kept growing and their hearts keep beating. It went the way it was SUPPOSED to go, something a person who's experienced infertility can never really believe will happen.

And so now, I feel like I've been blessed with a wonderful gift. And as much as infertility is a challenging, developing, deepening experience, no one can call it a gift.

Which I guess is why I don't think I can blog here anymore. This blog is about making it through infertility, and that's something totally different than making it through pregnancy. I know all my good friends out there who take the time to read this--the same ones who took the time to call me, or cry with me, or hold my hand literally or figuratively through infertility--I know they'll also celebrate this new chapter in my life with me. To them I say, Thank you a million times over. I can't wait for my children to know you. I hope you will teach them like you've taught me.

But I guess I want my last message here to be to those women who are still fighting the fight of ovulation predictor kits, catheters of sperm, counting follicles, shots of progesterone in oil. Or maybe, letting go of this dream, or finding a new path to motherhood. To them I say, Yes. It really is as hard as you think it is right now. It is not illogical, it is not blown out of proportion, it does not continue this way forever. Know that getting to the end of this road doesn't mean you forget your journey through infertility. It will always be a part of you. And I hope your next road leads you somewhere exciting, taking with you the same blessings I feel infertility is given me.

Do I REALLY Feel Sick?

2009-09-22T21:38:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, when living in Bolivia, my husband and I went with our host family to watch their children dance in a school festival. They were very excited about it ahead of time, yet strangely, due to circumstances not relevant or explicable here but perfectly logical in Bolivian culture, we didn't make it in time for the show.

But we stayed to watch the rest of it anyway. And about halfway through, I realized I needed to be sick (not an uncommon thing for me in Bolivia). But I didn't know where to do that. So I sat very still, looking green and breathing deeply. I watched the last hour of the show, and I rode home in a small van filled with 20 other people (this is a Bolivian "bus") on a dirt road for half an hour more. And then, the minute we were home, I literally ran to the bathroom and threw up.

All that to say, it seems I can hold it when I need to, and that comes in handy. (Can you see where I'm going with this?)

Even at just six weeks pregnant, I've had some weird nausea, and I'm dead tired. But I was hanging out with some family members recently, and they were suggesting that maybe me feeling sick so early in the pregnancy was just psychosomatic. I almost agreed. But then the other day, I get on a plane to LA in the morning, and there was some wind when we landed, and it was a little bumpy. And I keep thinking to myself, a la Bolivian dance recital, "I have GOT to throw up." But I didn't. I sat there with the same steely resolve for the 15 minutes it took to land and taxi. And then we landed, I ran off that planed and thanked God that for some reason, there was an empty, single stall handicapped restroom in front of me. And I puked my guts out so that little blood vessels around my eyes popped and I have these small red dots on my face.

Psychosomatic, my ass.

Screw "Cautiously Optimistic"

2009-09-11T22:02:00.000-07:00

When I had a chemical pregnancy, I was told to be "cautiously optimistic," even though there was no reason to think things would work out.

Now, with my numbers rising normally but still so, so early in the pregnancy, the nurse is again telling me to be "cautiously optimistic."

I say, screw cautiously optimistic.

I say, it took me two and a half years and $30,000 and three rounds of IVF to get here.

I say, I have no control over whether this will be a healthy pregnancy or not.

I say, I might as well enjoy being pregnant while I am.

I say, if it doesn't work out, I'll bawl my head off whether I try to be cautious or not.

So that means that I say, I might as well just enjoy this moment, right now, at a place I've never been, at a place I had to fight so hard to get to. So I'm optimistially optimistic. Done with that caution shit.

The Death Star

2009-09-11T21:48:00.001-07:00

Okay, warning: This story is going to be sort of crass and gross. You can't say I didn't warn you.

So like all women who have fought and pushed and shoved their way through infertlity, I find it almost impossible to believe I am actually pregnant, and that I will actually stay that way. So two days ago, when I noticed just a little spotting, I was terrified. It was bright red. I'd heard brown was okay, but not bright red. Bright red is bad.

So I called my nurse. She said, in a serious, this-could-be-bad voice, "It's possible you just have some irritatation from the suppositories." For those of you who don't know, women who go through IVF receive supplemental progesterone. I get it two ways, lucky me: a morning shot in the butt, and an evening suppository.

I have to admit, by the time I put those suppositories in, I'm deleriously tired. Maybe not so careful. But I'd never bled before. My nurse said, "every cycle is different," but I wasn't sure. And then she told me to put the suppositories in the other hole.

Ugh. They were uncomfortable enough in the accommodating hole, but I did as told. I swear, it was like the Death Star. If you don't know what I mean, just recall that there was a tractor beam that sucked unwilling ships in, and then they lodged there uncomfortably.

But there you go--it's what I had to do, and I did it. And it turned out she was right. Because I didn't have any more spotting, and I went in for a "peace of mind" beta, and it's all normal. Hard to believe, right? Me, normal.

Here We Go

2009-09-07T18:00:00.000-07:00

I can't help it. I love musicals. They're generally mindless and fun and are great for singing in the shower. I can belt out "Dance: 10, Looks: 3" from a Chorus Line, or listen to my husband mimic Jean Valjean from Les Mis, and I can't help but be in a better mood.

Anyway, there's a few lines from a song in the musical Rent that have been stuck in my head all day.

Who knows where
Who goes there
Who knows
Here goes

There's lots more to the song. But it's about jumping into something new, not knowing where it leads.

Which is how I feel about what happens now. Because we got a call from our clinic like we've never received before. A call to say, "Congratulations. You're pregnant." Not kind of pregnant. Not with borderline numbers. Just normal, legitimate, pregnant.

So I don't know what it means--for everything that's come before, for everything that comes after. But for now, it means I stop talking about trying to get pregnant. Right now, I enjoy where we are.

Here we go.

Damn, This is Familiar

2009-09-05T03:44:00.000-07:00

When I am NOT trying to get pregnant, life can be very zen. I can just go to the dog park and watch my Bolivian street mutt run wild, eat a delicious vegetrian Vietnamese dinner, and sack out on the couch around 10:30. (And that's a FRIDAY night.)

When I AM trying to get pregnant, I can do all those things, but then wake up at 2:30 in the morning and obsess. I have my first beta tomorrow. I have made two decisions:

1. I have to stop looking at anything fertility-related on the Internet. I am sure that if I looked hard enough, I could find a study that says I'm .0005% more likely to have a three headed baby because I did IVF. So you can imagine how easy it is to find stuff that tells me that all my treatment is destined to fail.

2. I will not take a home pregnancy test. Why bother? It's like Santa Claus--even when I have proof he doesn't exist, I still believe. Even when I get those BFN (big fat negatives), I think, "oh, maybe I drank too much water," or "this is a bunk test," or "maybe it's just a really FAINT line."

The funny thing is, what I'm really dreading is a call from the nurse on Monday that it didn't work. And the main thing I'm dreading is not that it didn't work, but that she has to TELL me it didn't work. I feel sorry for her. This is totally illogical. First, because I don't know whether it worked or not, so I'm throwing in the towel a little early, mentally speaking. And second, because whether it not it worked, she is going to be glad to get off work early on Monday. It doesn't matter to her, not really. And it shouldn't; I get it. It's a job. It's like when my clients get sued. Not my problem, even though I feel sympathetic. (And ultimately, in this perverse way, keeps me working.)

Maybe it's just a mask for my true emotions. Who the heck knows. But it sure felt good NOT to feel this for awhile. And I'm going to start making a list of all the things about my life, my life right now, that I love JUST THE WAY THEY ARE. So I can remember that I'm not always the crazy girl blogging at 4:00 a.m.

You Have GOT to be Kidding Me

2009-09-03T20:19:00.000-07:00

I was feeling pretty good until a couple days ago. Then the true me, the Type-A me, took over again. I started to obsesses about how it's already worked or it's already failed, and I just don't know. So I'm freaking out, and it's amazing and distressing how familiar it is. The funny thing is, my automatic reaction is that I'm not doing THIS again anytime soon! If this doesn't work, I'm ready for long swims and tall glasses of wine and my vacation on the beach! So I'll be calling again for another extension on our contract...

But part of my freak out is also becuase not one, but TWO friends this week called to tell me they're pregnant. I so appreciate that people do this, and I so hate how it feels when they do. The feeling has gone away, but resurged this week. What I feel like is a loser. Like, "Yeah, I wanted that two years ago, and here I am in the exact same situation only $30,000 poorer and 24 eggs shorter. But hey--don't feel bad--it's not your fault."

And it's not their fault, and I don't blame them, and I love them for loving me enough to tell me. And I just have to remind myself--I'm almost done. And the life I get if it doesn't work? I like that life. I spent $30,000 not to have a child, but to try to have a child.

But still. Karma could have been kinder to me this week.

My Golden Ticket

2009-08-31T21:46:00.001-07:00

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...

You Really Can Pee for Ten Seconds

2009-08-30T14:48:00.001-07:00

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.

Creepy

2009-08-27T22:19:00.000-07:00

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.

Selfish Bastard

2009-08-27T21:49:00.000-07:00

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.

Same, Same--But Different

2009-08-25T18:09:00.000-07:00

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.

All Right, Here We Go

2009-08-24T21:11:00.000-07:00

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.

Paper or Plastic?

2009-08-21T21:30:00.000-07:00

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.

All the Single Ladies

2009-08-17T21:14:00.000-07:00

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.

Little Boxes on the Hillside

2009-08-13T20:26:00.000-07:00

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.

The Biggest Loser

2009-08-12T18:42:00.000-07:00

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.

If Not Better, At Least Different

2009-08-02T19:41:00.000-07:00

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.

Here's to Fish Emulsion

2009-07-14T22:13:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-09T22:10:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-07T21:05:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-03T22:36:00.000-07:00

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.

Shirking Duty, Shirking Reality

2009-06-30T22:24:00.000-07:00

This weekend, DH and I went to the finish line of the Western States, a 100 mile run. No kidding. It was pretty amazing to see some of those finishers come across the line, completely delirious, unable to tell if it was people cheering them on or cows laughing at them or giraffes dancing a merry jig. This race showed me that if you run 100 miles, you may literally go crazy.

I ended up talking to this guy who had finished the race 11 or 12 times. He entered this year and gave up around mile 20 or 30, but he wasn't bothered. (Unlike the 20-something Swedish guy he kept pointing at--that guy looked pretty depressed. No wonder. Sweden is far, and it's not like the Sacramento Valley tops the Swedish list of must go places. ) Anyway, he started telling me his life story, which is basically that he'd spent his whole life doing extremely strange and inhuman athletic activities, including the 2nd Ironman Triathalon ever. He was totally believable in that sinewy, old hippie kind of way, like the kind of guy who didn't know cycling shorts were or had been wearing the same wool socks since 1981.

He was also 65 years old. Amazing. The guy had lived in Hawaii for years (since the 2nd Ironman Triathalon, actually), and from what I could tell, spent most of that time camping. He told me his big break came at age 60, when he qualified for senior housing, which was very discounted, and he got a roof over his head. He had a friend who had paid for his trip, was staying with another friend. He was quite the nomad, and a little bit of a mooch.

And get this--his name was Shirk. I didn't want to ask him if it was a metaphor, because he shirks real life. I just figured it all fit together in a groovy, cosmic way, and if Shirk was happy, I was happy for him. He was a cool old dude. The world balanced out for him.

Of course, Shirk made me think about infertility. (What doesn't, right?) He made me think about how I'm seriously wanting to do some shirking of my own, with the next cycle coming up. And it's not like I plan to lay on a beach in Hawaii. I plan to be responsible as ever and pay my mortgage and my student loan and work hard. I'd just like to do it without shots and craziness and...failure. I am really sick of failure.

Seems to me, Shirk's got things about right...

Two Tears in a Bucket

2009-06-15T21:03:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, I read the excellent book Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. There were many great, literary things about the book, but I guess despite being an English major, I'm a little lowbrow. Because the most memorable thing to me was the phrase of a sharp-tounged transvestite talking about things not going your way. Her reaction, handed down from the generations, was "Two tears in a bucket, motherf$*k it."

Yeah, crass, I know. But I'm starting to feel that way. I just had my last period before I have to start IVF #2 (#3? I don't know how you count a frozen cycle...): amazingly, almost a year to the day from IVF #1. Before it was anxiety and hope. Now, it's anxiety and dread. Dreading the needles, the stress, the craziness...and the likely disappointment. Tired of failing for the sake of failing.

Before, it was acupucture and supplements and meditation. It was days off after transfer to do nothing but obsess about getting pregnant, laying on my back. It was worrying about how many frozen I'd get, whether I'd get two kids. Ha. Not so this time. This time its red wine and working a lot and exercising as much as I can, seeing if I can not get horribly out of shape and maybe even train for a triathalon without breaking my stride with this three week break of shots and misery. This time it's feeling resigned to the misery of the few weeks, but hoping that what's on the other side is even better. Pregnancy, maybe, and maybe not. Maybe more red wine, working hard, getting in shape. I hope that in two months, when I'm actually finishing a round of treatment, what I'm saying to myself, at worst, is, "Two tears in a bucket..." Life goes on.

Gettin' Kicked out of the Club

2009-06-02T22:09:00.000-07:00

Being part of an infertility group is great, except for one thing--when it works, you get kicked out.

It make sense. I mean, if you're in the middle of a treatment, or dealing with a failed one, it's hard to hear and see the success of others. Women struggling with infertility get it. It may sound callous but we understand it's self-protective; that while we see the line between you and me, the line is a thin veneer, sometimes almost indistinguishable. The flood of your positive emotions can bring a flood of my own, and those emotions can be ugly or sad or raw.

The problem is, relationships are personal. If you are really start to have a friendship with someone, you don't want to just cut it off. They're not in your club anymore, but they don't get kicked out of your heart.

I have a good friend who has succeeded in her journey to pregnancy. I miss her in the infertility group. But she's still my friend, and I feel lucky to have her. I know for her, the uncertain journey to parenthood has its own challenges, just as the uncertain journey to pregnancy did. I know it's a tough road, made tougher by the fears infertility instills. So I hope that even though she can't be part of the infertility club, I can still support her as my friend.

And that reminds of the "Mommy Club," because this person is the same one who introduced me to the concept. And I feel no fear of losing her to it. Sure, I know she may get obsessed with burpies and onesies and God knows what else that I don't get. It's normal. I get playgroups and mom support groups. They make sense. My sense of loss has nothing to do with the recognition that moms need support from one another, and need to share the unique experience of parenthood with each other.

What doesn't make sense is to stop relating to someone because what they experience is different from what you experience. THAT is what makes life richer, right? You're a mom, I'm not--you've got perspective I don't. I'm infertile, you're not--that has perspective too. It doesn't mean you don't care about me now, that you don't share with me or listen to me, that you only promise the hope of some kind of relationship if I'm ever like you. Because maybe I never will be.

So the benefit of a friend who has done it and gotten to the other side is that she sees both sides. She knows what it feels like to be where I am, and she knows the challenges of being where she is. Sharing both of that is what convinces me that a good mom can also be a good friend. Seems kinda serious if we're supposed to be laughing, I guess--but it makes me happy to think about what else she'll teach me; what else we'll share.

Is It a Prius or What?

2009-05-25T20:37:00.000-07:00

We're car shopping. We haven't had to spend a lot of money on infertility lately, my new job came with a good pay increase, and I'm driving more. Hence, car shopping.

Here's my ideal car: it goes fast and gets there quickly, it handles well, it makes no noise, it gets great gas mileage, it's comfortable, and it feels sporty but if I have a baby ever in this lifetime it will be practical. Does it exist? No. Is it weird and sad that the closest thing we can find is a Toyota Prius?! Because seriously, what else can be all those things AND a baby mobile? If you have ideas, please weigh in, because right now we're pretty sure we're going to be in the Eco-bubble...

No Time For Infertility

2009-05-22T20:30:00.000-07:00

I hardly blog anymore. The truth is, I'm too frickin' busy. I hardly ever get home before 8 p.m. My job keeps me hoppin'. I completely, 100%, love, love, love it. The work is good. The pay is good. The challenge is good. The boss is good. It's ALL good.

And it's a blessing. I have about zero time to think about infertility or anything else. I remember hearing this broker guy on the radio who, in the heyday of the stock market, didn't have time to go to the bathroom until 11:30 a.m. And now I understand. I mean, nature calls me before that, and I listen, but you bet your ass I'm thinking about something I need to be doing while I'm there.

So, no blogging. But no hurting about this, either. Today in the bathroom, my thought was, "How the heck am I going to have time to have a baby?" I understood, for the first time, why some career women wait until they're 95. Cause if you don't have time to pee, how the heck can you have time for children!?

Who Hears Me?

2009-05-21T20:40:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, I think the only people reading this blog are people who have to hear me bitch anyway. Those people are super frickin' patient (thank you to unnamed people in Boulder, Truckee, Oakland, Los Angeles, and throughout the Sacramento area--I know I torture you so). But recently I got an email from someone to tell me that she'd read the blog and sent it to people struggling with infertility, and I remembered that actually, a crazy stalker in Cambodia could be reading this, for all I know.

Just kidding--that's not what it made me think at all. What it made think is, "Thank you." Thank you for telling me you heard my voice, and thank you for telling other people. Maybe this friend understands infertility in a way she didn't before. Maybe her friends suffering from it feel less alone than they used to. Or maybe, I am just hugely self-inflated and like knowing what I say matters to someone, that this time I could spent watching the playoffs with my husband right this second is not wasted.

Well, regardless. Thank you. And if you are reading this, and you are one of those women angry or sad or just wanting, wanting a baby, let me assure you: You are not alone. We are united, and we are united in part by women who are loving and kind enough to hear our voices.

Who Wants These Feet?

2009-05-19T20:12:00.000-07:00

I am not a hideously ugly person, but I am not particular attractive either. I have size 11 feet, and they're skinny and flat. I have wide hips and a nose that moves when I talk and funny round cheeks.

And I'm not super gifted. I can pat my head and rub my tummy but I can't break a 10 minute mile, hardly ever. I do decently in tests but I don't have the attention span or dedication or probably the brain to be an Ivy-leaguer. I can't read an entire Economist and I'm always grateful for the map at the front, that bottom lines the news. I laugh too loud and I ask nosy questions and I think there only needs to be one of me in the world.

So I never really felt the need to replicate who I am in a child. That's never been what infertility is about for me. I know those people are out there, who want a "Mini Me". I am not one of them. I don't need that. I'm not that great. And frankly, I'm not wild about sticking a kid with my husband's 20/4 billion vision--and his feet aren't a picnic by any means, either.

But the thing is, my my totally awesome, amazing grandmother died. I can't really talk about it except to say how it totally sucks. Except to say that I can't help but think to myself, "What if I had a child that was a little piece of her?" What if I could have a daughter that could stand up to the world when it was cruel and ugly? What if my son could see how to open his heart and his home to anyone, lovingly and trustingly and hoping always for the best? I want that. I want to feel her, to see her every day. Is that a reason to procreate?

It's MY Life I Envy Now

2009-04-13T21:55:00.000-07:00

I used to look at friends who had babies or were pregnant, and I wanted their lives. But something really weird has happened lately. Lately, I want my life.

I go to a friend's house for dinner and her son poops in the bathtub, and I want my life.

I listen to another friend's baby scream for the spoon at the dinner table, at the top of his little lungs, becuase he wants to hold it himself, and I want my life.

I listen to a friend talk about the discomfort of pregnancy, and I want my life.

Maybe it would all be different if I didn't need to self-protect, if I really thought we could have a baby if ew wanted one. But I don't think we can, and suddenly DH and I are filled with so much doubt that we don't know if we want to finish treatment. Is it worth it, the shots and the retrieval and the uncertainty? Suddenly sleeping in and travelling abroad and dinner in nice restaurants doesn't seem like such a death sentence.

Maybe some of it is that the people that have stood by me through the struggle of infertility, with kids or no, have shown me something important. That I'm good enough the way I am. I fought for a long time with the feelings of rejection, of failure, that came from not being invited on things I could participate in, because I wasn't a mom. Feeling on the outside by people who saw me on the outside, caring about getting in, without thinking about whether I really wanted what I'd get.

But my friends who never do that, who let me see their kids (who are, frankly, absolutely adorable!) poop in the bath and scream at the dinner table, they've shown me something not only about parenthood and friendship, but something about myself I'd lost sight of. That my life is already full and rich and complete. Not only is that starting to feel like enough, I'm starting to feel like parenthood means giving that up. And I don't know if I want to.

But if I ever a mom, I hope I can be like them. :-) Pardon my language, but they're fuckin' rock stars.

Spring Cleaning

2009-03-20T08:07:00.000-07:00

I'm between jobs, with a few days off, and the weather's been nice. So it seems like the right time to start some spring cleaning. You know--dust off the baseboard and moulding, rearrange the closets, wash the curtains.

My garage is in pretty good shape, except that draped under sheets is a whole mess of baby stuff some friends generously gave us about a year and a half ago. A couple strollers, a bouncy chair thing--that kind of stuff. Stuff that feels super useful when you've got a baby, but is just hogging valuable space in my garage in the meantime.

I also have a book a friend lent me about two years ago, about a woman who had trouble conceiving but eventually had children. I used to tell myself, "I'll give this book back when I get pregnant." I dreamed of attaching a cheerful note that said something like, "Thanks for the inspiration. We knew that if we just kept at it long enough, our turn would come. Thankfully, it's here!" I put the book in the closet that was going to be the baby's closet, if we ever had a baby. But I cleaned out that closet the other day, because DH and I have been unnecessarily cramming all our stuff into one small closet this whole time, preserving valuable space for a person who doesn't exist, and it could be put to better use.

So it's time to get rid of the book. Do I send it back, without the note? Do I keep holding out in the hope that someday, I'll write it? And what if we don't have kids at all? Do I return the strollers and bouncy chair? Do I ever admit out loud, "Thanks, but we don't need these things. We're not going to have kids."

I don't have to decide now. Maybe I don't have to decide ever. Leaving those things sitting in my garage doesn't make them any less wasted than they already are. Our friends don't need these items back. These things will not determine for us whether we have children.

And I know that one spring, when the air is losing its chill and is fresh and cool and pure, when the sun begins to shine and my rosebushes start to sprout little red leaves and children are playing in the park across the street, I will clean those things out of my garage. Maybe it will be because my kids have outgrown them. Maybe it will be because we're never going to use them. One spring, I'll know. But not this spring.

How to Tell an Infertile Person You're Pregnant

2009-03-18T13:55:00.001-07:00

In the course of infertility, a lot of people I know have gotten pregnant. A lot. Enough that you'd think I'd be used to it, that it wouldn't hurt. But it does. Again, not that they're pregnant. But as a painful reminder that I'm not.

Some people are better at sharing the good news than others. The worst was the friend who didn't bother to tell me at all--the one I learned about on Facebook, days after my miscarriage, when what I'd buried under a rosebush still felt like a whole, true, real, complete person. The best happened just a few days ago.

Granted, I can't help but wonder if it's getting easier because I'm more used to being infertile, or because I'm not on drugs anymore, or what. And it was on email, so I didn't have to smile if I didn't feel like it. (Only I did feel like it, so that wouldn't have been a problem.)

What my friend said is, "I'm pregnant! It's exciting!" And then she said, "The fact that you aren't pregnant, after everything you've been through, totally sucks. And I really admire you for being so strong."

I guess it was the last sentence that makes the difference. Call me egotistical, but it feels good to hear, "You're so strong to have come through all this," instead of "I feel so sorry for you that you've come through all this." Maybe it's semantics, but it mattered to me. I'm tired of being pitied. It's nice to feel admired. And actually, it makes me feel stronger. Those are the gifts women give each other, babies or no.

No, I'm Not Dead

2009-03-13T10:33:00.000-07:00

I can't believe how long it's been since I've blogged. But it's for good reason. I have good news--I am no longer struggling with infertility.

Don't get too excited! I'm not PREGNANT. I mean, that's how I always thought it would end, with the successful completion of treatment. But now I see there's something successful just about getting through the harrowing process at all.

Which I haven't. But I never believed in a pause in the struggle--these "breaks" I heard other women talk about. I just told myself, "get it over with get it over with get it over with." Get pregnant get pregnant get pregnant. Have a baby have a baby have a baby.

But then. But then you get pushed to a place that's so painful, so acute, that your mind and body--at least mine--say "No. No. You are not going to do this anymore."

So I'm not.

I'm me again. I don't lay in bed with the weight of the pain and panic of infertility heavy on my chest, crushing me. I don't cry every time I talk about what treatment is like. It doesn't hurt each time I see a friend who is pregnant, or hold a baby. Okay, lots of times it still hurts. But not every time, and I've learned to distinguish the pain of failure and being left behind--a real pain, that I'm really struggling with--from the pain of being childless, which actually has very little to do with it. Being a mom is no longer the most important thing.

Not to say that it's over. It's not over. But it's a pregnant pause. Okay, pun intended. The point is, I made a decision that I couldn't keep doing this to myself, and I'm not, and I feel better. (It probably helps that I'm not confused by fertility drugs.) I'm starting to feel unsure whether having kids is the right thing at all. And I'm feeling positive about where my life is headed--I'm starting a new, promising job soon, I love my husband, I've taken all kinds of short vacations and mini-breaks and spent time with some amazing friends lately.

Like the other night: I was having dinner with another couple who have struggled with infertility without success, and for the first time, we were talking about how great it is to not have kids--how much fun we were having as individuals and as couples, exploring things we wouldn't have the freedom to explore if we had the responsibility of children. It's nothing personal to people who do. Trust me, I'd rather be in your position. But if I'm not going to get to be, and that looks possible, at least I'm learning how to make the best of where I'm at. It isn't all bad.

Burgers, Brew...and Snuggle

2009-01-25T20:07:00.000-08:00

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.

Romancing the Bone

2009-01-21T13:00:00.000-08:00

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.

Throwing Embryos at the Wall

2009-01-20T20:52:00.000-08:00

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.

Just Like Her

2009-01-20T08:33:00.000-08:00

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.

All the Symptoms...None of the Joy

2009-01-19T20:22:00.000-08:00

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.

Nutting Butt Strings

2009-01-17T20:14:00.000-08:00

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.

Our Little Miracle

2009-01-13T18:53:00.001-08:00

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.

Dinks...Stinks

2009-01-06T13:16:00.000-08:00

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.

Strangers Become Friends

2009-01-05T18:22:00.000-08:00

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.

Talk About Self-Centered

2009-01-01T22:04:00.001-08:00

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.

Nickled and Dimed

2008-12-11T19:35:00.000-08:00

I've heard that when people buy houses, and they're sitting at the closing table, they argue over the little fees--$50 to the courier, $75 for recording--not the big ones. They lose sight of the fact that the mortgage broker is robbing them blind because they just can't stand that those little numbers are eating at them when they're already paying so much.

This week, I got a bill for my next frozen cycle: $2,900. Only on the buy one get one plan I'm on, the actual cost is only $500. And I'd already paid it. When I called to explain this, they agreed, and erased the charges. Only they said I owed $125 for a blood test I had two months ago.

$125!? For a frickin' blood test!? For $125, someone should have to DRINK my blood. I obsessed about that blood test all day. Never mind that I've already paid them nearly $20,000 for an unsuccessful IVF. Totally nickled and dimed.

Or, as a friend pointed out, Granted and Benjamined.

Just Fold the Frickin' Towels Right and We Wouldn't Have This Problem

2008-11-26T15:46:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine was pregnant last year and spent a good part of her pregnancy lamenting her husband's complete inability to understand that yes, there was a baby coming, and yes, that made her feel physically like crap. I find the same thing happening all the time in the course of infertility treatment, when DH can't understand why I don't feel cheerful after a shot or an unsuccessful treatment or a drawn out appointment. (He's excited because he knows that if we're at the clinic, we'll go get a cinnamon sprinkle bagel afterward, so maybe it's a conditioned response.) So I guess I have more of the same to look forward to, if we ever do get pregnant.

Last night reminded me that this inability to get where I'm at isn't unique to reproduction, however. DH recently got promoted, and he's been super busy, and I've been working at home a lot, so I try to take care of stuff so he doesn't have to. So last night I had a class, but before I went, I went grocery shopping, cleaned up the house, made dinner, made fresh chocolate ice cream, skipped a shower even though I hadn't washed my hair in 2 + days, and dashed out the door without having the time to wash dishes. I explained this to him, and he said he'd do it.

When I got home, DH hadn't done the dishes, because he'd lost his wallet and was frantically looking for it (it does not matter that I have a designated spot in the house for his wallet, mostly for my own convenience, so I don't have to stand around waiting when it's time to go somewhere). But still, I get it. He was busy looking for the wallet.

Only he still went running. I explained to him that this was frustrating. It was 10 pm and the kitchen was a disaster, and tonight we're making a cheesecake for Thanksgiving. I explained that it seemed like he was making what he wanted to do a priority, but not what I wanted him to do--even though I get why you don't wash dishes when your wallet is missing. I just don't get why you do go running.

Anyway, he apologized for this. And then about two minutes later, he decided the solution was to make the cheesecake. He loves to bake. Unfortunately, it appears he hates doing the dishes so much he's programmed himself to not even hear what I'm saying when the word "dishes" is in the sentence. No interest in cleaning the dishes; every intention of adding to the shit pile for me to clean up the next morning, despite our conversation two minutes back (even in dog years, that's only like 15 minutes).

A few years ago, I went to a conference at which a woman made a joke that many women in the room seemed to get, "What do you do when your husband helps out by folding the towels?" And everyone answered, "You refold them." And I thought, why the hell would you do that? But now I know. You do it because no matter how many times you explain the supreme way you do things, your husband keeps insisting on doing it wrong. If he'd just learn to fold the frickin' towels, we'd all get along.

Sex is for Fun

2008-11-17T19:57:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine who knew, before she got married, that she and her husband were facing male factor infertility problems, said something refreshing and smart, without seeming to even think about it. She said, "We always knew sex was just for fun."

Fun.

It used to be about fun. It used to be about oh-God-oh-God-my-period-better-start-because-I-can't-have-a-baby-with-this-moron. (Not DH--of course--before that, in younger, dumber years.)

I wish I'd taken that to heart in my own marriage. I wish I hadn't started to think of sex as I did--as proof of failure, of what we couldn't accomplish the "natural" way. It's weird because I never thought about the baby-making capacity of sex for years, and then it became like the main reason to have sex.

No wonder men think of infertility as a cruel, confusing trick. All of a sudden their partners are only willing smack in the middle of a menstrual cycle. It becomes a task, with a purpose, with a designated outcome, and when the outcome eludes you, you square your jaw and become more determined and try harder and worry less about how it makes you feel about your relationship and whether there's any intimacy to the experience.

Then infertility treatment makes it even worse. It's hard to feel romantic after a vaginal ultrasound, a hysteroscopy, an IUI. You get so tired of a roomful of people participating and cheering in what you always pictured to be a private moment. As much as I like the sperm lady's cheerful countenance and Dr. Yoda's silent smile, I certainly didn't expect them--or anyone other than DH--to be there when we conceived a child.

But hey--at least we get sex back. That's the good thing about infertility. It stops making any sense to think about it in terms of babymaking--it only drives you crazy. If you can just let go of the strangers in your business when you're on the table, and remember the bedroom is still yours, it is once again fun.

If Only Life Were Like TV

2008-11-06T18:34:00.001-08:00

I was home alone last night, doing other things with the TV on in the background. (Horrible, horrible habit. Must stop as soon as baby is in utero.) There wasn't anything I much wanted to see on, so I ended up watching a show called Private Practice, which was new to me. As far as I could tell, it was a random assortment of wealthy, horny doctors with no particular medical speciality. They sleep around and have various ethical dilemmas, all of which end with pensive staring or loving hugs or poignant betrayals.

One ethical dilemma focused on infertility--although there was literally not one other case in the practice as part of the storyline, to tell me whether they were all supposed to be reproductive endrocrinologists. I won't get into the details of the story, though, because it was pretty mundane, as story lines on over-the-top prime time dramas go. What I found so fascinating is the way Hollywood makes infertility look--like all you do is yank an egg out, swirl it around in a petri dish with a happy little sperm, pump in back in, and there you go, you're pregnant. Instead of the heavily anestheisized process that is actual egg retrieval, egg retrieval in Hollywood involves a perky blond, sitting up and awake during the process, asking, "Okay, you've got my eggs?" (Whereas I know that every woman asks, based on a sample size of two, is "How many eggs did you get?" desperately and groggily, several minutes after it's over, hoping never to experience the horror of Gonal-F again.)

Then came the fertilization part, which involved everyone who wanted to be there, perky blonde and her parents included, standing around in a room while the doctor dramatically announced, "I'm going to fertilize the egg now." Egg, as in singular. As in no embryologist, just a little needle and a nice little egg. We shoot it up and you're pregnant by the end of last commercial break. Now THAT is a fantasy.

Finally, Something to Be Happy About!

2008-11-04T22:37:00.001-08:00

Today I'm happy in a completely non-self-involved way, in a way that has nothing to do with getting pregnant or having babies (other than hoping that the world my babies come into is a nicer one than the world today). I'm happy and hopeful about our President Elect, the distinguished senator from Illinois, the soon to be first African-American president of the United States, the most inspiring presidential candidate of my voting life. It's not me I'm happy for, it's all of us, this country, fertiles and infertiles alike, those who understand and those who don't, those with health insurance and those bearing the brunt of IVF life a punch to the financial gut (with the stock market kicking us while we're down).

But at the same time, I have to acknowledge Proposition 8. I like to go to bed around 10 (left to our own devices, DH and I have been known to fall asleep at 9 pm on a Friday night, while slothing it on the couch), but I find myself trying to prop my eyes open at almost 11, so I can see a turnaround. So I can see that my brother, married to a wonderful man in London, can have his marriage acknowledged here in his home state, just as my parents had their interracial marriage acknowledged 37 years ago (just a few short years after the Supreme Court said that prohibiting interracial marriage was unconstitutional).

I think of infertility, and how when something doesn't go right, I think Isn't it enough already? And then I think of my brother, never able to have a child genetically-related to both he and the love of his life. Not only fighting for parenthood, a battle doubtlessly tougher than my own, but fighting for the very right to have his relationship acknowledged just like everyone else gets.

I am not grateful nearly enough, not nearly enough.

Shikata Ga Nai

2008-10-29T09:16:00.001-07:00

My grandmother is one of those wonderful old ladies with charming catchphrases that have become an inextricable part of my vocabulary. "I don't know him from Adam." "I'll see you when I see the white of your eyes." "It's hotter than Haedes."

I recently thought of one of these phrases while visiting the doctor's office: "The right hand doesn't know what the left hand is doing." Dr. G had a plan for me, which included having an IUI and then a frozen embryo transfer a week later. He felt this would increase our chances of conceiving, even though the whole reason we had IVF was male-factor and no one was very hopeful IUI would work. But we'd already met our out of pocket maximum for the year, insurancewise, and were willing to go along.

Then we saw Dr. Yoda, and he flatly told us he disagreed with Dr. G. He explained that he has more history and knows about us and IUIs, and it doesn't make sense. He feels it makes sense in cases where the couple only has 1 embryo. But we have 6. These are very different views on the same subject.

I decided I agree with Dr. Yoda. But it's frustrating that they're each having this conversation with me, instead of talking to each other. It's not that I'm super traditional and need a doctor to tell me what to do--I wouldn't fall for any sweet-talker in a white lab coat, I hope--but it seems like they either need to decide one guy is in charge or find a plan, then tell me about it.

But I guess they've been doing it this way for a long time, and I'm just a drop in their very large fertility bucket. Which makes me think of another of grandma's phrases. "Shikata ga nai." Japanese for "It can't be helped," something I think she learned to say living in internment camp. It's a sort of "what the hell, nothing I can do about it." Which is how I feel right now, about this whole stinkin' process.

Shikata ga nai.

Who You Callin' Baby?

2008-10-28T19:03:00.000-07:00

I used to play this game with myself. I'd think of a friend I loved, who was trying to get pregnant, and I'd think, "I'll just have to get pregnant while X is pregnant, so we can share the experience together."

Let me tell you, in most cases, X is no longer pregnant.

X had a baby, a long, long time ago.

X probably has a toddler now, a screaming, verbal beast. X will try to talk to me about how bad infertility is, but it will be punctured with comments over the shoulder, "No sweetie, don't rub your poopies on the wall." "Honey, can you please tell her not to rub her poopies on the wall?" Followed by, "Oh, sorry. I KNOW what you mean. Those infertility drugs are horrible." X does not know what the infertility drugs feel like. She is sleep-deprived and overwhelmed. She is mentally calculating how she can help pay for college by having her pre-teens babysit my unborn child.

They try, and I can't blame them. It's their kids. They're supposed to stay babies, but they don't. They grow up. They get personalities. They demand attention.

And I'm still not pregnant.

Dreaming in Infertility

2008-10-20T20:28:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I woke up in a panic. I dreamt that DH left me because he met someone else. We were living in an apartment that is not where we live. We didn't have a dog. It wasn't our furniture. In short, nothing about the dream was realistic--except that I was thinking, in the back of my dream-brain, so who gets the embryos? It's like when you learn another language and you start dreaming in that language--I'm dreaming in infertility.

Anyway, as much as I try not to, when I wake up from these dreams I can't help but feel a little pissed at DH. It's a dream. I mean, I'm awake. And yet I wake up thinking, You bastard, how could dream-you do this to me?

But it did get me thinking. In all the stuff I find myself caught up in, I don't often think, Wow, I am so lucky not to have a lying, cheating scumbag of a husband. (Actually, he's much more than that. He's a loving, supportive, funny, smart, wonderful partner, who I can wake up when I have these dreams to hug me and assure me that no, he is not going anywhere.) I am lucky to have an adorable Bolivian street mutt, a group of great friends, a really amazing family. In short, a good life.

It may not be enough, but it's something that deserves acknowledgement, and I fail to give it too often. Until the lying, cheating, scumbag of a dream-husband enters my world to remind me things could be a lot worse.

I Want to be the Grasshopper!

2008-10-15T17:02:00.001-07:00

Remember that old fable (made into a Disney cartoon) about the ant and the grasshopper? The industrious little ant works away, storing up goodies for the winter, and the lazy grasshopper hangs out in the hammock. But then at the end of the story, at least the Disney revisionist history version, the generous ant shares his bounty with the grasshopper, and everyone has a good laugh.

I've decided I want to be the grasshopper. Because actually, the main thing wrong in that story is assuming that being the ant pays off. DH and I are careful with our money, partly because we just believe in living a modest lifestyle, partly cause we're paranoid from parents who threatened homelessness when really it was nowhere near, and partly because we've known for a long time that IVF was likely to become a reality in our lives.

But then. But then we spent the money on IVF, and it failed. And then the value of our house dropped below what we paid for it in 2004. And then our retirement accounts fell by 25%.

And then the fertility clinic told me it was going to be another $500 to do a frozen transfer (my contract made it look like it was all part of the fee I already paid).

You'd think I'd sweat the big stuff. But no. No, I'm sweating that last $500. My first car cost $500. This feels like insult to injury. And I think about friends we have, friends who don't save for retirement and just buy whatever they want whenever they want, and have babies whenever they want. And I think, "If those people were starving like the grasshopper, I would not be sharing my summer berries." Only I know I would, so I think if I'd do it for them, they'd do it for me. So I need to go find my own ant. Cause being the ant is a waste of time.

Can't Get Any Sleep

2008-10-14T19:09:00.000-07:00

I woke up at 4:30 this morning, unable to go back to sleep. Since I was going to get up at 5:20 anyway to catch a train, I thought, "I'll just get up now and take the early train." I figured that I could, as always, go back to sleep once I got on it. As I pulled out of the driveway in the early morning dark and hopped on the freeway, headed for the station, I realized I really did not have my full faculties. I vacillated between 60 and 70 miles per hour with no rhyme or reason, the exact kind of driver I avoid when I'm not that driver (semi-comatose).

Anyway, I was very much looking forward to my train nap. I got on and found the perfect seat. Four seats (two on each side) facing each other, one girl fast asleep in the seat kitty corner from me, the other two empty. I plopped down, pulled my beanie over my eyes and got ready to drool on myself.

"Excuse me," a deferential voice, and I looked up from my stupor. I expected a geeky college kid, with pimples and a backpack. Instead, it was a gigantic man in a suit with a briefcase. Probably about 6'5". He wedged himself in next to Sleeping Beauty, who didn't open her eyes, right across from me. His knees were practically at his ears, yet he managed to nod off in minutes.

Not so me. I crunched my legs to the side, I moved my head left and right, and I struggled for the sleep I'd planned on. And for the first time, I thought about child-free living. There's plenty of sleep with child-free living.

Rebajame, Pues!

2008-10-13T21:56:00.001-07:00

I've never been very good at bargaining, whereas DH loves it. We were on Koh Samui in Thailand a few years ago and we kayaked to the "Big Buddha" (a random, gigantic statute out on a point) and DH didn't bring any shoes, and you needed shoes to get in. So we start wandering around the stalls in front of Big Buddha, and he chanced upon a store that happened to carry flip flops in size 12: a feat (no pun intended!) in itself, in Thailand. Anyway, DH started bargaining for them. I was imagining this darling little granny shrewdly calculating and thinking to herself, "This dumb, shoeless American is desperate for size 12s on a remote beach in Thailand. I'm getting top dollar." Instead, when he offered her a ridiculously low price and said with a charming grin, "Oh c'mon, I really want them," she batted her granny lashes at him and caved. Unbelievable.

Anyway, I don't have that magic touch. I started to learn the necessity of bargaining a little bit when we lived in Bolivia, because I started to actually know how much things should cost. For a discount, you just needed to tip your head back, look down your nose in pleading exasperation, and say "Rebajame, pues" (which roughly translates to "give me a discount, c'mon") and you'd usually end up with a shy giggle and a little reduction or an extra tomato.

What I've discovered is that you can apparently do a little bargaining in the world of infertility, too. I'm not sure to what extent I can take this, but I'm thinking I should push the envelope a little. You know, like "I already spent $100 on two pregnancy tests. Maybe now you can give me two for $50." Or maybe I should go even further: "Well, I hear some people get like 40 eggs. And I only have 12. So maybe you should give me a discount on the embryologist's fee. I'm subsidizing the overproducers here." It might not work, but I'm beginning to lose my pride, so it's worth a shot.

I guess the fertility clinic is like the little granny in Thailand, though. It's got all the cards. Hopefully, it will be as generous as she was.

Don't You Just Hate Sarah McLachlan?

2008-10-09T11:18:00.000-07:00

Have you ever seen that commercial Sarah McLachlan does for the SPCA? I frickin' hate that commercial! I mean, I spent $1,000 and countless hours having my dog, a common street mutt, shipped here from BOLIVIA. I love her, a whole lot. Yet--Sarah still makes me feel guilty, that I'm not adopting every other dog the SPCA cares for. I cry the minute I hear "in the arms of an angel..." and so I change the channel, as fast as I can, when that sappy ad comes on.

Maybe it's because I'm about to start my period, but I have to say, a video I recently saw (http://www.tearsandhope.com/) with some equally sappy music had me feeling weepy too, even though my computer will only load the first half. I immediately wanted to tell everyone I know, "watch this video!" but given how much I hate the large number of random forwards I get each day, I refrained. Still, if someone wonders, even for a moment, what infertility feels like, they can get is a sense almost as quickly as they understand corporate culture from those "Teamwork" posters you see in offices everywhere--simple words, simple images, DEEP meaning. (Yes, that's sarcastic.)

But the point is this: when infertility hits your life, it hits every aspect. It overwhelms you. You miss your old self. You miss your old friends. You miss your old life. And you can't make any of it what it was, because the baby isn't there. The baby that never was there, the baby you didn't know was missing.

Sarah McLachlan and the arms of her angel. Humpf.

Today I Don't Need Anything

2008-10-08T11:48:00.000-07:00

When I first came back from the Peace Corps, and I was going to have to get a "real" job again, I was terrified. I had just come from a country where men made $2 a day digging ditches for the city government, and I was worried about making enough to cover my student loan payments and mortgage. And I felt confused, conflicted.

But I read something that helped me get through it, that I repeat to everyone who will listen. "Today I don't need anything, today I have enough." It helped me get through it. And it helps me get through this, too.

What's There to Be Scared Of?

2008-10-01T15:57:00.000-07:00

When I moved to London for a year abroad in college 10 years ago, a friend of mine asked me, "Aren't you SCARED?"

It was a strange question to me. What was there to be scared of? Soggy food? Bad teeth?Pubs closing at 11? C'mon--these people speak English--could it get any easier going abroad?

But she couldn't relate. She thought it was brave, brash almost, to hop on a plane at 20 and get off in the hustle and bustle of black-snotted London (gotta love the diesel!). To me, it was an adventure.

I find myself on the other side of that equation now, as I get ready to move forward with more fertility treatment. I talked to a friend recently who did several treatments before one was successful. She had two chemical pregnancies. And it was clear from talking to her that she never, not for a moment, doubted that she was going to get pregnant. No fear.

I don't get it. Because here I am worrying that my blastocysts are all mutants, that pregnancy is almost beyond my reach and achieving it will only happen by a desperate, last ditch grab. Maybe some of it is not having that fierce determination I hear in other women to get pregnant. One woman wrote on a fertility forum that she got through the challenges of fertility treatment and miscarriage by telling herself, "NOT having a baby is not an option."

Perhaps I too easily resign myself. Because for me, it is. I don't have any problem with adopting, even though I know I wont' be ready for that for awhile. I can't help but wonder if my confidence has melted away with my resolve.

I Didn't Know IVF Could Be a Door Prize

2008-09-30T09:42:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-29T21:37:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-28T15:48:00.001-07:00

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

2008-09-24T16:39:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-23T18:26:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-23T10:35:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-21T21:58:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-09-19T22:16:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-17T22:56:00.001-07:00

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

2008-09-16T21:54:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-15T21:52:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-15T09:31:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-09-11T09:29:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-10T10:01:00.001-07:00

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

2008-09-09T22:10:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-09-09T19:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-08T14:31:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-06T17:54:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-03T18:19:00.000-07:00

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.

You Can't Laugh All The Time, Right?

2008-08-30T05:06:00.000-07:00

Even when laughing is the whole point, it just won't happen every day.

Like when you find out that yes, you really are kind of pregnant, but no, you are not actually going to give birth to a baby as a result. I took a home pregnancy test yesterday and it was negative, and I knew that if my hormones were doing what they were supposed to, it should be positive (it had been positive the day before). So I went into the clinic, had my blood drawn, and discovered that while my HCG had risen somewhat, it was still way below where it should be. Low beta, slow to rise: there's no question it's not a viable pregnancy. (I'm not posting the actual numbers because I don't want to discourage women like me, who are avidly searching the internet to see if there is any hope. Suffice it to say that in my case, the answers is pretty clearly "no.") Although cruely, the clinic is making me wait 8 more days, to test again, even though the doctor isn't "very hopeful" and my nurse coordinator calls it a "bad pregnancy." We're kidding no one here, yet I still have to get those daily shots in the butt, and I still don't get to have a glass of wine with my dinner. Not supposed to exercise, either, but I have to do something to restore a little sanity.

Before I started this process, I was hopeful--even confident--that it would work. I was still imposing that "it happens because you deserve it to happen" value onto it. I don't know what it will take to get it through my thick head that it doesn't go that way. So will I ever get pregnant? Well, technically, I am. Will I ever have a baby? I really don't know.

Make That a Big Fat Probably Not

2008-08-28T14:41:00.000-07:00

So of course, I haven't been able to keep myself out of the fertility forums and such, searching "low beta" or "low beta 8dpt5dt" (8 days past 5 day transfer) or "low beta and pregnant." And the verdict is--pray for a miracle. It seems most women with this problem either have a chemical pregnancy, a miscarriage, or an ectopic pregnancy.

So maybe, just pray that I don't have an ectopic pregnancy. That if it isn't going to stick, that it becomes clear quickly. I don't want to get false hope, I don't want to have to go through some traumatic surgery. So I hope I go in on Sunday and my numbers look textbook good, keep rising, keep me on the right track, suprise everyone so that the nurse will say something like, "it looks like you have a late bloomer!" or I go in Sunday and am told that I can stop the madness, the stress, the daily progesterone shots. I can go back to bed, and bawl my head off.

I did pee on a stick today, and it was faintly positive. Better than yesterday, when it was only positive if you held it in direct sunlight and squinted through one eye and stood on one foot. Today there is a line there, for sure, which means the level rose enough to make that beautiful pink dye bleed.

But still, we can't all expect to be the one for whom it goes unexpectedly and suprisingly right, because we deserve it. Because deserving it--the lesson I've been trying to learn for the past two years, trying to accept--deserving it has fuck all to do with actually getting pregnant.

It was so hard to call loved ones yesterday to say, "I'm pregnant but don't get excited." I mean, I had to call people, they all knew what was going on, but of course they're all excited. "Cautiously pregnant" means nothing to them. Pregnant is pregnant is pregnant. Or not.

Big Fat Maybe

2008-08-27T17:49:00.001-07:00

So today was dra-muh. We went in for the test, then waited anxiously by the phone. Then stupidly, went online to the "patient portal" to see if our test results were posted, before getting a phone call. They were. But unsurprisingly, they don't just say "positive" or "negative," they give you numbers. Greek to me.

I could tell the numbers looked low, though, by a quick search online. So then I decided to pee on a stick. Well, two, really. Both negative. I started to get really hysterical. I started wailing and keening, I kid you not.

Then the nurse (finally!) called. And told me it was positive.

What the ?!

I guess you could call me cautiously pregnant. The test was positive, but my hormone levels are much lower than they "should" be. It could just mean I implanted late. I figured that would be no big surprise, since the doc told me on day 5 that my embies were basically done and to expect 2 or fewer to make it to day 6, and I had 6 on day 6. Maybe we just have some sloooooow babies. They get that from their daddy. That man does not like to hurry and apparently neither do his children.

So I'm pregnant. Maybe not for long, but I've never been able to say that before.

Another Valium, Please

2008-08-27T08:50:00.000-07:00

So today is the big reveal. There's nothing secretly alluring about a pregnancy test when everyone knows your babies have been growing in a petri dish, so I'm going to be either sharing some joy or sharing some pain. And that's not a complaint--I'm so grateful for the support. It's just one of the benefits of a process that is so artificial. None of those "We're pregnant!" announcements other couples make at Christmas dinner. More like, "Here's a picture of our blastocysts. Aren't they cute?"

Anyway, I'm starting to wish I could get another valium, like the one they gave me for transfer. It made everything muted and happy and confused, and I'd love to feel like that now. Maybe this is just because everything else is over, but this feels like the most stressful part. Ironically, today is also the day our credit card payment was withdrawn from the account.

I had to go in two days ago and have my blood drawn, but they didn't test it. They'll test it today, so that even if it's positive, they can compare it to today's test and confirm my hormone level is rising appropriately. For some reason, having that blood draw freaked me out. I just recognized that what's done is done--it's positive or it's not, and the only difference is that I don't know.

Snowbabies on Ice

2008-08-18T15:34:00.001-07:00

You'd think that laying around for 3 days, I'd find time to blog. But it's hard to do laying down, on my side, so instead I'm watching a lot of bad TV and movies I picked up at the library. In this horrible repertoire, I must admit that I've watched a movie with Lindsey Lohan (Georgia Rule: horrible!) and a show I'd heard of on MTV but never seen called The Hills (an equal insult to the intelligence of the American public--but entertaining).

The good news is, transfer went smoothly on day 5. I have the world's smallest bladder, so I was seriously worried about having to fill it before going in and then dying and writhing on the table. But good news: valium really seems to help with that (I felt goooood). And my difficult cervix didn't put up a fight, either, which was amazing.

But for all that I waste time googling "lupron" and "morphology" and a bunch of other infertile words, I was completely unschooled in the codes of embryo grading. The doctor
who did the transfer, Dr. G, isn't my regular doc, though I'd seen him before. We had to consult with him before the actual transfer, to discuss how things had developed.

I'd read that only about 30% of day 3 embryos make it to day 5 blastocysts, but that the number is usually around 50% in younger women (at 32, I'm "younger" in the ivf world). So I was hoping that of my 9, there would be 4 that would stick around, 2 for now, 2 for freezing (now I hear they're called "snowbabies"). It seemed hopeful but realistic.

But Dr. G right away gave me the impression that just wasn't going to happen. I think part of it was, he clearly already had a plan and knew he just needed to get us to sign on to it. We had one blast that was fully expanded--only one--and good quality. There were 3 others that were expanding, and he suggested we implant our little golden ticket + one of these, letting the embryologist choose the best of the lot. A few more were morulas (where they usually are on day 4, I now know) and the rest, "eh" (translation--I can't remember what he actually said). He said expect 0-2 for freezing.

I was really disheartened by this and I have to admit I started crying a little in the transfer room (not while he was there, thank goodness). I feared it meant my eggs were no good, and I felt this added pressure, like this wasn't going to work and if it didn't I was going to have to start all over (no more crazy drugs, please!). While I was busy feeling sorry for myself and DH was trying to convince me things looked good and to stay in the present (the present? What's THAT about?!), the embryologist came in and told me that while I was being an obsessive loser, another blastocycst had expanded fully and they'd keep culturing the rest for another day--they weren't bad, just slow. Then she called me yesterday to tell me that 6 out of the 7 remaining made it to blastocysts and were frozen!

If I were on The Hills, I'd say something like, "OMG, Dr. G is such a liar!" but since I'm not, I'll just count my blessings, hope these little bryos inside me decide to stick around, and acknowledge how lucky I am that that I've got some snowbabies on ice.

If I Were Michael Phelps...

2008-08-17T17:10:00.000-07:00

I would have won 8 gold medals and 1 silver.

At least that's how I felt today, when the clinic called to tell me that all 9 of our embryos are growing swimmingly, with 8 grade 1 (the best) and 1 grade 2 (still fine, she said). So we didn't do transfer today; it will be Tuesday.

Okay, so I'm not an Olympic champion, and I know no one is reading this and jumping out of her seat the way I did when I watched Mr. Phelps win the 100 fly through brutal, pained determination (and some really long monkey arms hitting the wall 1/100th of a second faster than the next guy). But for me, this feels like a huge triumph. I recognize not all the embryos will make it to Tuesday, but it's exciting to know we're starting from a big number and have a good amount of wiggle room.

Knock on wood. See, you can't say anything too positive, or God might punish you and not let you have what you want--in my case, a baby. No matter how many years have gone by, I can't beat some of the religious rhetoric out of my head (many thanks, Dr. James Dobson).

I'm pretty sure Michael Phelps doesn't think that, though. So it's time to put on my iPod and shake it loose. Go for the gold.

And 12 become 9

2008-08-15T08:32:00.001-07:00

As normal, we're dwindling...

The embryologist called to tell us that of our 12 eggs, 11 were mature and 9 fertilized. That's pretty good news, but certainly nothing to make you cry. Unless you're me. Just so relieved not to hear, "I'm sorry to say but it appears your eggs are mutants and if we try to use them your baby will be half human, half alien."

The other good news is I no longer feel like Dottie kicked me in the gut. The bad news is I can't think about anything but my embryos now--I'm hoping at least one of those 9 becomes a little person that grows inside me someday soon.That feels kinda crazy.

Dottie Done Kicked Me in the Stomach

2008-08-14T16:10:00.000-07:00

Today I got to see the underbelly of the fertility clinic...well, maybe not the underbelly, but a whole new area--the area where they do the egg retrievals. It felt like a spa instead of a doctor's office; we walked down a long hall and took off our shoes by the bamboo shoe stand and rock fountain and then I changed into a gown that was much nicer than a normal hospital gown, probably made of organic cotton or something.

My nurse, Dottie, was very nice and she gave us a bunch of instructions I forgot right away and also just kept us company. And then we took bets on how many eggs we were going to get, based on the # of follicles (15-17), using Price Is Right rules. DH said 13, Dottie said 14, another nurse said 17, and the embryologist said she'd be Bob Barker. So I bet one egg, to be the closest without going over. There was no prize but the embryologist did end up drawing a sort of "award certificate" for the winner.

It was all very comfortable except that there was another woman also having retrieval in the room before me and we could hear her get wheeled off and come back all f*#ked up and hear that she had 11 eggs. They said 12 is the average but 11 was great for her age. So this was making me nervous (Was I going to feel like she sounded? What if I had fewer eggs, and I'm young?)

Before I knew it (time stands still back there, especially if you don't have a watch), DH was sent off to collect his specimen and I was wheeled away. I felt like I was in one of the Jason Bourne movies (I love those movies!) because the last thing I remember is that everything was very, very white. I woke up as f*$ked up as that lady sounded. I asked Dottie if she kicked me in the stomach and she laughed but I didn't.

But the news was good: 12 eggs. A dirty dozen, good place to start. And I won the contest. And I'm totally average. I guess in a world where 10% of couples have fertility problems, and a smaller portion need IVF, ending up finally being average ain't too bad.

Dreams of My Youth

2008-08-13T13:00:00.000-07:00

Even though I finished all my schooling 6 years ago (yikes!), I still have these occassional dreams where I wake up and there's a final and I've missed it. Or I'm about to; I can't find the room, or I never took the class and didn't even know I was registered, and now everything rides on getting an A. In all these dreams, I'm running around panicked, wondering how I got into the mess. (You'd think that alone would clue me in to the fact that it's not actually happening, and yet I still wake up with my heart pounding furiously.)

This fear of forgetting also reminded me of a friend who is a deep sleeper. Several years ago when he was taking the MCAT to get into medical school, he had like four people call him to make sure he woke up in time to make ti to the test. I am tempted to do that tomorrow, which makes no sense. I won't forget, DH won't forget, and we're not deep sleepers. But last night I seriously woke up and thought, "What if I wake up and eat breakfast or drink in the middle of the night?" My retrieval will be cancelled! I'll waste all those good eggs! I'll have to take my crazy drugs all over again (which I might anyway)! All for a bowl of cereal!

Beyond being totally irrational, this strikes me as slightly pitiful. I mean--who forgets they have surgery?! Who can forget spending $20,000 to get to this point? I'm infertile, not senile, but you wouldn't know it, would you?

Neurotic Freak

2008-08-13T07:45:00.000-07:00

So now I'm turning on myself: I've always been proud of my thick endometrial lining, and one of the docs complimented me again this week on it. But this morning I started to worry. What if it's too thick now?

How do I think of this stuff? Can't I just leave well enough alone?!

Of course, go on line and search"endometrial lining too thick for IVF" and there will be results. Albeit some of them translations of German medical journals, and most saying that the real problem is too thin, and thick means a nice place for an embryo to attach and grow. In any case, I need to stop reading, because what good will it do me now?! It's as thick as the syrup on DH's pancakes (he does love his syrup!), my doctor's not complaining, and retrieval is scheduled. Full speed ahead!

So Basically, I Don't Know What I'm Talking About

2008-08-12T14:38:00.000-07:00

I was so upset on Saturday to hear I only had 3-4 follicles on the left and 6-8 on the right. "I'm only going to be able to get 12 eggs, maximum!" I wailed to DH, who kept saying, "The doctor said everything is going well. He doesn't seem worried. He didn't even change the dose on your medication." "But I'll only be able to get 12 eggs!" I repeated, hearbroken for all my undeveloped follicles, my lost eggs, my ungrown embryos.

It turns out that isn't true. It turns out on Monday, there were 5-6 on the left and 8-10 on the right. And today, there are 5 on the left and 10-12 on the right. So all this means what, exactly? That I am getting worked up over nothing, that I have no idea how many follicles I produce or when I produce them. I thought the 8 or so they saw on each side at the baseline appointment was IT, nothing more. Who knows? I'm not complaining.

But I'm nervous: my egg retrieval is Thursday. That is really soon.

Damn Left Ovary

2008-08-09T21:53:00.000-07:00

I'm starting to get very uncomfortable now--bloated and tender. But what started to concern me is that it's mostly on my right side. In the 5 months I took Clomid, I only ovulated from the left once. Every other time was from the right, which made me nervous, and I asked one of the docs if that would affect the growth for IVF. He said it was possible.

Went in today and indeed, only 3-4 follicles maturing on the left, with 6-8 on the right. So 16 just became 12, at absolute best. I suppose I should be grateful. If both sides felt like the right, I'd be really grouchy and uncomfortable. Still, I give the left side a C-. At least it's eking something out.

Unfortunately, I'm not even ready to go, either. I don't go back until Monday, so the earliest I can relieve myself is Wednesday. Then, apparently, the follicles refill after being drained. So even after the eggs are gone, I'll feel like this. (Minus the daily infusion of the crazy drugs, at least.)

Oh joy.

Okay, the Drugs Are Making Me Insane

2008-08-08T07:34:00.001-07:00

I doubted it the first few days, because of the whole "normally emotional plus infertile for two years thing," but as of today, I can officially say that the drugs are making me crazier than normal. I feel like crying hysterically, for absolutely no reason (I'm not even sad! It's so weird!), and the thought of working stresses me out, even though I have like the lowest stress job in the world. I really just want to clean my house and maybe prune the roses, which sounds horribly domestic, I know, but strikes me as relaxing--especially as I'm not allowed to exercise as of Wednesday. Grrrr...

DH told me on the phone he wishes he could come home. I think he thinks a hug will make it better, and of course because when I'm crazy I'm also not very nice, I told him, no, a hug will not squeeze the crazy drugs out of me. I've taken to marking a big "X" through each day on my little IVF calendar, to feel a little closer to the end. Only 4 more "X"s to make!

Free to be One Crazy Pregnant Lady

2008-08-05T15:44:00.001-07:00

You know, I am absolutely certain that if I ever do get pregnant, I am going to rate higher than average on the neurotic-pregnant-lady scale. Because it's taken so much to get here, I'm really worried (already--I'm not even there! There's still a question whether it will happen!) that staying there will be more stressful for me than for the average pregnant lady. Not that losing a pregnancy is easy for anyone, by any means. But I do think there's probably an added layer to it when you know you might not get another shot at it, that even if you do it could take years and many procedures and lots of money.

One thing that's hard about listening to new parents discuss pregnant women is the level of judgment they can't keep from their voices. "Oh, she had an epidural?" "I ran a marathon while I was pregnant. Heavy exercise makes you feel great." "I didn't eat ham or sushi or ribs or drink any wine." This is usually from someone who had an easy pregnancy, never struggled to get pregnant and never lost one.

That won't be me. I'll be the woman on the other end, the woman who says, "I'll do whatever the hell I want if it makes me feel okay about this situation." I wouldn't consider a home birth, for example, not only because I wouldn't want to have to clean up that mess in my own house, but because if something goes wrong, I want a doctor right there. And I mean right there. I will exercise, but I'm not going to push myself too hard, just to be safe. Yes, I realize I can't shake an embryo loose, if one ever decides to attach and grow. But I'm not allowed to exercise starting today, a week prior to egg retrieval, and I guess if the experts are worried about not exercising too much, it doesn't hurt me to go easy on myself too.

Sometimes I wish the judgmental folks would just come out and say what they mean, though. "I don't think people should have epidurals, because there's an element of risk, and having a baby without drugs is natural, and natural is better." Or, "I don't want to take any risks with what I eat or drink, because I'm afraid it could harm the baby or if something went wrong I'd feel guilty about it, even if there was no direct link."

If people were more honest, then when they said to me, "You should exercise if you want to," or "the risks are shown to be higher among women who have their babies in hospitals versus at home," I could turn to them and serenely say, "Yes, but did you wait two horrible years and pay (at least) $20,000 to have your baby?" I think these things give me the right to be neurotic as I want to be. If someone (a new mom, most frequently) disagrees, I hope they at least have the guts to say so.

What Happens if You Do the Shot Wrong? It Hurts

2008-08-04T21:43:00.000-07:00

So DH is out of town for a couple days. We'd been trading off on who does the shots, and it was all going relatively smoothly. I know this sounds silly but for some reason the lack of moral support has made it tougher for me to sit there and stick myself. Especially because it had only been two days that I'd been giving myself the Gonal-F/Menopur stimulation cocktail, which is signficantly bigger than the lil ole Lupron on its own. And I'm not a very precise person by nature (DH is the baker in the house, I'm the cook, because I don't like to measure), so I had to read the damn directions like 4 times to make sure I wasn't going to give myself so much medicine that I'd make follicles grow out the side of my head or something.

I was made more nervous today when I discovered that I had a bruise from yesterday's shot. "Oh, this is going to hurt," I thought, which isn't logical either, because I'd been the one to give it to myself the day before, and it hadn't hurt. But who can reason with a drug-induced infertile woman? At first I tried to insert the needle timidly to avoid pain, which of course it didn't, so I gave it a perhaps overvigorous plunge. When I drew out the needle, I bled a little for the first time, and then immediately a bruise started to form, and now there's this hard little mass where the needle went in, and it hurts a little. And it's going to be a bigger bruise than yesterday's, all in attempt to avoid a bruise like yesterday's.

So big surprise--stab yourself too hard and it hurts.

Hey Girl, You Rock

2008-08-03T10:00:00.000-07:00

If you are a friend of mine, and you have listened to me over the last months, listened to me cry and complain and worry, you rock.

If you raised your hands in the air and yelled, "yes!" when I told you how many follicles I had, you rock.

If you had a drink with me because I got a BFN, you rock.

If you ever had a conversation with me about how hard it is to read an OPK result, or how big my follices were for IUI, or whether my basal body temperatures are normal, you rock.

If you told me that Dr. Evil deserved to lose his job, you rock.

If you cried because I was crying, you rock.

If you called me to ask my how an appointment went, you rock.

If you offered to give me my IVF shots, you rock.

I could go on and on. Every single one of those was at least one friend. How lucky am I?

This Will Get You Pregnant

2008-08-02T10:24:00.000-07:00

Isn't it funny how if a doctor says it, we believe it's true? It's kind of a silly phenomenon, especially considering that our bodies often tend to do whatever the heck they want. Still, I really appreciate Dr. Yoda telling me what I needed to hear. Again.

Yesterday at my baseline appointment, he came in and said, "Sorry I am that you must see me again." (At least I translated it into that, in Yoda speak.) I thanked him for understanding. And then he said, nonchalantly, "But now we're going to do what's going to get you pregnant."

I mean, I know it's not a promise or anything, but if I was a doctor, I would never say that to an infertile lady. For the aforementioned reason that we are all basically crazy. And I did go home and psychoanalyze that to death. "Does he say that to everyone?" I doubt it, because some people really don't stand much chance, and I can't imagine he'd want to give false hope. "He told me my chances were '60+%'--does he really think it's actually better than that?" Probably, but he's hedging his bets. "Is he laying awake thinking about this the way I am?" Hell no.

Sixteen Candles...I Mean Follicles

2008-08-01T22:10:00.000-07:00

Today was my "baseline" appointment. I didn't really know what this meant, but yesterday my acupuncturist cleared it up for me: the doctor was going to look to see how many follicles I had. She told me that 15 would be a good number--not too many (overstimulation can apparently be a real bitch), but not too few, either.

I must admit I hadn't taken the time to learn all the details of IVF and IVF meds, and I'd assumed that the stimulation drugs caused me to produce more follicles than in a normal cycle. Since I haven't started those meds yet, I assumed I didn't have any follicles yet. But it turns out the number of follicles you get is determined by the whims of your own body, and then the drugs cause all those follicles to mature so you actually get ripe eggs. At least that's how I think it works.

In any case, I realized from talking to the acupuncturist that I was about to find out, more or less, the absolute maximum number of petri dish babies I am going to be able to get. Not all follicles will necessarily beget eggs, I realize, and not all fertilized eggs will grow into happy little, implantable embryos. But certainly I'm not going to have more embryos than the number of follicles, so it's nice to know the maximum I can hope for.

For some reason, this gave me performance anxiety. I actually had a stress dream about it, in which I didn't have enough follicles, and took the wrong doses of medication, and generally just acted like an idiot. But it came from somewhere real. If I didn't get enough, was it my fault? Again, that senseless attempt to control something beyond me.

Anyway, I went in and the doctor did the ultrasound and he said, "everything looks great." And while that should have been enough for me, of course it wasn't. So I had to ask, "How many follicles are there?" And he counted at least 8 on each side.

It's good when you remember to appreciate the small stuff. I swear I felt like it was my birthday today. Sixteen. Sixteen candles--that's a big deal. For me, sixteen follicles.

Am I Crazy Yet?

2008-07-30T06:59:00.000-07:00

Everyone keeps asking me if the hormones are making me crazy. The answer? I have no idea. I've been on Clomid for 5 of the last 6 months, hot flashes and all. I've spent two weeks of every month for two years trying to stop myself from tearing open a little package so I can pee on a stick, then hovering over it to see if there is even the hint of a "+" sign. I've had everyone and his cousin up in my business. I've had so much blood drawn I feel like a prune. I've worried about saving money, whether I'll ever get pregnant, whether I'm actually going to die from being stabbed by a catheter so many times.

All that to say: I've been sort of an emotional wreck anyway. Add that to the fact that I'm already an emotional person to begin with. So my guess is--no, the hormones aren't making me crazy. I'm crazy on my own.

How's Everything Else Going?

2008-07-26T14:19:00.000-07:00

The other day, I talked to a good friend who kindly listened to me drone on and on about the infertility stuff and IVF and how scary and horrible it is. After a long time, she asked me a very logical question. "How is everything else going?"

I was so embarrassed to realize, and admit, that right now--well, there isn't anything else. Other than the blog, I haven't been writing for fun: too stressed to find inspiration. Because of the hysteroscopy, no swimming, my favorite form of exercise.

I did take up beading, though. It sounds dorky, but it's sort of fun to make your own jewelery. Unlike babymaking, the benefit of jewlery making is that it's immediate. You can string something together in one night. And if you don't like it, you can just start over. And it's cheap. So basically, it's completely unlike babymaking in every way.

Stickin' it to Myself

2008-07-24T07:40:00.000-07:00

I did it! Needle-phobic though I may be, last night was the first night I had to give myself a shot. It's a good thing I wasn't counting on DH, cause he started to get really nervous. And then I started to get nervous that since he was nervous, he was really going to pound that thing into the side of my leg. So I suggested I do it, and he readily agreed.

The thing is, once I made the decision I just wanted to get it over with. DH is so conscientious and wanted to read all the directions, even after having had training and reading them while eating his Weetabix that morning, and he looked really alarmed to watch me pinching my saddlebag with the needle two inches from my skin. "You're just going to go for it?" he asked incredulously. I mean, what else was there to do? I read over the instructions for how to fill the thing, it was ready to go, and all I had left to do was stick myself. Which I did, in one quick motion. And then I sat there looking at my leg thinking, "there's a needle in there like three inches." It was weird, but not painful.

It's like riding a bike. When you get down to it, when you've done it once, it's pretty darn intuitive. Plus, as long as you do it right, it doesn't hurt. I'm guessing I'll eventually find out what happens if you do it wrong, but at least that wasn't on the first go.

Don't Drop My Embryo!

2008-07-22T14:19:00.001-07:00

So I figured out why they make you go to egg class. They make you go so they can show you all the things they are going to do to make sure they don't mix up your babies with someone else's. Unlike those cases on tv, this switch-a-roo would occur at the embryo, fit-on-the-head-of-a-pin stage, and you'd be none the wiser. Except in our case, we'd be surprised if the baby didn't come out:

With a big ole nose. DH is constantly lamenting the small "mountain" (his words!) in the middle of his face, convinced there it is inevitable that the large size of his nose will not be sufficiently counteracted by the relatively small size of mine, and our child is destined for the bigger-than-average variety.
Big-footed. I wear size 11, thanks in large part to pancake-flat feet. So we'll know something is wrong if the kid doesn't Ronald McDonald feet.
Blind as a bat. Frankly, I almost hope the poor child comes out with some coke bottles. I mean, I know they can't really see at the beginning anyway, but by the time they can, the product of two people who can't see a burning building inches away without glasses is going to need some help.

So egg class was very informative. And it turns out the stuff the sperm lady does is sort of low level. It turns out there are sperm people much more advanced than she is, and they have to take our eggs and sperm and wash them and put them in special containers at the right temperature and use certain needles and all this series of complicated steps with many procedures.

Hearing it all, I wasn't so much worried that they'd give me the egg of the uptight lady sitting next to me, or the sperm of the guy who kept checking his Blackberry. No, I'm worried about the much more mundane: that an embryologist carrying my eggs is going to trip on a loose power cord and drop them on the lab floor. You can't exactly pick those suckers up. But when it came time for questions, there was really no way to say, "What if you spill my eggs? What then?"

Gotta have a little faith, I guess. That's what this is all about.

I Hope I Get an "A" in Egg Class

2008-07-20T13:10:00.000-07:00

I'm excited because tomorrow we have egg class. What is egg class, you ask? Good question. I have no idea. Something to do with how they take out and fertilize these little buddies, I guess. I'm guessing the sperm lady teaches it, but I don't know.

It's almost like they want to provide some false sense of control over this process, like I have anything to do with the quality or transferability of my own eggs. I wish I did. I wish I could study hard and get an "A" in eggs.

I don't think we have to pay for egg class. It's funny when we don't have to pay for things, and they say stuff like, "Clearly, you won't have to pay for this consultation." Yeah, I guess it's clear. Clear to you, but not clear to me at all, since virtually every charge seems to be a random arrangement of numerals scattered on a page. I actually started to stress more when I read through the line item costs of IVF--killed me more than the $15,910 figure. $50 for a pregnancy test, and I have to have two?! I mean, I can buy a pee strip for $1! Either way, I'm pregnant or I'm not--why the extra $49? And it turns out anything the sperm lady touches costs at least a few hundred dollars. If only I'd known being a sperm lady was such a lucrative career, that everything I'd touch would turn to gold.

But hey, at least some things are free. And I can't wait to find out what egg class is all about.