Hello Again...

Yep, it's been a long time. Again. It's not that there has been nothing to say. It's just that sometimes it seems easier to write when you are in pain, frustrated, worried, or hurting. It's cathartic to put those emotions down. It's easier to throw sarcasm and anger at the world than it is to say, "Everything's... just fine." Don't misunderstand. I am blissfully happy with "just fine." It's just that I don't feel as compelled to write about it because I'd rather just be living it.

It's been ten months since we moved to our new town. While the house will probably not be the way I want it for years, it's fine for now. And I love living in it, and I love the neighborhood we're in. My husband's job is going well. His hours are very good and his partners treat him well. Sure, he has normal work frustrations, but nothing compared to what he had before we moved. The boy and I have settled into a comfortable routine. We spend our mornings at gymnastics or music class or the library story time or play group. And in the afternoons we play at home, often times with Daddy who is generally home by then. We've both made some good friends. We are happy.

My son is undeniably two. He tests the boundaries at every turn and loudly and angrily protests not getting his way. There are days I am doing well not to be halfway through my third bottle of wine by the time my husband gets home. But, all of that is normal (both for him and me) and his rapidly exploding vocabulary and grasp of the world is so amazing that the less desirable parts of living with a toddler just fade away.

And the pregnancy. After our rough beginning, it's so routine now that I sometimes forget to be continually amazed that I really am pregnant again. As of today I am 28 weeks along, in my last trimester. The baby appears to healthy, and is very active. We've had no further complications since 10 weeks. I am in the habit of not counting unhatched chickens, however I can't seem to shake the feeling that I might have two children soon.

So. That's all there is. See how boring that was? Blissfully boring, if you ask me.

Thankful...

This time of the year is sentimental for everyone. But it's really not uncommon to see me with tears in my eyes during the holiday season. It holds so much emotion.

I spent too many years sad at Christmas. I was always thankful for my family, my husband, the roof over my head, the food on our table and health. And I always knew that all of that is SO much more than so many people have. But at Christmas, there are reminders everywhere of children. They line up for Santa at the mall. They appear in sentimental commercials where they innocently sneak down the stairs to wait for Santa. They are adorable in the church Christmas Eve pageant. And our home was deafeningly quiet on Christmas morning. It was hard to be happy at a time when everywhere I turned I was reminded of the one thing that was missing. All I could do was wonder if it would ever be my turn to hold a tiny hand in the line for Santa; to make angel wings for the Christmas Eve pageant; to hear my child's laughter on Christmas morning.

And then three years ago on December 7, in a lab in North Carolina, 13 embryos came to be. Five days on December 12, three of them were placed back in my uterus. And five days before Christmas, my husband (who fielded all phone calls from the doctor to save me from hearing bad news from a stranger) told me that I was pregnant. Not for the first time. But for the first time the numbers looked very promising. The day before Christmas Eve he told me that the numbers were rising perfectly. By all indications, everything looked promising. And so for the first time ever on Christmas 2005, not even 5 weeks pregnant, I allowed myself to dream. One year later, on Christmas morning 2006, I had in my arms the most precious gift God can give. My infant son, perfect and healthy. And the memory of the prior Christmases, so filled with grief and longing, so filled with terrified hope, were as vivid as ever. The memory of pain will be with me forever, but the pain itself is gone. Now my Christmases include holding a tiny hand in the line for Santa, dressing my beautiful (yes, I am biased, but he seriously is) son in his Christmas best for Christmas Eve church and hearing his little feet pitter patter around to look at his presents on Christmas morning. And it seems as if next year we will add another little one to the mix.

So this season holds for me the memory of past hurt, the memory of desperate hope, and now a level of gratitude that can never be expressed with my feeble writing. Thankful... yes. So very, very thankful.

A New Day

It is gorgeous here. The weather is unseasonably warm (oh, who am I kidding... not really unseasonable for Texas), but not hot. The sky is that gorgeous deep blue of a clear autumn day and white clouds are floating in the sky. May sound idyllic and contrived, but it isn't. That's what sort of day it is. And it fits my mood to a T. I feel happy, peaceful, sunny and idyllic. I feel hopeful and excited. I feel patriotic and proud. I knew I wanted him to win. I voted for him. But I didn't realize how badly I wanted it until I woke up this morning feeling every happy emotion I can conjure. I am inspired. WE are inspired. I am ready. WE are ready. My son will never know a day when there was no way a minority could hold the highest office in the land. He will never think it odd that the children in the White House aren't white. It's not often that a parent is glad that things are the way they are now rather than wishing that they were like they used to be. But this is one of those times. I am so proud of this country. I am so proud to be an American (cue Lee Greenwood). I feel like standing on my roof today and cheering (which, unfortunately in my neck of the woods would probably result in me a-gettin' lynched by an angry mob). I feel light and free. Yes, we can. And yes, we did. And I for one think it's going to be a great four years.

"Penis is crying"

This is what my son said to me tonight. I'm not sure of he was referring to the fact that he'd just peed in the shower or if his penis was just feeling a little sad (it happens), but for whatever reason penis was crying.

One of the joys of living with a toddler is getting a glimpse into their view of the world. Today he told me that he wanted to go up into the clouds. When I asked him how we'd get there he said, "Take big steps." The he decided that there was a doggie in the clouds that needed feeding, so he started throwing imaginary food up into the sky. After his shower tonight he informed me that his shoes were tired. I love hearing his take on things. He is surprising. And creative. And funny. And lately, cranky. But we can overlook that for all the other things. Two is tough. And so very fun.

So, this baby. It's another little IVF miracle. It was an abysmal cycle and I don't think anyone expected it to work, least of all me. But, here I am. Fourteen weeks pregnant. I believe in God and I thank Him nightly because this one sure shouldn't have happened. It didn't go well at first. There was a hemorrhage between the baby's sack and my uterus, but hopefully that is resolving. Hopefully the next 26 weeks will pass with a live and healthy baby being born uneventfully at the end. And if that happens, I plan to close my uterus for business forever.

Lucas, who has absolutely no concept of what it all means (and how can he, really... when we ourselves had no idea when we brought him home?), has taken it all in stride. He points at my tummy when asked where the baby is. He answers "Quatro" when asked what we will name the baby. We're not sure why he chose the name Quatro, but it seems fitting for the fourth member of our family. He's probably a genius.

So. Crying penises. Hungry dogs in the sky. Baby in belly. Just another boring day.

Uno, Dos, Tres...

...Quatro (my sweet son's chosen name for the fourth member of our family- pretty dang smart, if you ask me)

Due to join us on quatro de Mayo.

Why I Love Him

... my husband, I mean. The other night while I was showering, a memory surfaced. I'm not sure why it picked that specific moment to come up (I have my ideas, but that's a story for another day).

When I was 17 weeks pregnant with my son, we had our "big ultrasound" (where you find out the sex, but we didn't because we're the ones who enjoy driving everyone else nuts by not "needing to prepare"). Instead, we found out that my triple screen (for neural tube defects and genetic abnormalities) had come back abnormal and that there were some abnormalities on the ultrasound that were markers for genetic problems. One evening while we were still reeling from all of that, I was lying on the couch and had a huge gush of blood. I. was. terrified. It's funny how your brain protects itself. I was too scared to think at all, yet I had the presence of mind to gather all reminders of what had just happened and the pregnancy itself and put them away. I was so sure that the next time I walked through my front door I would no longer be pregnant.

The car ride to the hospital and wait in the emergency room were like a dream... a bad one. I didn't know what was going on inside, but I did know that it was bad. And it had to be over. It was too good to be true after all. I was numb, not really processing much. When they put the doppler on my belly and we immediately heard a strong "whoosh whoosh whoosh," I cried. I wasn't sure if it was relief that the baby was still alive or horror that I was about to deliver a live, healthy, very non-viable baby because my body was failing again. At one point they told me that they saw some tissue (like ruptured membranes) coming out, later they said no, it was just blood. Finally there was an ultrasound and we were no closer to figuring out what was going on. Over the course of hours and several doctors, we began to understand that I wasn't dilated, they didn't think my membranes were ruptured, the baby was doing well, and nobody knew where the bleeding was coming from. I was to be admitted overnight for observation.

While I waited in the ED for a room upstairs, my husband ran home to take care of the dogs and get clothes. Throughout the whole ordeal, he'd never shown any sign that he was shaken at all. And I was too distraught to realize that of course he was. He just calmly led me through the motions, held my hand tight when we listened for the heartbeat and when I got a catheter, sat close to me, joked, but only at the right time. He later told me that when he walked out of the hospital, he called our families to explain what was happening. First my family to ask them to call me since he was worried about leaving me alone. And then his. As soon as his mom answered the phone, finally relieved of his duty to be the strong one, finally able to be the frightened parent, he broke down and couldn't talk. Of all that we experienced that day, that is the only part of the story that still brings tears to my eyes.

I love him because he is my rock, and man do I need one. I love him because he's stood right by my side through the hell we've endured in our quest for parenthood. I love him because we've weathered storms together and understand this experience mutually. I love him because he allows me to grieve our losses in my own way. I love him because he loves being a Dad as much as I love being a Mom. And I love him because he is a darn good one, just ask our son.

And Disneyland Rides in on His White Horse

I have belonged to an online community for women experiencing pregnancy after IVF since I was pregnant with my son. Though I have actually only met two of them in real life, I consider many of them friends and value their opinions highly. It's a unique mixture of intelligent, thoughtful, well-educated women bonded by a heartbreaking journey followed by the happiness of succeeding at one of life's fundamental joys. Being pregnant after failing for so long to either become and/or stay pregnant, while wonderful, can be really scary. Years of failure condition you to believe it will always be that way. You are painfully aware that it could all be taken away at any moment. The early days of parenting, I believe, are a shock for anyone. As it turns out, it is not a Hallmark commercial: calm and adoring mother, simply glowing in the light of her new little cherub, holding sleeping said cherub closely to her overflowing breasts while proud, admiring papa stands by ready to help in any way necessary as a soft light spills ever so gently through the sheer, billowing curtains. Noooo, not quite. And this can be a very big shock to someone who has been dreaming of and praying for this scene with increasing fervor over the course of years. So this community of women is a fantastic source of support and information for those of us navigating through a situation which often nobody we know in real life has.

In any case, there is a saying on the board oft-quoted to new moms who are somewhat dismayed to find that they spend all day caring for baby and the moment Dad walks in the door, baby couldn't care less if Mom is around or not. "Daddy is Disneyland." This is often true. Mom fixes boo-boos. Dad is fun. Mom cooks meals. Dad is fun. Mom finds the favorite shirt. Dad is fun. You get the idea. But, you know, that's not always a bad thing. Parents are different for a reason and having the different influences of each in a child's life is healthy and balancing, I believe. And, at least in our household, Dad has earned his Disneyland status.

After my last post, I had a little chat with myself about my lack of patience, did some reading on toddler behavior and discipline and woke up the next morning calmer and ready to respond to two-year-old-ism with a calm yet firm, rational yet loving approach. Additionally, I informed Disneyland that he would have to take Toddler to the park from time to time and give Mom a break. Which he happily agreed to. I also asked that he start giving baths since the transition from play to bath was a guaranteed battle at a time of day when I am generally running low on patience. He agreed to this as well. So the first night, instead of my method of giving a 5-minute warning, 4-minute warning, 3-minute warning, 2 minute warning, 1-minute warning, 30-second warning, etc. and then declaring it time for a bath, only to be met with a very angry toddler, towing said toddler up the stairs, wailing all the way... INSTEAD of all that, he simply said, "Hey, Toddler (not his actual name, you understand), race you upstairs!" and took off running. And heck if it didn't work. Second night, same thing. No crying. In fact, he GIGGLED all the way up the stairs. Well, duh! Why didn't I think of that? So Disneyland has saved the day (or rather, the night time routine). And I am fine with that. Peaceful evenings, happy Mommy. Thank God for Disneyland Daddy.

I am also happy to report that another bit of wisdom from my online community is also true. "Toddlers are like dogs. They can smell fear." Once I had a more solid plan for dealing with the tantrums and my frustration, he sensed that I am no longer afraid and hasn't even bothered. We're down from 3 meltdowns an hour to one a day. Haven't even had a time out in two days. I know that every day won't be so easy, but I feel like I've had a minor victory and that's enough for me.

Mommy Crappy

We spent last week as a family on vacation (at least two of us were) in the southwest. One of us was taking what we hope will be the last exam for the next 10 years. So my son and I came along to see a new city and have a little get away. Here's the thing. Two-year-olds don't really enjoy get-aways. At least my particular two-year-old doesn't. He'd rather be in his own house playing with his own toys and sleeping in his own bed. And when asking nicely for those things failed to get him anywhere, he resorted to making our lives just as miserable as his apparently was. Our last two days were spent listening to a screaming toddler object (LOUDLY) to every. single. thing. that happened. I was tired, hot (it was a hundred and freaking five degrees there), and my patience quickly wore quite thin.

Since being home, things have improved. A little. Which leads me to believe that some of his acting out was because he was tired and out of his element. And the rest was because he's two. And that's not going away anytime soon. We do battle a hundred times a day. In the car he wants me to get the toy he's just thrown onto the floorboard. At mealtimes, he wants more bread without having taken a single bite of vegetables. At night, transitioning from play to bathtime is a guaranteed tantrum. He screams at the top of his lungs. Time outs are ineffective. He'll happily sit in his time out spot for 2 minutes. Take away a toy- he couldn't care less. Yelling and hitting aren't options (for me, anyway), so I'm at a loss. And my patience, unfortunately, has not improved much at all.

I've been through med school so I am not at all unfamiliar with feeling like a total moron. But parenting has brought that feeling to a whole new level. Just when you are starting to feel confident- you're in a routine, everyone thinks your kid is great, you're in a happily symbiotic relationship- they up and change the game. And you're back to bumbling idiot. I always thought that parents had until their kids were teens to find out how little they (the parents) know. But, it happens from day one. How do I handle this? Why do they do that? Am I doing it right? How badly am I messing up?

A month ago I was happy Mommy. Today I feel like crappy Mommy.

Mommy Happy

Yes, so it's been 5 months since I've updated. Whoops. To sum up: got pregnant, moved to new town, got unpregnant, made some new friends, settled in, playgroups, playdates, played trains. And here we are.

This past weekend, my dear sweet son turned TWO years old! It amazes me that two years have passed since those emotion-filled, exhausted, hormonal, foggy first days of his life. They were happy, certainly, but a combination of health worries (him) and hormonal psychosis (me) and the reality of caring for a newborn and the absolute unfathomable enormity of finally having a child was just too much for me to really process at the time. Two years later, I still marvel that it finally happened, but I can generally (not always) do it without bursting into tears.

Our journey to him was rocky and unsettling. It was lonely and scary. It was isolating and hopeless. But, ultimately it was rewarding. And it was the journey that was meant for us. It has forever changed me. I am less confident, but also less arrogant. I trust less in myself, but more in God. I am less sure it will all be as I want it, but more sure that it WILL be ok. I am less likely to worry over insignificant things, and more likely to empathize with someone who is hurting. I am more aware of the possibility of it all being taken away, but I am more likely to enjoy even the smallest things. I catch in others glimpses of who I was and who I imagine I would be today without having traveled this road. And I am happier to be who I am now.

Motherhood is the most difficult task I've ever worked at. It is all-consuming. Once you are a mother, you are never NOT a mother. No matter where you are and who you are with, the reality remains that there is a human out there who is relying on you for something (food, safety, emotional guidance, education, medical care, transportation, prayers...). And never have I been more excited to work so hard. Never have I been more vested in the task at hand and the outcome. It's not easy. And it's not always happy. And it doesn't always bring out my best. But more often than not, it is phenomenal. More often than not, it is so wonderful it's hard to believe anything can be this good.

Tonight I was putting my son to bed. He was uncharacteristically snuggly, leaning his head firmly into my chest and holding one of my hands on his face. He would talk quietly to me for a minute, then we would rock in silence for awhile. I was loving every moment of this unanticipated moment of intimacy. Suddenly he spoke up. "Mommy happy." I couldn't have said it better myself, kiddo.

I Just Want This, Nothing More

Sometimes kids are very wise. This past weekend my son participated in his first Easter egg hunts. He caught on very quickly. The only thing he didn't really understand was the goal of collecting as many eggs as you can as fast as you can. He who gets the most wins. Instead, he'd find an egg, run to us with it in his outstretched little chubby hand, shake it, laughing, open it to see what was inside. Each egg he found was new, interesting, and enough for him. He could have picked up one and been perfectly happy to explore it. It was so very innocent and so very sweet. It saddens me to think that all too soon he will develop the "more, more, more" mentality.

It was a good lesson in being satisfied with what you have. It got me thinking about the morality of wanting another child so badly. Looking at my life from the perspective of most people, there is nothing to want. I have a wonderful, kind, well-employed husband, a beautiful, healthy son, the ability to stay home with him if I choose and the ability to work if I want to, a nice house in a nice neighborhood, food on the table, and so on. So why not just be content? I tell myself that if I am not happy now, another child isn't going to solve that. And I believe that to be true. It's not that I am not happy. I am so very grateful for the things I have. And if I never have another child, I will still be grateful. But I will also be somewhat empty. When we announced that we might not be able to have another, a well-meaning friend (whose wife was gigantically pregnant with their second) said, "Well, at least you have one." That's what I thought too before we had him. Please, just let me have one. (Be careful what you ask for.) The problem is that the desire is just as strong for the second, only in a different way. Before my son, I just wanted to be a mother. I wanted to share my life and home with a child. I had no idea what it would be like and I didn't care if the child was genetically mine. Now I know. Now I know how it feels to see and hear your baby's heartbeat for the first time, to feel those little kicks, to give birth, to nurse a baby. Those things mean so much to me. Obviously, there are ways for us to have a child without me being pregnant and I hope that if pregnancy is impossible, we can successfully pursue repeat parenthood in another way. But it will leave an empty place if my body can't participate again. I wish I could follow my son's lead and be perfectly content with this one, never needing another. But my son is the very one who is making that so hard.

Too Dumb To Conceive?

I know such a thing doesn't exist. I mean just look at some of the people who get pregnant... over and over and over and... But, I have made a colossal parenting mistake. I have done the dumbest thing imaginable. And I am wondering if that's why this cycle failed (yes it did, thanks for asking). I am wondering if God in his infinite wisdom is sitting up there saying, "Oh for the love of pete. How can you expect me to give you another one when you can't manage to learn the number one rule of parenting after EIGHTEEN MONTHS? Come on, give me something to work with here."

I have woken the child and it is now nearly midnight and I am not in bed because I have been battling him over going back to sleep for the past hour. Every night, I go check on him before going to bed. I stand over his crib, watch his chest rise and fall, notice how long he is now, look at the way his hair spills over his face, admire his small hands relaxed on his sheets. Partly it is my time to reflect on what a blessing he is, how unimaginably strong my love for him is, how grateful I am. And partly it is a superstitious ritual... if I make sure he's breathing before I go to bed, I guarantee that he will still be breathing when I wake up. Anyway, on this particular night as soon as I opened the door, his head popped up. I quickly retreated, but dared not close the door. No crying, all was well. Here's where the stupid comes in. I went back up AGAIN to try to grab some diapers that were on his floor so I could toss them in the wash (oh yes, I cloth diaper... you have idea the depth of my ubermom-ness). Stupid. Sleep more important than laundry. So I am inching in his door along the floor, hand on the diapers when he looks up again. I hastily retreat AGAIN, loudly banging into every solid surface on the way out. Still, no crying. And, oh my god, if I didn't attempt AGAIN. I decided I really needed to shut his door so that C doesn't wake him up when he goes to work in the morning, so I went back, pulled the door shut, discovered that it really needs WD40, and that was the end of my luck. He started crying. That was an hour and a half ago, and here I still sit. I managed to wiggle out of his room by lying a quilt on the floor with some pillows under it, jetting out the door while he wasn't looking, then admonishing "Lie down!" and "Shhh!" from the door so he thinks I am still there. Either that, or he's sitting in his crib rolling his eyes wondering how dumb I think he is.

So we'll start a new cycle immediately. Another frozen transfer. I fully expect the RE to recommend the same protocol, an idea with which I fully disagree. Four cycles of the exact same thing with the exact same results is my limit. We do something new, or I find someone new. Hopefully in the meantime I can gain some sense... I'm sure that's all it'll take. I mean, look at Jamie Lynn.

PUPO

It means "pregnant until proven otherwise." It means, to IVFers, that the embryos are in and until the blood pregnancy test there is a chance that you're pregnant. My natural inclination is to think of myself as NPUPO (not pregnant...). Go about my normal routine (you know, the fifths of whisky, the late night parties, the 2-pack-a-day habit, etc.) and try to completely forget the possibility. I mean, looking at this objectively, the things we have going against us are:

31 days of unopposed estrogen stimulation to get a decent lining
By "decent," I mean "horrible"
The possibility of uterine scarring remaining
Two lousy embryos that I am sure were still partially frozen
Me not taking it easy after the transfer AT ALL
3 frozen transfers under our belt, none successful

And here's what we have going for us:

Um... uh... um...

BUT, I am attempting to stay positive. Because the truth of the matter is that with infertility treatments there is no forgetting, there is no pretending that everything is normal and there is no way to protect your heart from the disappointment when it doesn't work. So you might as well enjoy the possibility while it still exists.

My husband has implored me to write something normal in my blog. He wants me to stop being so dreary and try to be more of a "dancing through fields of lilies while bluebirds sing on my shoulder" kind of gal. Huh. I thought I was funny. Guess not.

This past weekend, we made a trip to his family's farm. It is near the town we are moving to next month. We now have a house under contract and got to walk through it again. It's a new construction and is not done yet. But we are really excited about it. It's a 2-story in a neighborhood with a pool, tennis courts, basketball courts and hiking trails. It's on over an acre of land. It has an open floor plan, an awesome kitchen, custom cabinets, lots of built in storage, hardwood floors, faux paint finishes, a media room... It's cool. Right now I only have pics on my husband's cell phone, but next time I'll bring the camera and post some. (Was that normal enough?)

6 days until beta. Tick... tock... tick... tock...

At Least I Can Say My Endometrium is Skinny

It's been awhile. I haven't had much to say. As for the cliffhanger of the last post, did anyone expect me to really delay they cycle? Yes? Really? Well, no... wrong, wrong-o. I didn't. And since that was a whole month ago, I'm sure it'd be logical to expect some sort of announcement here. Nope. This has been the worst frozen embryo cycle in history, and we're not even to the meat of the cycle yet. I did scurry around getting this and that signed, talking to one lab, then the other, then the other, etc. until our embryos arrived safe and frozen here. Glad I was in such a big hurry because my first lining check resulted in a ridiculously tissue paper thin lining where no respectable embryo would attempt to snuggle in for nine month. Upped the estrogen, after another week we'd made minimal progress. At this point the doctor conceded to check my estrogen levels and lo and behold they weren't high enough. So we upped again and finally my lining was ready (and when I say ready I mean still entirely too thin for this to actually work, but thick enough that it did work once for someone, somewhere, so my doc feels justified in proceeding). Four weeks of estrogen and a lining other uteruses would point and laugh at and call "toothpick". Soooo... I have started progesterone in oil shots (PIO, to those of us in the know... PIA if you ask me). These are delightful little squirts of progesterone in olive oil right in the tushy muscle every night. Hopefully for 12 weeks. Walking not so good right now. And the little embryos are slated to be killed, I mean transferred on Friday. The nurses keep acting excited and hopeful. I feel kind of bad for them. I feel like I need to sit them down and say, "Look, it's good to have hope, but we need to be realistic here. I just don't want you to be too devastated when this doesn't work. There will be other tries." Honestly it surprises me somewhat when I hear their optimism because I keep forgetting that the point is to get pregnant. I feel like we're just cleaning out the freezer, so to speak, so that we can decide what to do next.

On a wholly unrelated and much happier note, we are a-moving. Hubs got a job in the same town as our alma mater. Said job promises better pay for better hours, so we're going. As of today we will have submitted an offer on a house that we fully expect the builder to laugh at, but it's worth a shot. Cross your fingers for us (and maybe your toes too just in case I might have the tiniest amount of hope for the aforementioned "thing").

How Much Do You Trust FedEx?

Would you trust them with your kids? What about your frozen globs of potential kids? We need to have our 12 frozen embryos shipped from our old stomping grounds in NC here to TX so that they can be transferred into my uterus where they will promptly raise their tiny cellular middle fingers at me and fling themselves out of my cervix, having lost all will to live (apparantly, judging by our past success, my uterus is like a shady Motel 6 with cockroaches on the floor and suspicious stains on the sheets and crackheads next door... no place for proper refined embryos... my son must have low standards). I have dragged my feet on this task mainly because it involves getting 35,000 pieces of paper from various sources plus my husband, a notary and me in the same place all at once and that has proved almost impossible. (Hey... sounds like a good joke... "A husband, a notary and an infertile walk into a bar..."). Without officially signed pieces of paper, the labs that currently house our embryos won't ship them and the lab here won't receive them. And now suddenly I find myself starting a cycle in which embryos are supposed to be put in me and said embryos are half way across the country. I am torn between giving up on this month but trying to get them here for next month and spending all day talking to labs, finding a notary, throwing him into the back of a speeding white van with no windows (ski mask on my face, obviously), binding and gagging him, dragging him into the OR where my husband is busily giving his patients happy drugs, taking a hit for myself, getting those papers signed and overnighted, and hoping that FedEx pulls through for me.

I Think I've Found My Niche

I've been wondering how an MD with an aversion to work can come up with a little extra spending money. I've run through a million ideas in my head, but I think I may have finally stumbled across the right one. As you are aware from my previous posts, I have entered a crafty stage. First, please view my inspiration.

http://whatnottocrochet.wordpress.com/2008/01/12/tampon-cozies/

The uterus-shaped one got me thinking. There are WAHM (work at home moms) out there who crochet hats, scarves, blankets, sweaters, soakers for cloth diapers and the list goes on. But I've yet to run across anyone who has cornered the infertile market. So I'm gonna do it. Some ideas for my new line:

1. Teardrop-shaped tampon cozies for the times when seeing your period... AGAIN... is just a little more than you can handle.

2. Ovary ice-pack covers in sizes ranging from "raisin" for the "geriatric ovary" to "watermelon" for the PCOS-er for that post-retrieval tingle.

3. Socks that reach all the way up to your thighs to keep you warm in the stirrups.

4. Blankets that can be used as modesty sheets at the reproductive endocrinologist... I mean don't you feel kind of bad for the guy having to spend a fortune on all those paper sheets cycle after cycle after cycle?

5. Syringe cozies for warming up your progesterone in oil shots... because THAT's going to make it hurt less.

6. A discreet little carrying case with space for a vial, a needle, an alcohol wipe and a bandaid for the times you get to haul a bunch of embarrassing injectible drugs to your in-laws for dinner and crouch in their bathroom silently pumping your body full of hormones.

7. A Gatorade koozie- no OHSS for you!

8. Earmuffs for lunch with the girls, one of whom is forever wondering "when you're going to have kids already!" She just doesn't get why you don't, I mean she just has them without even trying! All he husband has to do is look at her. And you know, she just HATES being pregnant! All that nausea, the weight gain, lucky you, never being pregnant. Oops. You can't hear her. Darn earmuffs.

So these are just a few ideas I've been tossing around. I am sure I can come up with more. Now I'll need a name...

Maybe it Should Have Been Named "Marsupial Love"

So about this quilting class. I went yesterday and one of the other (maturer) students was acting... odd. She was odd at the first class, but this time she seemed to be both odd and pharmacologically enhanced in some way (Valium? Oxycontin?). So after listening to her talk incoherently about her new sewing machine (and TO her new sewing machine... the built-in scissors! the computer screen! the needle settings!) for most of the class, I am sitting across from her dutifully attempting to sew PRECISELY 1/4 inch seams into looooong strips of fabric. She looks up at me and says, "My little boy is getting frisky." I, um... your, um... um... what? "My little boy is getting frisky." So I give her my best "your particular brand of crazy is making me uncomfortable" look and say, "I don't understand what you mean." So she turns her back to me and sits there. Well, this clears it right up. Finally she says, "Don't you see it?" And then I do. I see something inside her shirt moving. I ask, "What IS that?" And she pulls out what looks very much like a rodent to me, but I have since been informed is a marsupial, thank you very much. More precisely, a sugar glider. It is in her shirt (and I can only assume has been in her shirt... doing what?... nursing?... for the past 2 hours) so that it becomes more friendly. I am quite sure I do not need or want to know any more about her friendly, bra-dwelling rodent/marsupial, but she's not done. Next, she starts talking about the female she has at home who is pregnant with twins (at this point I realize I am jealous of a rodent/marsupial) and how after this pregnancy, she'll have to separate her and her mate because her body needs a break from pregnancy. And finally the conversation (if you can call it that... one person talking, one sewing fast enough to make the machine hover ever so slightly over the table) turns to the sexual practices of her pets and how she's walked in on their rodent (sorry, marsupial) love three times. Oh my gawd.

So here is my question. Can marsupials have rabies, because I am starting to wonder of perhaps I should take precautions next week to ensure she doesn't bite me?

Me so crafty

I was going to title this one "Me 'sew' crafty," but I even annoyed myself with that title so I compromised. I am feeling uninspired.

I decided that there's really no reason to delay becoming an 80-year-old woman, so I have decided to add quilting and crocheting to my repertoire (which now consists of knitting and... knitting). It is my hope that by the end of the year I will have covered every surface in my home (including my husband and son) with crocheted white doilies. Why not? I've got nothing else to do. So I have enrolled myself in a beginning quilting class. The teacher is very nice and the other two students are... maturer than I. But before I can quilt I had to learn to sew so last weekend I went to a very cool, young, funky local craft shop and took a beginning sewing class. The other two students in that class were... less mature than I. It was a lot of fun and I came away with a new tote bag which I now carry everywhere and spend hours gazing adoringly at. I'd post a picture, but our only working computer has non-working USB ports so until the camera learns to send its pictures through mental telepathy the pics are all stuck inside of it.

Now that I can sew a wavy line and create simple tote bags, I have visions of a new craft business dancing in my head. Problem is that I have entirely too many ideas (and well, very little experience, except that I would be able to treat any injury I inflicted upon myself while wielding sharp scissors and needles and such). I will probably purchase a few patterns, test my hand at them with the intention of asking friends for opinions and promptly become bored and decide to train dogs for a living (this is exactly why I am an M.D. who doesn't practice).

In other news... it is very hard to try to pretend that you're not hoping to get pregnant when you know for sure that you're ovulating because all those years of injecting yourself full of cow hormones have caused your ovaries to start groaning and creaking and generally making themselves known every time they crank out an egg. Perhaps they'd chill out if I covered them with some nice white doilies.

Good-bye 2007. I spit in your general direction.

A good swift kick in the nuts to '07 on its way out, and welcome to what I can only pray will be a better year. Good-bye move halfway across the country, good-bye miscarriage, good-bye dislocated shoulder (my hubbie's, not mine), good-bye sweet favorite dog.

Not that it was all bad. Like every good infertile, I've gotta qualify any complaint with "well, at least we have our son." After all, you must make sure that the universe knows that you are GRATEFUL and HAPPY and for heaven's sakes, pleeeeease don't do anything to him, and well, ok, if it's not too much to ask, might we have another? Yet another sequela of infertility: the fear that what you finally got can be taken away in a flash. I am sure that every parent worries to varying degrees depending on their own personalities that something will happen to their children. It is that worry that keeps you vigilant so that your infant doesn't attempt sword-swallowing and your toddler doesn't ride his tricycle Evil Knievel-style off the staircase. However, I think it's different when your life circumstances have taught you to expect disappointment and sadness where children are concerned. But, I digress.

New year, new possibilities. Look out, '08. My expectations are high. You've got a lot of work to do.

Thankful

I spend a lot of time on this blog whining about life circumstances. While I appreciate an having an avenue for blowing off steam, I'm also not always grumpy. In fact, thanks to this blog, I am usually even pretty happy. So as a change of pace and in honor of the upcoming holiday, I thought I'd lay out my thanks.

1. My son- thankful does not even begin to cover it. I have dreamed of being a mother for decades and obsessed over it for years. While it may not be the Hallmark commercial I envisioned, it far exceeds what I imagined. His presence in my life is a source of constant joy. I could never have anticipated a love so deep that to even attempt to describe it brings me to tears. Trite as it may sound, I would lay down my life for this boy.

2. My husband- boy, does he deserve a medal (however, lest we get too sappy, sometimes so do I). He has been my best friend for a decade, my support when life falls down around us, a better father to my son than I could have asked for. He is steady, reasonable and kind in a world that can be turbulent and mean. I could not be the wife and mother I am without him.

3. My family and in-family- for always pulling through when necessary and for the type of unconditional love that I have only come to understand in the last 14 months. We are lucky between the two of us to have 4 wonderful parents.

4. My health- ok, sure, reproductively I suck. But if that's the worst of my health worries, then I am pretty lucky.

5. For all of our creature comforts- I have never been hungry (besides self-induced hunger), live in a nice house in a nice neighborhood, sleep in a soft bed, revel in my air conditioning. I have all of the basic necessities and then some.

Ok. I could go on. But I won't. Amidst the struggle for such a basic and deep-seated human experience, the experience of family, there is much to be thankful for.

Happy Infertility Awareness Week!

So this past week was Infertility Awareness Week. As a bona fide infertile, I feel it is my civic duty to spread the news.

According to the American Society for Reproductive Medicine, about 10% of couples are infertile (that is, unable to conceive after a year of trying). Which means that if you know 10 couples, chances are that you know someone who is infertile. Which means you should stop asking people when they plan to have kids. Eighty percent of infertile couples will be able to identify a cause and of those identified, about half are due to male factor. Which means you should stop discussing in hushed tones with your family members what might be wrong with your brother's wife.

None of that even begins to speak of the emotional toll infertility takes. I have encountered a range in my fertile friends' level of understanding: from "I cannot imagine how hard this must be and I am so sorry" to "why are you even trying so hard anyway?" I could write for days... literally... on the psychology of infertility. But, I won't. If you are fertile (or assume that you are) and you think that I am taking this little issue way too far (it's not cancer, for heaven's sakes), all I can tell you is that I am not alone. Every single infertile person I know (and yes, through the miracle of the internet I know many) experiences deep sadness, intense longing, a very real sense of loss, embarrassment, isolation, frustration, fear, disappointment, and worry. I will delve more into this in later posts because I think it's important. Too many people have zero understanding of how very, very hard it is. And the unfortunate part of that is that they then say things that are astoundingly insensitive and only make the hurt worse. Which I know is never the intention. So to end this post, I am compiling a list of phrases that are never to leave your lips when speaking to someone longing for a child.

1. Why don't you just adopt?
Ah, the perpetual query. Oh, how simple the decision, right? People who say that never, and I mean never, have the slightest inkling what adoption involves. And they never, and I mean never, are adoptive parents themselves. Adoption is expensive. It is very time consuming. And it is not as rose-colored as the general population believes. Again, I could write a whole post on this alone (and perhaps will), but not now. Finally, the next time you and your friends are all sharing birth stories, consider that the adoptive parent is robbed of the experience of being pregnant, feeling the kicks, giving birth, exclusively nursing the baby if she chooses. If you hate pregnancy, just be grateful you know enough about being pregnant to hate it.

2. Just relax and it'll happen. (Alternatively, "Just go on vacation.")
This one is sure to raise any infertile's blood pressure by 20 points. If that were true, everyone would get pregnant that first fun month of trying. Relaxing can't fix two-headed sperm, polycystic ovaries or endometriosis. And trust me, we are worried enough that we are in some way causing this failure. The last thing we need is to be lying in the sack wondering if maybe this could be the time... oh, crap... I thought about it... I wonder if that's too uptight... did I just screw it up?... well, now I'm definitely not relaxed...

3. Maybe it's just not in God's plan for you to have children. (Alternatively, "Maybe it's just not meant to be." or "Everything happens for a reason.")
A. Do you have a direct line to God? Because if so, I have some questions for Him? B. It's not in His plan for me, and educated loving person with plenty of resources for raising a happy, healthy child to have kids, but it was in his plan for that woman who was on the news last night because she killed her five children to have them? Do you really think God works that way? C. How is it remotely helpful to my faith to be told that God is withholding such a basic, deep-seated desire from me?

4. You want kids so bad? You can have mine!
First of all, you are making light of something deeply painful to someone. How would you feel if after your mother died, I offered you mine whenever you wanted to borrow her? I don't want your kids. I want my kids. Second of all, do you really not want your children? Really? Watching them grow, hearing their "I love yous," having a front row seat to their accomplishments doesn't bring you joy? Because if that's all true, perhaps you should consider adoption...

5. Have you tried ____________? (pillow under your bum, various positions, etc.)
Believe me. We have tried EVERYTHING. Do you really think that we have left any stone unturned? And now, please, for the love of pete, never ever tell me how to have sex again.

6. I know just how you feel. I tried for six months with my third.
No, you haven't the foggiest how it feels to stare at a negative pregnancy test every month for three years. You have no idea how it feels to have the most intimate part of your marriage invaded by medical personnel. You have no idea how it feels to inject your body full of hormones. You have no idea.

7. There was probably something wrong with the baby anyway.
While it may very well be true, that doesn't mean that the baby wasn't wanted. His or her family was excited, dreaming of tiny fingers and toes, feeling kicks, decorating the nursery. And now those dreams are gone and the would-be-parents are scared it will happen again. Future pregnancies will be marred with fear. They are mourning the loss of their dream.

8. At least you have one.
This is my new personal least favorite and one I probably would have actually said a couple of years ago. The problem is that we wanted three... or four. And sure, at least we have the one (though there is no least about him), but now we also know how great it is. Please, especially don't say this if you have more than one or only want one yourself. Because you really don't understand.

9. This is the last one, I promise. Don't leave your infertile friends in the dark when you get pregnant. Is the news going to hurt them? Yes and no. Yes, they will wonder why they can't experience pregnancy too. And no, they are genuinely happy for you and don't want you to experience pain. Not telling them only isolates them more and you can hardly hide it forever. And just because you should announce your pregnancy to them does NOT... I repeat NOT... mean you should complain to them about your discomforts. You certainly have a right to complain, but for heaven's sakes, not to the very person who would give a left leg to experience those discomforts. Let them take the lead in discussing your pregnancy. You have lots of other friends and family to talk about your joy and discomforts with. Don't torture the one who wants what you have more than anything.

So Happy Infertility Awareness Week, all. May you all have the families you desire.