Thank You

To my husband, who pushed aside his own grief to dance around mine, never knowing whether to hug or get out of the way, but never getting angry with my unique and supremely selfish and frustrating way of dealing with bad news.

To my son, whose very existence is the best reminder that my life is not bad just because the current circumstances are unhappy.

To my mom, who came and stayed despite her own schedule, and never showed hurt when I aimed my pain in her direction.

To my mother-in-law, who made and sent a card saying that she didn't know how to comfort me, but was praying for us as we navigate through the aftermath.

To my best friend, who has left countless messages on my cell phone and continues to call in her support, even when she knows I probably won't pick up.

To my aunt and uncle, my in-laws, and 2 different friends who sent flowers to let us know that they are thinking of us.

To my husband's friends, who have called to comfort him when I have been unable to do so.

To the anesthesiologist who patted my hand while he spoke to me and didn't look at all uncomfortable when I burst into tears because of his kindness.

Thank you to all of the people who have offered support, prayers and love. Your words cannot take away the loss of the baby, but your presence is helping us to find our way through it.

My Five Stages (props to Kubler-Ross)

1. Denial: I'd be surprised if many infertile people experience this one. It's really hard to deny years on end with no baby. When you are infertile, you expect heartache, you don't deny it. Plus, there's really no denying a motionless, heartbeat-less blob that should be an active human baby.

2. Anger: Now this one, I excel in. I am pissed. Why us? Why does reproduction have to be such a struggle for us? We can afford kids. We love our son endlessly. Is it really so much to ask just to have the family we want? And if it is, then WHY did I even have to get pregnant in the first place? We weren't trying. We didn't ask. Couldn't it just not have happened (like it didn't for the last FOUR years, for chrissake)?

3. Bargaining: Got this one too. Not for this pregnancy, but for the future. Fine, if you took this one from me, you owe me twins next time. (Wait... TWINS?!? I don't want TWINS!) Ok, God, take this one if you must, but just let me have another eventually. And let it be ME. I want to be pregnant again (for more than 12 weeks). I want to give birth. I want to nurse my baby. Please, God. Don't you owe me?

4. Depression: Now this one I definitely hit again and again during our infertility years. I'm not there yet. We shall see. I think that waking up to my beautiful boy each day will be the best antidepressant I could have.

5. Acceptance: I'll get there. Probably sooner than anyone expects. I have my son. I will have another child, whether through adoption, surrogacy or pregnancy. I will. If my body can't give me my family, I'll get it elsewhere. But I will get it. And one day soon, I will wake up looking forward to the day and ready to jump in with both feet.

Myself is Getting Sick of Myself

I am convinced that the baby is dead (the in-utero one, that is... happy to report that the ex-utero one is alive and active). I keep telling my husband that I killed another one (that is in addition to the 10 embryos we transferred that never took and the 2 that did, but never became babies, and whatever unknown others there were while we were trying on our own). He's not a fan of the terminology. The fear is not totally unfounded. I've been spotting off and on since 6 weeks. Blood+Pregnant=Badness. Now I am cramping to beat the band. I've been doing that all along too, but it's worse now. Blood+Cramps+Pregnant=Bad Badness. All my pregnancy symptoms have vanished. And the coup de grace for my sanity: we rented a doppler and have yet to hear the tiniest hint of a heartbeat. Certainly, there are many quaint little anecdotes: "Oh my OB had a hard time finding my baby's heartbeat until 37 weeks!" But, really. Two doctors should be able to find it by now. And we can't. Because it's not there?

I have tried to convince myself that I'm ok with this. After all, if we'd had the choice, we wouldn't have chosen a 19 month spread between our kids. And the newborn period utter exhaustion scares me. But the truth is that... well, of course I'm not ok with it. Who ever is? (I don't need an answer to that, thanks.)

I am making myself insane and I am tired of it. My next OB appointment is on Tuesday. I am simultaneously relieved and terrified. I only hope I can stand myself until then.

On the Greener Side

The greener side of the fence. You know, where the grass is... well... greener. I spent 3 1/2 years peering through the chain links watching friend after friend after friend get pregnant, sail through pregnancy, give birth to pink-cheeked cherubs and talk about how wonderful it was. I know that the point of that saying is that the grass really isn't greener over there. But in this case, I was sure it was. For heaven's sakes, how could having a child not be better than monthly devastation, needles, hormone-induced psychosis, and spending more intimate time with my physician than with my husband? Three and a half years of trying, nine rocky months of pregnancy and one scary birth later, here I am. The greener side of the fence. And not only is it better (duh); it is beyond what I ever imagined. On the off chance that any fellow infertile ever reads these thoughts, let me add something here. Being a parent is the best thing I have ever done. However, that does not mean that it is a Hallmark commercial. This seems to be a common theme among infertiles (there are many). You spend so much time putting parenthood on a pedestal that it can be a major jolt when the baby is born and you are tired, and frustrated by the crying, and overwhelmed by the demands of a newborn. Being infertile does not protect you from the daily rigors of parenthood. And the very unfortunate part is that many infertile parents feel like they don't have the license to discuss the frustrations that every other parent discusses. After all, they asked for it, they took drugs for it, they paid for it. That being said, for every whine, mess and tantrum, there are a hundred magical moments: learning something new, kisses, snuggles, becoming an individual. And it is my firm belief that while most parents cherish their children, those of us who have worked so hard to bring those children into our lives cherish those moments just a bit more, knowing how close we came to never having them at all. It is greener indeed over here: glowing technicolor green.

The wrong thing to say

Ah, the pressure. The first post. Must be eloquent. Must be funny. Must be intelligent. Likely will be none of the above. I would start at the beginning, but that was too long ago. So instead, let me start with the facts.

1. I am the mother of a 1-year-old boy who is the result of 3 1/2 years trying to conceive, multiple failed Clomid cycles, multiple failed IUIs, multiple failed IVFs, multiple miscarriages and finally one successful IVF cycle.

2. Four months ago I graduated from medical school, but I am not a resident, nor do I think I ever will be. But that still remains to be determined. By the way, the reason I'm not in residency is by my choice, not my rejection.

3. I am 10 weeks pregnant with a very surprising surprise.

The "surprise" is not surprising because we were doing anything to prevent pregnancy (we weren't), but because of #1 above. We had no idea that we could conceive without involving a third party, heavy medications, multiple procedures, some petri dishes, stirrups and porn in a doctor's office. This baby (if it indeed turns into a real baby... pessimists don't give up easily) is what is referred to in the world of IVF as a "freebie," meaning that it didn't cost a cent to conceive (save that bottle of wine). As every fertile person knows, there are two ways for infertile people to get a freebie: "just relax," or "just adopt." In the case of those of us who have children through ART (Assisted Reproductive Technologies), once we get past the hurdle of that first baby, we "just relax" and get pregnant on our own. Which brings up two interesting points.

1. I don't recall any fertile people in my bedroom when we trying to conceive our first. So how is it that they know that I was uptight? Why do they assume that they were so emotionally superior during attempted conception?

2. Since when is having sex with a baby in the house is relaxing? "ShhhHHH! Hurry! Are you done? Shhh... I think I heard him crying. Hurry! He's going to wake up."

I know. I'm being rude. People mean well. The years of infertility have taught me a lot, both good and bad. And one of the unfortunate side effects is that after listening to years of "well-meaning" insensitive comments, I have lost patience for them and have a hard time taking them for what they are: an attempt at support. So here's my helpful guide to the right thing to say, gleaned from years of hearing (and yes, saying) the wrong thing.

In a happy situation: Congratulations! That is absolutely the best news. I am thrilled for you.

In a sad situation: I am so very sorry. You are in my thoughts.

Simple as that.