I'm in a particularly morbid place right now, so I understand if you want to skip this one. I just needed to get these thoughts out of my head and into the light. I've been doing a lot of thinking about what happens in the event of a positive beta. One unfortunate side effect of infertility is the all the extra time we spend thinking about what might happen when we finally get what we want. I'll tell you right now, I don't have answers. Only in an infertile's mind does this potential outcome spiral into a nightmare of epic proportions.
I'm putting the cart before the horse and wondering, if we do get a pregnancy out of this IVF (assuming we ever get to complete this IVF), how long do we wait to tell our friends and family? It seems like such a mundane question. Until I start to play out various possible scenarios in my mind.
Your average fertile couple seems to be sharing photos of the positive HPT within days. Cautious fertiles deem ten weeks to be the safe zone for sharing. This is clearly out of the question, but then, how long do we wait? Most of my IF tweeps seem to settle around the end of the first trimester, which seems... almost long enough. Until I consider all the things that could go wrong for a woman my age at any of the critical "seeing shit more clearly" appointments that seem to occur between 15-20 weeks. And the incompetent cervixes that seem to fail between 20-23 weeks.
And suddenly I realize, this is getting ridiculous. If I waited even as late as twenty weeks to tell, my family would be furious that I hadn't told sooner. So obviously, I would have to come clean before I felt safe. Cue epiphany.
If there's one thing I've learned from my involvement in this community in the last three years, it's that we are NEVER out of the woods. There will never be a point when we know everything will be OK. There may perhaps come a time when the fear abates, when we manage to relax or even forget about mortality for a while. Or maybe not. I'm one of those people who believes that the moment you get complacent and stop worrying about something is the moment things will go wrong. I have been told that I worry too much, that this simply isn't logical, but I'm wired this way. I don't know how to turn this off.
No parent should ever have to bury their child, but it happens all too often. As a child, one of my friends lost her little brother in a freak playground accident. As a teenager, I lost one friend to cancer and another to a car accident. In my twenties, I lost a friend to an overdose. In my thirties, a family member lost her five year old and the doctors never even found a reason. They all died too young and they all had mothers and fathers who will carry that loss for the rest of their lives.
This year, my thirty year old cousin buried her two year old son, and my eighty-nine year old aunt buried her fifty-eight year old son. We are never out of the woods.
If you made it all the way to the end of this post, I kinda feel like I should buy you a drink, or at least a cookie. I did warn you.
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Monday, September 26, 2011
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Holy Self-Centeredness!
Mine all mine, and I feel the need to own it.
I mentioned recently on Twitter that I've been spending a lot of time wandering in Memory Lane the last week or so. Sort of a slow motion Life-Flashing-Before-My-Eyes experience. Navel-gazing, moping, reliving good times and bad. I'm not sure where this extraordinary degree of introspection is coming from, but I'm guessing it's a combination of the changing season (Fall never fails to bring out my nostalgic side) and the impending start of IVF The Do-Over and the knowledge that I probably only have the wherewithal for this one IVF cycle. I feel like I am very near my limit with this process. I am ready for things to change. I either want my baby, or I want my life back. It's time to break out of Limbo.
In the process of this little memorial road-trip, I've also spent a lot of time contemplating the various branching points in my life that led me to my current place, and wondering where I would be and what my life would be like if I had made different choices. Wondering if it is too late to make some dramatic changes. And I know that, actually it is not too late. My mother went back to school at about age 40 to get her masters and start a new career. No reason I can't do the same.
It was thinking about my mother and some of her choices that really stopped me in my tracks this week. One of the memories that bubbled to the surface was from my early childhood, and it hit me quite hard. I guess I've never mentioned this here, but when I was about four years old, my mother had a miscarriage. I'm not sure how far along she was, but it was far enough that she was showing and everyone knew she was expecting (even me). Because I was so very young when this happened, it has always just been a piece of my family history, a simple fact of life like my grandparents divorce.
Only in this last week of soaking in memories and un-actualized potential, did the reality of my mother's loss sink in for me. And I feel horrible. How is it that in my nearly three years of struggling to get pregnant and one miscarriage of my own, I never made this connection? How is it that this was always so much a background fact that it didn't even register with me? You don't need to bother telling me in the comments, I know I'm a self-centered beast.
My mother has always been a steadfast figure of calm and caring. Who took care of her? Did my father give her the emotional support she would have needed, or maybe her sister did? Did she have close friends to help her heal? I'm not sure I could tell you who my mother's best friend was when I was four years old. I know there is one photo of my mother and I, taken just before she found out the baby was gone, and she keeps this photo out where she can see it. She has mentioned on numerous occasions that it is the only existing photo of her with both of her babies. And all I can think is, "Oh god, my poor poor mother."
I mentioned recently on Twitter that I've been spending a lot of time wandering in Memory Lane the last week or so. Sort of a slow motion Life-Flashing-Before-My-Eyes experience. Navel-gazing, moping, reliving good times and bad. I'm not sure where this extraordinary degree of introspection is coming from, but I'm guessing it's a combination of the changing season (Fall never fails to bring out my nostalgic side) and the impending start of IVF The Do-Over and the knowledge that I probably only have the wherewithal for this one IVF cycle. I feel like I am very near my limit with this process. I am ready for things to change. I either want my baby, or I want my life back. It's time to break out of Limbo.
In the process of this little memorial road-trip, I've also spent a lot of time contemplating the various branching points in my life that led me to my current place, and wondering where I would be and what my life would be like if I had made different choices. Wondering if it is too late to make some dramatic changes. And I know that, actually it is not too late. My mother went back to school at about age 40 to get her masters and start a new career. No reason I can't do the same.
It was thinking about my mother and some of her choices that really stopped me in my tracks this week. One of the memories that bubbled to the surface was from my early childhood, and it hit me quite hard. I guess I've never mentioned this here, but when I was about four years old, my mother had a miscarriage. I'm not sure how far along she was, but it was far enough that she was showing and everyone knew she was expecting (even me). Because I was so very young when this happened, it has always just been a piece of my family history, a simple fact of life like my grandparents divorce.
Only in this last week of soaking in memories and un-actualized potential, did the reality of my mother's loss sink in for me. And I feel horrible. How is it that in my nearly three years of struggling to get pregnant and one miscarriage of my own, I never made this connection? How is it that this was always so much a background fact that it didn't even register with me? You don't need to bother telling me in the comments, I know I'm a self-centered beast.
My mother has always been a steadfast figure of calm and caring. Who took care of her? Did my father give her the emotional support she would have needed, or maybe her sister did? Did she have close friends to help her heal? I'm not sure I could tell you who my mother's best friend was when I was four years old. I know there is one photo of my mother and I, taken just before she found out the baby was gone, and she keeps this photo out where she can see it. She has mentioned on numerous occasions that it is the only existing photo of her with both of her babies. And all I can think is, "Oh god, my poor poor mother."
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Losses
Two cousins.
One uncle.
One grandfather.
All lost to my family in the last twelve months. Two long-anticipated, and yet still mourned. Two tragic and untimely, grieved in shock and disbelief. And the unspoken question on my mind (is it on anyone else's?): What next?
One uncle.
One grandfather.
All lost to my family in the last twelve months. Two long-anticipated, and yet still mourned. Two tragic and untimely, grieved in shock and disbelief. And the unspoken question on my mind (is it on anyone else's?): What next?
Sunday, February 20, 2011
This Is My Life?
This is not Letting Go. This is Losing A Dream.
I'm numb, in shock, in denial. Mildly bitter, but still strangely calm. Utterly clueless about what my next move should be.
IVF obviously. But what do I do now? Call the clinic on CD1... but why? What will they tell me to do? I have no plan of action, no calendar in place. Another consultation to create a plan?
This can't possibly be my life. This kind of thing just doesn't happen to me. Oh sure, you hear or read about other people going through this all the time. It's so much more common than you might think. But it's always been other people. Not me. I feel like I just landed a starring role in someone else's movie.
It seems more than a little disingenuous of me after everything we've been through in the last 2+ years, that I never really believed we would have to go to such lengths to reproduce. How is it that this can still come as such a shock?
I'm numb, in shock, in denial. Mildly bitter, but still strangely calm. Utterly clueless about what my next move should be.
IVF obviously. But what do I do now? Call the clinic on CD1... but why? What will they tell me to do? I have no plan of action, no calendar in place. Another consultation to create a plan?
This can't possibly be my life. This kind of thing just doesn't happen to me. Oh sure, you hear or read about other people going through this all the time. It's so much more common than you might think. But it's always been other people. Not me. I feel like I just landed a starring role in someone else's movie.
It seems more than a little disingenuous of me after everything we've been through in the last 2+ years, that I never really believed we would have to go to such lengths to reproduce. How is it that this can still come as such a shock?
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Last Anniversary For a While
One year ago today, after weeks of waiting and knowing it was coming, I had a miscarriage. My one and only pregnancy. And today?
Today, I am OK.
Today, I'm just wondering if I'll ever get a second chance.
Today, I am OK.
Today, I'm just wondering if I'll ever get a second chance.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Tis the Season
I've already shared my feelings on this time of year, and none of that has changed, but this has been a particularly difficult Christmas season. I can't quite put my finger on why this is. I'm hoping that writing things out will help me clarify things and maybe that will help me get past it.
Oddly enough, my gloom doesn't SEEM to have anything to do with the absence of offspring in my home. That is a fairly persistent, dare I say, permanent gloom. A not-so-low-level hum of sadness that rests like a wet blanket on my everyday life. But I'm not really dwelling on that any MORE than I was last month, or the month before.
So why does the pile of yet-to-be-wrapped gifts on the dining room table cause me to break into tears? (Actually, this one I know. Those gifts don't seem nice enough, creative enough, just plain good enough for the lovely people I bought them for. And that breaks my heart) Why can't I seem to get off the couch to put ornaments on the tree that Prof so sweetly set up and strung with lights? Why does the thought of the cookies and other treats I still need to bake cause my stomach to turn? Why haven't I been able to sign our names to the Christmas cards and put stamps on them?
I don't know what (if any) relationship there is, but I do know I have been feeling much less confident and competent for the last few months. I've spent two years now doing everything I know to do in an attempt to bring our child into the world, with no success and no explanation of why nothing has worked. I have failed at the most basic, biological level. I know this won't be a surprise to any of you IF'ers, but this fundamental failure is coloring my perception of every other aspect of my life. Clue #1.
Ah.
If you back up a few lines, there's Clue #2. Two years. In 10 days, we will hit the anniversary of our one and only BFP, our one and only glimmer of hope that we might ever see success. In just over two weeks, we will mark the two year anniversary of throwing away the BCPs. And the one year anniversary of learning that our BFP wouldn't last. In just over a month, we will be at the one year anniversary of the miscarriage that ended that lone BFP.
That's a lot of weight for a festive season to bear.
Oddly enough, my gloom doesn't SEEM to have anything to do with the absence of offspring in my home. That is a fairly persistent, dare I say, permanent gloom. A not-so-low-level hum of sadness that rests like a wet blanket on my everyday life. But I'm not really dwelling on that any MORE than I was last month, or the month before.
So why does the pile of yet-to-be-wrapped gifts on the dining room table cause me to break into tears? (Actually, this one I know. Those gifts don't seem nice enough, creative enough, just plain good enough for the lovely people I bought them for. And that breaks my heart) Why can't I seem to get off the couch to put ornaments on the tree that Prof so sweetly set up and strung with lights? Why does the thought of the cookies and other treats I still need to bake cause my stomach to turn? Why haven't I been able to sign our names to the Christmas cards and put stamps on them?
I don't know what (if any) relationship there is, but I do know I have been feeling much less confident and competent for the last few months. I've spent two years now doing everything I know to do in an attempt to bring our child into the world, with no success and no explanation of why nothing has worked. I have failed at the most basic, biological level. I know this won't be a surprise to any of you IF'ers, but this fundamental failure is coloring my perception of every other aspect of my life. Clue #1.
Ah.
If you back up a few lines, there's Clue #2. Two years. In 10 days, we will hit the anniversary of our one and only BFP, our one and only glimmer of hope that we might ever see success. In just over two weeks, we will mark the two year anniversary of throwing away the BCPs. And the one year anniversary of learning that our BFP wouldn't last. In just over a month, we will be at the one year anniversary of the miscarriage that ended that lone BFP.
That's a lot of weight for a festive season to bear.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Unexpected Words of Wisdom
I may not like her family and their politics and this makes me wish she had done something to further the cause while she was in spotlight, but credit where credit is due, she nailed this one:
The English language lacks the words to mourn an absence. For the loss of a parent, grandparent, spouse, child or friend, we have all manner of words and phrases, some helpful some not. Still we are conditioned to say something, even if it is only “I’m sorry for your loss.”
But for an absence, for someone who was never there at all, we are wordless to capture that particular emptiness. For those who deeply want children and are denied them, those missing babies hover like silent ephemeral shadows over their lives.
-from Spoken from the Heart by Laura Bush
The English language lacks the words to mourn an absence. For the loss of a parent, grandparent, spouse, child or friend, we have all manner of words and phrases, some helpful some not. Still we are conditioned to say something, even if it is only “I’m sorry for your loss.”
But for an absence, for someone who was never there at all, we are wordless to capture that particular emptiness. For those who deeply want children and are denied them, those missing babies hover like silent ephemeral shadows over their lives.
-from Spoken from the Heart by Laura Bush
Saturday, September 11, 2010
LOST:
I've lost so much since we started down the path to expand our family. Innocence, naivete, dreams, one pregnancy, untold amounts of sleep, the ability to plan anything more than two weeks in the future... Occasionally my mind but never any weight. My sense of being valuable as a wife and employee, of being adequate to the task at hand (otherwise known as daily life), my motivation to care for and improve myself...
IF FOUND, please notify me ASAP!
IF FOUND, please notify me ASAP!
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Oh.
I just this moment realized that today was the due date for the BFP that didn't end up being a baby.
I don't know what to think about that.
I don't know what to think about that.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Where Does the Time Go?
I had one of THOSE moments today at work. One of those "anniversary" moments.
Last year, the end of the two week wait in our first cycle with the RE fell just after Thanksgiving. By the end of the holiday weekend I was actually having some mild symptoms, super-sore boobs and sudden, random flashes of severe nausea. I also had some light spotting. The Tuesday after, I was working an annual special event our office puts on and I got my period. It was bad, the worst in my recent memory. As soon as the event got under way, I told my boss I needed to go home. I'm fairly certain now that I was actually having an early miscarriage. I can still remember those symptoms vividly, and while the next cycle brought us our first ever positive and more super-sore boobs, that particular variety of nausea has yet to reappear. Neither has a positive.
Today at work, I overheard a conference call regarding the initial planning for that same annual event. It was like someone drew the needle across a vinyl record (you know the noise they use in a sitcom when everything comes to a screeching halt). Heads up! Here comes an anniversary! When the annual event rolls around this year, we will have been working with our RE for one year and TTC for one month shy of two years.
Please God let me be knocked up by then...
Last year, the end of the two week wait in our first cycle with the RE fell just after Thanksgiving. By the end of the holiday weekend I was actually having some mild symptoms, super-sore boobs and sudden, random flashes of severe nausea. I also had some light spotting. The Tuesday after, I was working an annual special event our office puts on and I got my period. It was bad, the worst in my recent memory. As soon as the event got under way, I told my boss I needed to go home. I'm fairly certain now that I was actually having an early miscarriage. I can still remember those symptoms vividly, and while the next cycle brought us our first ever positive and more super-sore boobs, that particular variety of nausea has yet to reappear. Neither has a positive.
Today at work, I overheard a conference call regarding the initial planning for that same annual event. It was like someone drew the needle across a vinyl record (you know the noise they use in a sitcom when everything comes to a screeching halt). Heads up! Here comes an anniversary! When the annual event rolls around this year, we will have been working with our RE for one year and TTC for one month shy of two years.
Please God let me be knocked up by then...
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Mood Swings and Dreams
Since my most recent BFN, and the start of this resting cycle, I've been dealing with some pretty intense mood swings (for lack of a better term). Maybe priority shifts would be slightly more accurate... but they seem to be tightly tied to my moods.
I knew before I got the official results last week what the outcome would be, and I was back in the Pit of Despair with a bad case of the "Why ME's". By the time the nurse called with the beta results, I was fairly numb and just wondering idly what the hell to do next (but without any real drive to do anything at all). 24 hours later, I was so at peace with my lot in life, that I almost wanted to walk away from the whole process and focus the rest of my life on enjoying the Professor and myself. And then realizing that no, I can't just give up. But I do need to focus a little more on the Now and a little less on the What If. Keep striving for our goal, but stop living just for that moment. And if that moment never comes? Well... that will be a loss to be grieved, but it will not be the end of my world.
But when I'm lying in bed at night, waiting for sleep to steal in, I replay all the little moments that have stuck in my head thus far and all the little moments that I would be missing if I stopped now. The first time we thought we'd actually gotten me pregnant... sitting at lunch with the Professor and pondering the reality and he actually teared up. The only tears I've seen him shed over this whole mess. The moment when we finally got that first positive, but were too shocked and scared to be really excited. And then there's the future moment when we finally get to tell our parents they will be grandparents, a thousand little moments watching my baby sleep in the dark, listening to a little voice chattering in the back seat of the car, little hands reaching out to grab stuff off the grocery store shelves as we roll by.
Tiny little dreams, mundane even. But they're my dreams.
I knew before I got the official results last week what the outcome would be, and I was back in the Pit of Despair with a bad case of the "Why ME's". By the time the nurse called with the beta results, I was fairly numb and just wondering idly what the hell to do next (but without any real drive to do anything at all). 24 hours later, I was so at peace with my lot in life, that I almost wanted to walk away from the whole process and focus the rest of my life on enjoying the Professor and myself. And then realizing that no, I can't just give up. But I do need to focus a little more on the Now and a little less on the What If. Keep striving for our goal, but stop living just for that moment. And if that moment never comes? Well... that will be a loss to be grieved, but it will not be the end of my world.
But when I'm lying in bed at night, waiting for sleep to steal in, I replay all the little moments that have stuck in my head thus far and all the little moments that I would be missing if I stopped now. The first time we thought we'd actually gotten me pregnant... sitting at lunch with the Professor and pondering the reality and he actually teared up. The only tears I've seen him shed over this whole mess. The moment when we finally got that first positive, but were too shocked and scared to be really excited. And then there's the future moment when we finally get to tell our parents they will be grandparents, a thousand little moments watching my baby sleep in the dark, listening to a little voice chattering in the back seat of the car, little hands reaching out to grab stuff off the grocery store shelves as we roll by.
Tiny little dreams, mundane even. But they're my dreams.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Maybe I'm Shallow, But... (UPDATED)
I don't really mind all the bottles of prenatal vitamins taken. My body benefited I'm sure. I can live with all the OPKs & HPTs used and discarded. They gave me information when I needed it. And I'm OK with the amount of money spent at the clinic in pursuit of parenthood. Kids are expensive. Mine would just be a little more so. And the painful and uncomfortable procedures are nothing I'm sure to the pain of childbirth or the bliss of seeing that child for the first time.
No. What I resent is the months and years of curtailing my lifestyle in order to try (so far, unsuccessfully) to boost my fertility. No coffee, no wine or whiskey, no hot tubs, and no painkillers. Hoarding vacation days with the hope of using them to extend a maternity leave instead of taking a long weekend whenever I felt like I needed one. Maybe that's just my only-childish mentality... I've very rarely had to make personal sacrifices for anyone else before. I want to have my cake and eat it too. I mean really, why shouldn't I?
I also resent all of those girls and women who deny themselves nothing, only to find themselves unexpectedly expecting and then fail to appreciate the gift they have been given.
If I come to the end of my IF journey with a baby, I will happily swallow that resentment. But if after all our options are exhausted, we are still just the two of us... I'll be grieving more than the loss of a child. I'll be grieving the loss of years worth of fruitlessly denied personal comfort. And you bet your ass that I then will wallow in self-indulgence to the full extent of my abilities.
UPDATE: I wrote this post on my phone yesterday at work after I started spotting. Last night, the Professor and I had a long talk about cycles so far and the plan going forward. So you know where I'm coming from - the Professor was in pre-med when we met and now works in public health. Without going into too much detail (he's touchy about privacy), suffice it to say I have the utmost faith in his ability to analyze this particular situation and form an objective opinion.
I have been worrying a lot lately... about the amount of trust I have to place in our medical team and about the fact that we continue to use the same basic protocol. I finally voiced this concern to the Professor, and he was surprised and very reassuring. He has clearly considered the subject, and he is in full agreement with the RE. The main factor in determining the continuation of the Clomid+IUI protocol is the fact that the first time we used it, I got pregnant. IT WORKED. He reminded me of the statistics, that in any given cycle, a fertile couple have a 20% chance of fertilization (not even viable pregnancy, just fertilization). So, four Clomid cycles with one fertilization that ended in miscarriage is right in line with that statistic.
I have to say, his calm and rational analysis of the situation did more for my state of mind than anything else could. I feel like this will happen. It's going to be OK.
No. What I resent is the months and years of curtailing my lifestyle in order to try (so far, unsuccessfully) to boost my fertility. No coffee, no wine or whiskey, no hot tubs, and no painkillers. Hoarding vacation days with the hope of using them to extend a maternity leave instead of taking a long weekend whenever I felt like I needed one. Maybe that's just my only-childish mentality... I've very rarely had to make personal sacrifices for anyone else before. I want to have my cake and eat it too. I mean really, why shouldn't I?
I also resent all of those girls and women who deny themselves nothing, only to find themselves unexpectedly expecting and then fail to appreciate the gift they have been given.
If I come to the end of my IF journey with a baby, I will happily swallow that resentment. But if after all our options are exhausted, we are still just the two of us... I'll be grieving more than the loss of a child. I'll be grieving the loss of years worth of fruitlessly denied personal comfort. And you bet your ass that I then will wallow in self-indulgence to the full extent of my abilities.
UPDATE: I wrote this post on my phone yesterday at work after I started spotting. Last night, the Professor and I had a long talk about cycles so far and the plan going forward. So you know where I'm coming from - the Professor was in pre-med when we met and now works in public health. Without going into too much detail (he's touchy about privacy), suffice it to say I have the utmost faith in his ability to analyze this particular situation and form an objective opinion.
I have been worrying a lot lately... about the amount of trust I have to place in our medical team and about the fact that we continue to use the same basic protocol. I finally voiced this concern to the Professor, and he was surprised and very reassuring. He has clearly considered the subject, and he is in full agreement with the RE. The main factor in determining the continuation of the Clomid+IUI protocol is the fact that the first time we used it, I got pregnant. IT WORKED. He reminded me of the statistics, that in any given cycle, a fertile couple have a 20% chance of fertilization (not even viable pregnancy, just fertilization). So, four Clomid cycles with one fertilization that ended in miscarriage is right in line with that statistic.
I have to say, his calm and rational analysis of the situation did more for my state of mind than anything else could. I feel like this will happen. It's going to be OK.
Monday, May 31, 2010
My First Time
December 2009 - Cycle #13 (Memorial)
Professor's SA? Check.
Slackie's HSG? Check.
Clomid CD5-9? Check.
Weekly acupuncture? Check.
Gettin' our groove on whenever the mood strikes? CHECK!
Positive OPK? FAIL.
IUI? Missed the window.
So, best laid plans and all... ah well. We never quite figured out what went wrong. Maybe it was the generic brand OPKs, maybe it was just a coincidence of timing and a short LH surge. Whatever it was, I never got a positive OPK and when they brought me in for an ultrasound to see where things were at - we'd missed it. Now, we did at least have the comfort of knowing that we had been grooving throughout the window of opportunity, so maybe, just maybe...
And a few days after Christmas, maybe became YES. In spite of the failure of "the Plan", my period was late for the first time ever, so we picked up a home test, and lo and behold, it was positive. I called the clinic and they ordered the standard bloodwork, which also came back positive.
Once again, not sure why, but I was strangely wary of being excited. I knew I should be all Glowing and Joyful and Hallmark Moment, but I could only manage Cautiously Pleased. It seemed too good to be true that we had succeeded on our first full cycle with the RE. Already the doubt was creeping in.
When they called with the results of my third round of bloodwork, the nurse admitted that they were "concerned" that the numbers were not going up as they should, and they wanted me to come in for an ultrasound. I've done my homework on this infertility thing, and I could think of plenty of reasons for the low numbers (some of them scarier than others).
The ultrasound showed one small sac, hunkered down in just the right spot, but it was too small. So the verdict was wait and see, bloodwork every two days and another ultrasound one week out. Fast forward one week, bloodwork not improving and second ultrasound shows very little increase in size and no other development. Diagnosis: blighted ovum.
Blighted indeed.
I was a freaking hot mess. I think I went the whole week without showering, but I'm not even sure. I was so sad and angry and scared of what this meant for the larger picture. I never once thought of it as losing a baby. It wasn't a baby to me yet. It was an empty sac, never was and never would be anything else. I was sad for me, and angry that my body still hadn't gotten it right. Angry that we were going to have to wait untold weeks for this to resolve before we could start again. Angry that it was turning out to be so much harder than we thought it would be. Angry that so many girls and women could get knocked up so easily when they didn't even want to, didn't even like the person that knocked them up. The Professor and I adore each other and we just want to create a child that would be part of each of us, a reflection of just how immense our love is.
In the midst of all this, my BFF called to tell me she was pregnant. Two weeks behind me, her due date is my birthday. They'd been trying for six months. And I felt nothing but pure joy. I cannot describe what a relief it was to feel nothing but happy for her. I've read so many blog posts and tweets and statuses and comments from infertile women who were devastated when their close friends announced pregnancies, who eventually shut themselves off from their own social circles because of this. And I was scared that I would feel the same anger, resentment or jealousy towards my friend. But I didn't, and I still don't. And I'm so grateful for that. I eventually told her about my infertility and miscarriage, and she has responded exactly the way I needed her to. She never pushes me for updates or offers assvice, she just sends me little notes to say she's thinking of me. Just like she always has. If I send her an IF update, she offers encouragement or ass-kicking as appropriate. She doesn't see me any differently than before.
I took the misoprostol first thing on the next Saturday morning. I had stockpiled my supplies of maxi-pads, heating pads, Vicodin, water and audiobooks and settled into bed to wait. The Professor kept tabs on me, keeping me fed and hydrated and generally comforted. The whole thing took about six hours, after which I relocated to the couch to watch videos and feel sorry for myself. I didn't take the Vicodin until late that night when I just wanted to sleep. It wasn't nearly as bad as I had expected.
I spent the following day on the couch, just resting and recovering. My uterus felt like it had run a marathon. I had no abdominal muscle tone, couldn't suck in my gut to save my life. To top it all off, turns out my plumbing doesn't take well to Vicodin. Monday, I went to work like nothing had happened. No one in my office knew we were TTC, and I hadn't bothered to tell anyone about the pregnancy. Before work Tuesday, I went in for the post-misoprostol ultrasound. All clear. By the time I got to the office, I had crashed. I could barely drag myself into the building, much less think straight enough to work. I walked right into my boss' office, shut the door, sat down and started crying. I told her I had had a miscarriage and needed to go home. She told me to take as much time as I needed, and I did. We haven't mentioned it since.
By the time the bleeding stopped, my heart was healed. Really. I was only impatient to get back in the game. We had a follow-up consultation with the RE, and he professed himself very pleased with my response to the treatment in spite of the outcome, and agreed that we could go again once I'd had another period.
Perhaps, if we had seen something in that sac, a heartbeat or even just a fetal pole... something... it might have felt more like a baby, it might have taken longer to heal. But we didn't see anything, and that made it so much easier to bear in the long run.
Professor's SA? Check.
Slackie's HSG? Check.
Clomid CD5-9? Check.
Weekly acupuncture? Check.
Gettin' our groove on whenever the mood strikes? CHECK!
Positive OPK? FAIL.
IUI? Missed the window.
So, best laid plans and all... ah well. We never quite figured out what went wrong. Maybe it was the generic brand OPKs, maybe it was just a coincidence of timing and a short LH surge. Whatever it was, I never got a positive OPK and when they brought me in for an ultrasound to see where things were at - we'd missed it. Now, we did at least have the comfort of knowing that we had been grooving throughout the window of opportunity, so maybe, just maybe...
And a few days after Christmas, maybe became YES. In spite of the failure of "the Plan", my period was late for the first time ever, so we picked up a home test, and lo and behold, it was positive. I called the clinic and they ordered the standard bloodwork, which also came back positive.
Once again, not sure why, but I was strangely wary of being excited. I knew I should be all Glowing and Joyful and Hallmark Moment, but I could only manage Cautiously Pleased. It seemed too good to be true that we had succeeded on our first full cycle with the RE. Already the doubt was creeping in.
When they called with the results of my third round of bloodwork, the nurse admitted that they were "concerned" that the numbers were not going up as they should, and they wanted me to come in for an ultrasound. I've done my homework on this infertility thing, and I could think of plenty of reasons for the low numbers (some of them scarier than others).
The ultrasound showed one small sac, hunkered down in just the right spot, but it was too small. So the verdict was wait and see, bloodwork every two days and another ultrasound one week out. Fast forward one week, bloodwork not improving and second ultrasound shows very little increase in size and no other development. Diagnosis: blighted ovum.
Blighted indeed.
I was a freaking hot mess. I think I went the whole week without showering, but I'm not even sure. I was so sad and angry and scared of what this meant for the larger picture. I never once thought of it as losing a baby. It wasn't a baby to me yet. It was an empty sac, never was and never would be anything else. I was sad for me, and angry that my body still hadn't gotten it right. Angry that we were going to have to wait untold weeks for this to resolve before we could start again. Angry that it was turning out to be so much harder than we thought it would be. Angry that so many girls and women could get knocked up so easily when they didn't even want to, didn't even like the person that knocked them up. The Professor and I adore each other and we just want to create a child that would be part of each of us, a reflection of just how immense our love is.
In the midst of all this, my BFF called to tell me she was pregnant. Two weeks behind me, her due date is my birthday. They'd been trying for six months. And I felt nothing but pure joy. I cannot describe what a relief it was to feel nothing but happy for her. I've read so many blog posts and tweets and statuses and comments from infertile women who were devastated when their close friends announced pregnancies, who eventually shut themselves off from their own social circles because of this. And I was scared that I would feel the same anger, resentment or jealousy towards my friend. But I didn't, and I still don't. And I'm so grateful for that. I eventually told her about my infertility and miscarriage, and she has responded exactly the way I needed her to. She never pushes me for updates or offers assvice, she just sends me little notes to say she's thinking of me. Just like she always has. If I send her an IF update, she offers encouragement or ass-kicking as appropriate. She doesn't see me any differently than before.
I took the misoprostol first thing on the next Saturday morning. I had stockpiled my supplies of maxi-pads, heating pads, Vicodin, water and audiobooks and settled into bed to wait. The Professor kept tabs on me, keeping me fed and hydrated and generally comforted. The whole thing took about six hours, after which I relocated to the couch to watch videos and feel sorry for myself. I didn't take the Vicodin until late that night when I just wanted to sleep. It wasn't nearly as bad as I had expected.
I spent the following day on the couch, just resting and recovering. My uterus felt like it had run a marathon. I had no abdominal muscle tone, couldn't suck in my gut to save my life. To top it all off, turns out my plumbing doesn't take well to Vicodin. Monday, I went to work like nothing had happened. No one in my office knew we were TTC, and I hadn't bothered to tell anyone about the pregnancy. Before work Tuesday, I went in for the post-misoprostol ultrasound. All clear. By the time I got to the office, I had crashed. I could barely drag myself into the building, much less think straight enough to work. I walked right into my boss' office, shut the door, sat down and started crying. I told her I had had a miscarriage and needed to go home. She told me to take as much time as I needed, and I did. We haven't mentioned it since.
By the time the bleeding stopped, my heart was healed. Really. I was only impatient to get back in the game. We had a follow-up consultation with the RE, and he professed himself very pleased with my response to the treatment in spite of the outcome, and agreed that we could go again once I'd had another period.
Perhaps, if we had seen something in that sac, a heartbeat or even just a fetal pole... something... it might have felt more like a baby, it might have taken longer to heal. But we didn't see anything, and that made it so much easier to bear in the long run.
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