burnt toast life

big changes (and also the story of the panic attack)

I know you’ve all been waiting with bated breath to hear the story of my most recent panic attack. Sorry that I made you wait so long, but I had to tie up a few loose ends before I could share.

First, the good news – I have been offered and have accepted a new job. Of course I am sad to leave coworkers who have become genuine friends over the past few years, but I’m also excited at the prospect of trying something new. Admittedly, my job has become monotonous lately, and it’s gotten to the point that I’m just going through the motions as my brain turns to mush. I need a new challenge. While I’m not big on change as a rule, I do want to develop my talents and grow professionally. My current job, while wonderfully flexible and easy, does not offer these kinds of opportunities. This new job? Tons of potential for growth, with the added bonus of business travel. I have always wanted to travel for work (I know, some people hate it, but for now at least it seems glamorous). Plus, the places I’ll get to go are pretty awesome. It’s exciting. Nerve-racking, but exciting.

“But Amanda, this all sounds so great, why are you having panic attacks?” you might wonder. Well, nothing about this whole new job thing has come easy. I first put in my application on May 7th. Yes, May 7th. Over the course of the past few months, I became convinced that they were just going to hire someone else. I am fortunate enough to know someone who works there (not a close friend, more of an aquaintence friend-of-a-friend type person), so I did have the inside scoop on where they were in terms of the hiring process the whole time. It just took a while, and there were a lot of applicants. The (first) interview was literally four and a half hours long and involved meeting six people. It was quite a day. There was even a second interview (thankfully not four and a half hours long), a personality quiz and a writing test. They clearly take hiring very seriously, and I appreciate that. It also made me feel pretty damn good when I was the one they chose.

All of these things, while not panic attack worthy, were stressful. I wanted to know the outcome and prepare accordingly. Finally, I got the call – I was hired! I just had to do a quick background check and drug test and we’d be all good to go.

Somehow I’ve made it through 29 years of my life and have never had to take a drug test before. It really doesn’t matter; it’s not like I do drugs. I had nothing to fear. But this particular drug test coincided with my miscarriage and the prescribed medication that I’ve been taking for it. I went into the company to quickly fill out background check paperwork and to pee in a cup. Interestingly, the receptionist was the one in charge of administering and reporting on the test. I warned her that I was on medication and showed her the bottles, which I was smart enough to bring along. I peed. I waited. A second receptionist got involved in the reading of the results. And then the HR person pulled me into a conference room and informed me that I failed the test. I had tested positive for opiates.

Well, yeah. That’s when the panic attack happened. I started crying pretty hard and explained that I was going through a miscarriage and was on this medication, which had to be what made me fail because I didn’t do drugs and I certainly didn’t do drugs while pregnant, which I was up until a little while ago. I’m sure it’s not the first time an HR person has had to hear someone cry. But still, it was embarrassing. I didn’t even WORK for this company yet. He was very nice about the whole thing and sent me off saying that it would all get straightened out once they sent it out to the lab for further clarification. But still, I couldn’t help but feel like the receptionist thought I was some huge heroin addict. Failed my first drug test. Just craziness.

It took several days (which felt like an eternity), but it did all get sorted. I had failed for the drugs that were precribed to me – and for future reference, Tylenol with codeine comes up as opiates on a drug test. You know, in case you were wondering.

And of course, because I am me, after being hired my mind immediately jumped to treatments. For all the negative things I can say about my current job, one invaluable thing that’s remained is their unceasing flexibility when it comes to leaving early, coming in late, working from home and not working at all when I need to. It’s been such a blessing. I’ve felt totally comfortable sharing what was going on, and my sort-of boss and friend has been known to say things like, “Please stay home today with your legs up” and “Take all the time you need to process and don’t worry for one minute about work. It’s all taken care of.”

It would be silly to expect that kind of environment at this new place, especially in the uncertain first few months. Taking a break from treatments is one thing, but for how long? What’s going to happen when I start up a cycle again? Of course I can’t predict the future at all. Maybe they’ll offer flexibility, too. I can only hope.

So one week from today I am embarking on this new professional path, which will hopefully feature positive change and new opportunities. I will truly miss the girls (and guys) I work with, who always seem to make me laugh when I feel like crying. But I’m not too worried about staying in touch. It’s a tradition I’ve kept up with almost all the places I’ve worked. I’m just going to bully them into hanging out with me and scare them too much to flake out. Sounds like a good tactic.

Here’s to new beginnings and taking chances (and passing drug tests).

I don’t even fucking know what to say

You have to assume by the use of the word “fucking” in the title that the ultrasound today did not go well. Your assumptions would be correct.

Baby Toast had no detectable heartbeat today, at 7 weeks 1 day. I knew it. I knew it when I woke up this morning. I prayed and pleaded the whole way there. I tried to distract myself. I tried to keep hope alive. But then I got there. They called me back to the room. I was lying on the table waiting for the exam to start and I just started crying; from nerves, from stress, from the knowledge that nothing was going to be OK. I had the same ultrasound tech as the last horrible ultrasound. I knew it when she left the room to go get the doctor, ostensibly to “check out that chorionic hematoma,” but come on. I had already mentioned the slow heartbeat concern. If anything was there, she would have told me. Today is, coincidentally, exactly three months since that fateful day when I was told that my twins had no heartbeat. Today their sister (?) joined them, wherever they are.

You may wonder how I’m coherent enough to write any of this. The truth is, writing is my catharsis. Writing this is the only thing keeping me sane in this moment. Writing, and the immediate flood of phone calls offering support, tears and understanding. To be honest, I’d rather blog about this than call everyone. I don’t have the energy to keep saying the same thing over and over. I’m sorry if I didn’t call or text you personally. I just can’t right now.

It’s so fucking unfair. It is. I wish I had the words to express the unfairness. There is nothing I’ve ever wanted more in my entire life and it just keeps getting ripped away from me. What’s worse is that I’m totally powerless to stop it. I feel so disconnected from my own body. I try so hard to be a welcoming place for these little babies but something deep inside of me keeps catastrophically failing. I can’t stop it, and I don’t know what it is. I feel like I’m living with some kind of monster, but on the inside.

Dr. L came in and talked about next steps. It was like deja vu all over again. This time she made it clear that she wants me to wait to try again, and in the meantime referred me to an NYC doctor specializing in repeat pregnancy loss and immunology, which sounds like it’s right up my alley. I’m grateful that there is a specialist in this field and that no one thinks I’m crazy. The kicker is that with Eric starting his new job, we will be sans insurance for the entire month of August. But you know what… it’s different this time. I’m not so eager to get pregnant again right away. I need a break from this drama. I need to let my heart recover.

Here’s the really messed up part. OK, so I got the dire news, left the office in tears and made some calls. Then I went down to the subway platform to go catch the bus. I was standing there waiting for my train, trying to ignore the hordes of pregnant women surrounding me (at LEAST five) when I got a call from New Hope. Non-English speaking nurse says, “Everything looks good, keep taking medication, repeat ultrasound in one week.” I’m not gonna lie, I yelled at her. I was like, “Everything is not fine, I just had an ultrasound where they told me my baby is dead. I do not need to continue taking medication or have another devastating ultrasound.” (Ever been on a subway platform? It’s rather loud. So I was essentially yelling at the top of my lungs that my baby had no heartbeat. Fun times.) We argued back and forth for a while and finally she agreed to go double check with Dr. L. Well, apparently I AM supposed to keep taking my medication and repeat the ultrasound, preferably in a week or even as early as Thursday. This works out well because my “viability ultrasound” with the OB/GYN was already scheduled for that day. But what the fuck? Are they messing with me? When Dr. L was in the room with me, she made it very clear that this ride was over. So why ten minutes later are you telling me to keep hope alive, even a tiny bit? Are you suggesting she’s the ultimate drama queen, to the point of stopping her own heart and then having it restart? That’s not even possible. I don’t understand why they would suggest something like that. I want to grieve now, not hold onto false hope for four more days. It’s like mental torture.

I’m not hopeful. When a heartbeat is apparent and normal at 6 weeks 1 day, slow and concerning at 6 weeks 5 days and gone at 7 weeks 1 day, it seems like a pretty cut and dried case, right? But last time after the bad ultrasound they had me stop medication. This time I’m supposed to keep taking it. I’m so confused. Their ultrasound machine appeared to be functioning. If the heartbeat was there, wouldn’t they have seen it?

I don’t get it. I know, despite not always being a perfect angel, that I do not deserve this. No one does. Right now the only word I can think is defeated. I feel like I keep trying, I keep trying so hard, and I keep getting defeated. Exhausted isn’t even the word. I’m weary. I’m defeated. I want to close my eyes for a very, very long time and somehow just wake up happy and pregnant.

In the space of an hour I had three generous offers for surrogates. These women who are close to me are willing, and even eager, to give me this most precious gift. It brings me to tears that they would even offer something like that. As far as going through with it… I don’t know. It’s such a big decision. Is it selfish of me that I still desperately want to be pregnant? That I want to grow and nurture this child with my own body? That I want to feel her kick and move, that I want all the morning sickness in the world, that I want to excitedly text my husband that I’m in labor rather than text him on his first day of a new job to say his child has no heartbeat? Should I give up on that dream now? We only have four embryos left. I know that I am so, so lucky to have any left at all, but I can’t help but feel like the number keeps dwindling. When do I give up and let someone else do it? When do I give up on this dream of growing my baby for myself? (There are like 400 questions in this post, it should go without saying that 99% of them are rhetorical).

Sorry this is all over the place. I thought I was more coherent than I actually am. You can all cancel your appointments with my psychic. I need to call her though, because I have just one more very important question: What the fuck happened to February?

something exciting happened today

Upon returning from vacation, I can’t tell you how sad I was to receive a text from my sister in reference to the impending arrival of my niece saying, “I wanted her to come while you were away so I wouldn’t have to have the awkward phone call where I tell you I’m in labor. You don’t have to come…this is just to tell you I don’t want you to feel like you have to be there.”

Of course, I was much more content at the notion of witnessing her delivery when I was pregnant. Of course I was. But even after my loss, I did not for one second consider missing the birth of this baby. I watched my nephew being born. I watched my first niece being born. Despite everything, it remains the coolest, most awe-inspiring thing I’ve ever witnessed. And I can tell you that when you’re watching a new life enter this world, all the other shit falls away (for me, at least). My niece Addison was born in June of 2011, so we had already been diagnosed as infertile. It didn’t matter. The last thing I was thinking about during her delivery was myself. I know that’s hard to imagine, but it’s true. I knew this time, with everything that has happened, it would be exponentially harder. But I also knew that years from now, when I had kids of my own, I would regret missing it. So I went. And I knew that if tears were rolling down my face, they could be for the beauty of the moment, for the unfairness of the world, for my babies in heaven, for the hope I’m still feeling, or for all of the above. Yes… for all of the above. (And when I didn’t end up crying at all, that was OK, too).

When I got the text that she was experiencing contractions, I didn’t feel jealous or sad or angry. I felt excited. Even I was surprised by this. I don’t know why I fly into a jealous rage at sonogram pictures from distant acquaintances on Facebook, but I was not at all jealous of my sister who was literally about to give birth. It makes no sense. Maybe its because while I can imagine perfect lives for these random Facebook friends who I don’t really know, I don’t have such fantasies about my sister’s life. She is just 23 and has three children. Her son Aiden is (not yet officially diagnosed but most likely) on the autism spectrum. She has also suffered the pain of miscarriage. She struggles with the daily challenges that many of us women struggle with – money, self-esteem, emotional roller coasters. I’m jealous that she gets pregnant so easily, sure, but I’m not so jealous of her that I can’t tolerate being in her presence. I was truly, genuinely excited about her baby coming.

When I was 23, I was still making bad decisions on extended weekend beach trips with my best girlfriends. I was still having a blast. My sister has a great life; she has a loving husband and beautiful children. But for me… I’m grateful for every experience that I’ve had. Having babies is my number one goal in life and it always has been. But number one doesn’t mean it’s my only goal. There’s so much else that’s important to me. And deep down in my deepest of deep heart of hearts, I really think I’m going to have a baby one day. Somehow. I really and truly believe it. Maybe this whole experience proved that.

I think one of the biggest problems with Fertilebook, ahem, Facebook is that we only see that small sliver of what people want us to see. It’s easy to envision all these preggo biatches having picture-perfect lives even when we know they don’t. To date, there’s only one person on my Facebook friend list who seems to actually have the perfect life. I keep meaning to delete her but hey… I already said I’m a masochist.

Wow, I went off on a tangent there. Back to the matter at hand. Baby was coming. I was excited. But maybe I was also internalizing complex feelings. I was irrationally irritated at the fact that a cute baby in the nursery had a ridiculous, stupid name (which I hesitate to share in case it’s a name that one of you has picked out. But seriously, for the sake of your future children, I hope not). I kept drifting in and out of daydreaming, and yes, imagining how different it would be if I had still been pregnant. My sister’s best friend was there and we kept discussing her future labor and delivery (she’s engaged, not currently pregnant), but delicately avoided discussing it for me. Or maybe it wasn’t intentional and I’m just being overly sensitive. I know I acted like the whole thing didn’t phase me, and for the most part, it didn’t. But that baby with the stupid name. Yeah, that was frustrating. My baby would never have a stupid name.

My sister should be the poster child for childbirth, though if she was I think women would have unrealistic expectations. Sure, it took 2 days of contractions and she checked into the hospital ten hours before the baby was born. But she had an epidural, which slows things considerably. Once we got to “push time,” she literally pushed twice, smiled hugely in between, and casually brought up another unrelated topic ten minutes after Avery was born. It was like she just accomplished something on her to-do list and was on to the next thing. It’s her third, yes, but I still found it rather impressive.

I contemplated posting a photo, but ultimately decided against it. I know it’s hard for some of you to see. Know that my niece is a beautiful, healthy baby girl and I truly hope to give her an equally adorable cousin one day. One day soon. Please, let it be soon.

the worst fucking day of my life

I hope you can figure out what happened based on the title. No? Ok, I’ll spell it out: we lost the babies. I’ve been saying that all day – “lost them.” Like I can’t find them. Like they’re not currently adorable and shrimp-looking in my uterus, just in there with no heartbeats. No heartbeats.

Today was a regular ultrasound at New Hope. I woke up annoyed that I had to go to the city at all. Pissed that I had to keep monitoring this perfect pregnancy so far away when clearly I should be switched to a regular OB/GYN.

On the way in I was irritated. The bus got stuck in tunnel traffic for 40 minutes, my laptop died, and the wannabe rapper behind me had his headphones turned up so loud I could hear every bit of his Eminem lyrics even when he wasn’t singing along out loud (which he was, every few lines or so). The air conditioning was pumping and I was freezing cold. Claustrophobic. All I wanted to do was get off the bus, get to my U/S, and get the hell back home. Now I would give anything to go back to that moment. I was so blissfully unaware. I was so damn cocky that my day would go just as I planned it.

The ultrasound started out so well. I believe I giggled at the sight of two very apparent babies in the sacs, something I had not seen before today. No longer was it just two black dots on the screen; it was black dots with gray outlines inside of them. The tech kept scanning and scanning, apologizing for the discomfort. Just as she had done last time. But then she said she had to go get the doctor. I think I said, “Wait – you need to tell me something before you leave the room. I need you to reassure me.” She stopped, paused, looked down at the floor and said, “There are no fetal heartbeats. I’m not detecting any heartbeats. I checked several times.”

She left. I laid there and did not cry. I just kept saying “Please God don’t let this happen” over and over again, even though it had already happened. You know when people say things feel surreal? It was beyond surreal. It felt like I floated up out of my body and I was watching it happen to someone else. And yeah… I felt so bad for that person I was watching. What a shitty thing to happen.

The doctor finally came in and repeated the ultrasound. Even though there was the tiniest glimmer of hope that she would miraculously find a heartbeat, I covered my eyes. I couldn’t handle seeing them on the screen again. And no, she did not find one heartbeat. Not even one.

She started talking through next steps, meaning whether I would miscarry naturally, have some medicated help, or do a D&C (which she recommended). She said since it’s twins it would be a lot of bleeding if I chose natural. I don’t know. I know that I don’t think I can emotionally handle a D&C, even if I would be asleep for it. Since this doctor is in NYC and I am not, she said I could go through my regular OB/GYN for follow-up and ask them what they recommend, plus go there for monitoring until I get my beta back down to zero. Back down to nothing. Right back to where the hell I started.

Why did this happen? Why? I can tell you the doctor was stumped. She basically called me a medical freaking marvel. The screening tests were all good, transfer went perfectly, babies were growing right on schedule. The only thing she could come up with is something we missed in screening, so now I have to go for more testing. Thyroid. Underlying blood disorders. Something. There has to be some reason that healthy eggs and healthy embryos and healthy 28-year-old uterus just failed. And really, doubly failed. Two miscarriages at once. Both of them.

While the clinic made copies of all my records for me to give to my home OB, I was led to a conference room to wait (because yes, hanging out in a room with an ultrasound machine after hearing news like that is no picnic). There was a giant cockroach on the ceiling that I couldn’t stop staring at. I called my mom first. I finally cried. I absolutely dreaded calling my husband. Dreaded it more than words can say. I can’t help but feel like I failed him. I know I didn’t – I know. But if you think about it, I did. He gave me these beautiful babies and I did not allow them to grow. Something inside me inexplicably and catastrophically failed.

I did call him, though. He handled it well. The first thing he said to me was, “Ok, then we’ll try again.” Honestly… there’s nothing I wanted to hear more than that. Because as much as I was grieving these babies, my mind was already skipping ahead to doing another transfer. We have six more frozen. Obviously we need to do the testing and find out what went wrong so we can hopefully prevent it from happening again, but there’s hope. I was a teensy bit afraid that Eric would say, screw this, we’re done with this. But he didn’t. We’re going to try again.

So right now I’m typing as I ride the bus back to Pennsylvania, intermittently crying (trying to be quiet, it’s a bus full of people) and fielding text messages from concerned friends and family. I’m pissed at myself for telling so many people. That was a cocky, stupid thing to do. Now I have that many people to tell this bad news to and I just keep apologizing. I’m sorry…I’m so sorry to tell you. Sorry to give you this devastating news.

Eric left work early and is coming home to be there when I get there. Everyone has offered me kind words and whatever I need. What do I need? I need those heartbeats back. I need this nightmare to be over.

I’m so sorry to tell you. We lost the babies. We know where they are, but we lost them just the same.

Deeda and Cindy take New York

(**I am Deeda. Cindy is my mother-in-law.)

On Monday night Eric and I sat down and discussed whether or not he would come to NYC with us. After making sure that I wouldn’t be secretly mad if he didn’t go, he pointed out that if the transfer worked this time, I would have the baby this year and he would much rather take time off once bambino was born. Despite my optimism with this cycle, I hadn’t even considered this. Couple that conversation with the fact that when I walked into the living room just prior, he was engrossed in a local health spot on breastfeeding and said, “I’m getting some really great advice for us,” you can see why my heart utterly melted. Yes, I picked the right man to make a baby with.

On this trip I finally figured out why New York makes me feel so unsettled. Let me preface this paragraph by saying something: I am in love with New York. I think it’s sexy, glamorous and impossibly cool. I only wish that I was worthy of it. I brag about the year that I worked in midtown Manhattan like it meant something, even though if I strolled through that company today not one person would recognize my face (and with their turnover rate, I probably wouldn’t recognize most of theirs. Thankfully). Anyway. I figured out the two words that best sum up my New York experience: sensory overload. I don’t mean the lights and the noise and the people; I mean the action. I am the type of person who always wants to be part of what’s going on. I think it’s probably one of my most annoying qualities (friends – correct me if I’m wrong). I am known to whine at my sisters-in-law for going to Target or trivia nights or anywhere without inviting me, even when I’m more likely to say no than yes. The other night my two friends mentioned going to a bar together recently. I blurted out, “Oh, was it that night I couldn’t come? Or some other time? Did you guys just plan your own thing, then?” like some jealous psycho girlfriend. In this post I mentioned reading “Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me (And Other Concerns),” a hilarious book that I would have loved for the title alone. That could have easily been my own memoir’s title. (Current working titles: “Have Progesterone, Will Travel,” “I Should Have Been a Fertile: Why I was Robbed of My One True Destiny,” and “Infertility, Student Loan Debt, and a Useless Liberal Arts Degree: How to Overcome Adversity and Win at Life!”)

New York City makes me feel like I’m being left out. There are so many restaurants, bars and stores that I can’t help but feel like I’m missing something (which I definitely am, but how can anyone avoid that?) So I walk around and instead of enjoying myself, I just peek in windows thinking, “Is that place cool? Is this place happening? Are those people having a great time? Oh gosh, look at that brownstone. What if I lived there? How amazing would my life be? I bet I’d have a chaise lounge.” I cannot keep a handle on my excited thoughts and wind up not enjoying anything. New York is like my way-too-cool-for anyone, inaccessible and intoxicating lover. It gives me just enough to keep me coming back but never keeps me satisfied.

That said – we had such a fabulous time. We ate at Bangkok House the first night and got a prix fixe meal including soup, an appetizer, a salad, an entree and dessert for $16.95 per person. And it was phenomenal. Leave it to my mother-in-law to find an incredible discount, even in one of the most expensive cities in the world.

For breakfast the next morning we went to Le Pain Quotidien, a delightful French bakery within sight of Central Park. It’s the kind of place where you’ll always find Europeans, particularly French people engrossed in lyrical conversation, which I believe is a very good mark of authenticity.

Right, so we didn’t go to New York just to eat. We were there for this greater purpose that had my phone blowing up with texts and my Facebook blowing up with love. As if I wasn’t overwhelmed enough! I felt like a hero headed off to war (or how I imagine one might feel). My brain told me not to be nervous, but the night before I suffered some serious insomnia. I got up at 2 a.m. and stared out to the city streets forlornly, feeling like I was auditioning for a Lifetime movie. I should expand my vocabulary here, but really “overwhelmed” is the best I can come up with. It was finally happening.

in Central Park, right before my big moment

in Central Park, right before my big moment


My appointment was at 11 a.m. They called me back to the procedure area about 15 minutes prior, I got all capped and gowned, and then I had to wait in that waiting area. And wait. And wait. Thank goodness I had the foresight to keep my iPhone handy, because I ended up waiting for 45 friggin minutes. I did talk to a very nice woman who was there for her second transfer, her first being two years ago and successful the first time. AND she only transferred one. She also confided that Martha Stewart’s daughter goes to the same doctor as ours and that he specializes in tough cases. Overall, she calmed me down immensely.

The procedure itself was underwhelming. They did not let me watch the screen or record it. No one made a big deal about it. The whole thing felt just like a gynecological exam; uncomfortable but not painful. I watched the clock for lack of something better to look at and I can say with confidence that I “got pregnant” at 11:45 a.m. on Thursday, February 28th. Of course I was terrified to stand up afterwards, like they were going to fall out (which they assured me was not going to happen). Wanna hear something funny? The doctor kept saying “Just relax” the whole time I was laying there (possibly the only two words of English that he knows). Like, I literally had to just relax so I could get pregnant. Irony, right?

Cindy requested an "after" picture so I got silly on the subway

Cindy requested an “after” picture, so I got silly on the subway


Afterwards we headed down to Union Square because I had my heart set on checking out Forever 21’s maternity line, which is only offered at certain locations. Or was offered, I should say. Apparently the line was discontinued last summer and according to the flippant and annoyed sales girl, it “didn’t sell.” It’s probably for the best. In case anyone was keeping score, I have yet to buy one piece of maternity clothing. Maybe I should wait for the beta. Yeah.

My MIL had looked up a couple of places to visit, including an eatery called The Redhead that sells homemade bacon peanut brittle (yup, that exists). We walked to it from Union Square, which was no small feat. I tried desperately to slow down my normal speed walker pace. We walked and walked and walked… only to find the place closed until dinnertime. Ugh. We splurged and took a cab back and ate at Gazala’s Place, as seen on Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. Again, inexpensive and delicious.

By nightfall we were exhausted and decided to forgo our plans of seeing a comedy show. We did make a stop at Magnolia Bakery before coming back to the room, so we spent the evening vegging out and working ourselves into a sugar coma. Pretty sure I fell asleep at 9 p.m.

So that’s it – I’m home and happy to be back. I’ve been trying to figure out if I feel different… so far, no. Just calmer. I have that sense of peace that comes from finishing a job interview or turning in a final exam. I have literally done everything that I can do. Now it’s out of my hands… and into my uterus. My first beta is on Thursday, which means I have to skip a ski trip to Massachusetts with my family next weekend since the second could potentially be on Saturday (God-willing).

And now… we wait.

the face of utter exhaustion.. heading home

the face of utter exhaustion.. heading home

I post my blog on Facebook (and I don’t give a shit)

photo credit: the berry

photo credit: the berry

I recently rediscovered all the infertility blogs. I’m not really sure why I ever forgot they were there. Yesterday afternoon I was bored and had just done a little redesigning on this blog, so I decided to head over to Stirrup Queens and start searching around. One hour of reading turned into seven.

As much as I appreciate all the kind words and support of family and friends, there’s something about reading tales of other IF journies that gives me contentment. The world of IF blogs makes me feel… normal? Yeah, that’s it. Like I totally fit in.

I remember back when I had my old blog, I used to feel a little thrill of shock when I saw someone posting with their real name and picture on an IF blog. I thought to myself, “Wow. Ballsy.” But now I’m one of them and I take it one step further – I post that shit on Facebook. Yeah, that’s right, all 308 of my friends and frenemies and old high school classmates know my most intimate secrets. Why did I start doing this? Well, for one thing Burnt Toast started out as a blog about living with dogs and chickens, not about infertility. That one bomb-drop post was sort of unprecedented.

I’m starting to realize that I posted spoiler alert because I’ve been incredibly cocky since we got accepted into the clinical trial. I can tell you I’d never be writing about this and sharing it with everyone if we weren’t doing IVF. On my last blog there was a lot of complaining and not a lot of problem solving, whereas here I’m actually going down a road. It may not be a guarantee, but it’s a hell of a lot better than just sitting around whining.

That’s not a dis to anyone who remains anonymous by any means. Sometimes it feels a little weird knowing that anyone on my friend list may know when I’m ovulating. But I figure I give enough disclaimers and clicking on the links is a conscious choice, so if you know that about me, it’s your own fault for looking. It’s not like I’m putting “Ovulation day – YAY!” as my status. It’s basically a good way to keep everyone who cares up to date with what’s going on.

I also wasn’t prepared for any backlash. Again, I’m not sure why I think I’m immune to these simple things. And 99% of you have all been supportive, so thanks for that. I’m hesitant to say anything about that other 1%, so I’m just going to leave it at that for now.

I noticed that I’ve been making my posts like little stories with intros, middles, and hopeful little end phrases. I don’t know why I keep doing this. Blogging is kind of hard because nine times out of ten I hate what I write three days later. It sounds less cheesy when I’m writing it, and then I post it, and then I go back and it sounds all chipper and happy and fake. I think a part of me is trying to maintain this veneer of perfection for all those Facebook followers just so no one gets uncomfortable. And that’s why it’s really refreshing to go back to my anonymous IF sisters and see the nitty gritty, which makes me want to get back to speaking from the heart with the good, the bad and the very ugly. Going through IVF is harrowing. It’s messy, it’s weird, and I hate it while simultaneously being so grateful that I have the opportunity to do it. So there you have it. If you came here looking for sunshine and roses, I don’t have any. I’m terrified out of my friggen mind. And if I recently showed up on your blog with a random comment, I want to thank you for reminding me why we’re doing this.

spoiler alert: we’re not pregnant

I’ve debated a lot over this post. Probably more time than one should devote to thinking about something as inconsequential as a blog post. Here’s why I ultimately decided to do it:

1) It’s what’s going on. The most successful blogs are real, gritty, everyday life, right? So why wouldn’t I put this out there? This is what’s happening in my life.

2) It got harder and harder to post about other stuff. It felt like ignoring the biggest thing – the most important thing – the elephant in the living room.

3) This is like my worst kept secret anyway. I’m mostly open about it with people who I know and even sometimes with people who I don’t know. So organizing my thoughts and putting them all down isn’t going to be some big revelation.

Longwinded preamble aside… Eric and I are have been trying to have a baby for two and a half years but we don’t have one yet. There, I said it. My master plan was to wait until I was pregnant and post a whole long thing about the process leading up to it, but this “side blog” was getting long and frankly unreadable. I wanted to wait until I actually achieved the goal to post anything. Why? Because I don’t want anyone to know if I fail, that’s why.

Confession time: I used to blog about this under a super secret name and not tell anyone about it. This BBT blog is more lifestyle, less specifically allocated, so I’m going to keep things light (not that the situation is light, not in the least). Basically, I want to give an overall view of what’s going on without being too graphic. However, if you do want or need specifics, I have a gold medal in over sharing. If you ask nicely, I’ll quote you medical history and test results all day long. I just don’t think most people reading this particular blog care to know.

In the fall of 2010 we went for fertility testing and figured out the problem. Knowing the problem does not mean that you can afford to treat it, however. Most insurances cover the testing portion, but when it comes to treatment there is little to no coverage. Currently 15 states require providers to cover at least some of the treatment costs, but Pennsylvania isn’t one of them. And so we bid adieu to a potential $15,000 medical bill and decided to keep on tryin’ the old fashioned way (giggity).

So far, clearly, it hasn’t worked. Again, I could write pages and pages on the subject, but I’m just going to gloss over a lot of fine details and say this much: the past 2.5 years have featured plenty of tears, venting sessions, joys, ups, downs, hopes, despair, prayers, selfish tantrums, weird dreams, one ill-advised visit to a psychic, fights, make-ups, fights again, and pretty much every other emotion on the spectrum. We’ve learned an awful lot about each other but we still don’t have a baby.

Fast-forward to a couple of weeks ago. A friend suggested that I research clinical trials as an alternative way to pay for the IVF that we need according to the specialist. Lo and behold, the first result that Google returned sounded promising. New Hope Fertility Clinic in Manhattan is currently running a study comparing 2 different types of IVF (though saying the words “clinical trial” to one particular friend got the immediate response, “But does that mean you’ll grow a mustache?!”) The whole thing sounds legit.  And best of all, minus the cost of testing and some meds, it’s totally and completely free. Free! For those of you who don’t have conception challenges – this is comparable to winning the lottery. At least it feels that way to me.

We aren’t in yet. Our consult is coming up soon and we could still be rejected from the study for any number of reasons. Despite the cliché and despite how much I DETEST this phrase – everything does happen for a reason. So if we don’t make it in, something else will come along. A month ago I wouldn’t have even believed this opportunity existed, so it proves that anything can happen. That’s why when that Ellie Goulding song comes on in the car I totally bust out some crazy vocals. Anyway, I will keep y’all posted on what transpires (nice details only). But I really, really REALLY hope we get in. I really do.

the biggest mistake of my life (it’s probably not what you’re thinking)

Actually, I have no idea what you’re thinking. Who are you? Do I even know you? Is anyone actually reading this? I don’t even care. I have a big glass of red wine and a couple of dogs laying at my feet. Life is good.

Anyway, every couple of years I like to spend a few agonizing hours playing “what if?” I’m sure we all do it. I like to do it right as I’m about to fall asleep, or better yet, when I wake up for no reason at 2 a.m. The game is quite simple: just imagine the outcome of your life if you would have done this and done that. How much better it would have been. Because that’s all we can focus on, right? How much better it would have been? What we’re missing out on? It’s probably not accurate to think that way. I just finished an intriguing book called The Post Birthday World, which explores both sides of “what would happen if she did” and “what would happen if she didn’t” one chapter at a time. I won’t spoil it because I highly recommend it, but I’ll just say there was no right decision. There were pluses and minuses to each life she could have lived. And that’s a pretty smart way of handling it.

ANYWAY. Regrets, I have a few. I wish I had gotten my shit together in high school and figured out what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wish I had never wasted my time and money on a worthless school like The Art Institute of Philadelphia (damn con artists). I wish I had started writing sooner, I wish I was writing more now. I wish I never signed up for a credit card. I wish, I wish, I wish. But in a more tangible way, I really wish I never bought that car in June.

I swear, no single decision has more completely and swiftly impacted my financial life.  I remember, for one second while sitting at the dealership, hesitating. And I could have just walked away right then. I should have. I didn’t.

Why did I buy the car? I wish I could say because my trusty old Blue Civic finally died. But no – she’s still chugging away. If I’m being honest (and why would I not be honest rambling to myself?) it was sheer vanity. I look around and I see my peers with new-ish cars. I talked myself into believing that I deserved it. And so, with my arrogant head held high, I plunged us from a comfortable existence into counting every penny. From spending without thinking to logging into my bank account before stopping at Wawa for coffee. One car payment can do that? Seriously? Yes, yes it can.

I went from having a $0 car payment to having one I’m too ashamed to disclose. And the worst part? I just have to live with it. It’s not like they have an exchange policy. I seriously hate myself a little bit every time I slide behind the wheel. But damn, the built-in Bluetooth is nice. I am definitely in love with that.

Silver linings: well, I have learned to be a lot more conscious of my spending, simply because I have to be. Gone are the days of aimlessly wandering through Target and leaving with $200 worth of “What the hell did I just buy?” I don’t whip out a credit card to pay for whatever I need; I don’t even carry credit cards anymore. And Eric and I finally got rid of our personal accounts and joined forces 100%, so I’m a little self-conscious about spending what I used to spend on trivial shit. It’s just not worth the fight justifying $50 visits to the nail salon.

We’ll bounce back, of course. Maybe we’ll look back and laugh. In the grand scheme of bad financial decisions, I don’t think buying a car ranks up there with bankruptcy and such. But I’ve learned an important lesson about biting off more than I can chew, and I learned it the hard way. Target…. I miss you.

how to become a mother overnight

I swear, this blog isn’t just going to be about puppies. But the dog is new and the blog is new, so this is what I have.

It’s no secret that Eric and I want to have children, but haven’t been blessed with one yet. I guess that’s a very short and compact way of summing up a much more complicated reality. But anyway, that’s not the point of this post. The point is that I used to mock people who treated their dogs like children, talked to their dogs like children, and behaved as though their dogs actually were children. Now that I have a dog, I’m starting to understand why this is so easy to do.

It all started at Marshall’s when I was shopping for a dog bed and various other accessories. I started perusing the dog toy section and thinking, “Ooh, this one’s cute. Should I get the wittle bitty lambie or the wittle bitty lion? Oh my, but then there’s a giraffe, too!”

baby toy? dog toy? both..?

Yeah. It felt suspiciously like shopping for a small child, and the similarities were not lost on me. Plus, from the moment we brought him home to live with us, Eric automatically became daddy and I became mommy. Ryder’s new tag bears our last name. It’s like we effortlessly adopted a very furry child.

And like having a new baby, I feel desperately guilty every morning when I leave him and anxious to get home to see him. The romanticized notions are basically gone, and he gets in my way and annoys me daily – you know, like when you have a kid. I’m proud of what he has learned so far – you can already tell he’s getting more comfortable in his own skin and he’s even learning how to walk properly. Our little boy is growing up so quickly…

One non-baby related thing that makes me very happy about Ryder is that he has forced me into exercise. For the past year I have made up excuse after excuse to go back to bed for an hour after waking up at 7 to pack Eric’s lunch. Every night I would go to be saying, “Tomorrow will be the day. I will stay up and do my Pilates video or maybe even go for a run. I will not go back to sleep.” And then morning would come and the bed would look so inviting that I would abandon exercise in favor of sleep. But now that I have this very active pup, I’m guilt tripped into walks in the morning. Well, the first morning was a guilt trip. Now I actually enjoy these walks, probably as much as he does. I actually have more energy during the day, and I feel just slightly less guilty about crating him all day. Eric and I even started taking evening walks, too, rather than flopping down on the couch the minute we get home from work. So all in all, this dog has improved our lives and given us a pseudo-child.

Don’t get me wrong – we still want a real baby. But he’s a nice distraction in the meantime.

must tolerate dogs

I’m not a dog person.

This may even be an understatement, especially since several friends responded to my text about getting a dog with, “What? Did pigs start flying to announce that hell froze over, too?”

The truth is that I never wanted a dog. A few years ago I would go as far as to say I disliked them, but really only when they were jumping or drooling on me. However, I married a “dog guy” and we talked about getting one since the idea of sharing our lives together finally became reality. He insisted that he needed a dog, and over time the idea grew on me. I even began to romanticize the notion, imagining a stoic companion to keep watch beside my armchair while I sipped hot cocoa and delved into a good book. In my doggie daydreams, of course, I never imagined a poorly behaved pup.

Eric and I clashed on what breed to get, and somewhat violently. I wanted a small, pocket-sized dog to carry around in my handbag and strut with down the street. His inclinations leaned more towards large, bad-ass dog that could be his best friend and not threaten his manhood while on walks. He wanted a pitbull; I wanted a pug. We both agreed that whatever dog we picked absolutely had to be a rescue from a shelter and not a pet store purebred. Since we disagreed on just about everything else about our future pet, the matter was laid to rest for the time being.

Then Friday afternoon rolled around. My mom forwarded us an email about a 7 month old Golden who needed a home – and fast. The email came with 2 snapshots, a sad tale of allergies, and a warning that whoever wanted the dog needed to make a decision before Saturday evening. We called and set up a meeting for the next morning.

We could tell Ryder was going to be a firecracker from the first time we saw him straining against his leash as his family walked him down the street. There’s just something about the way he walks – it’s as if he doesn’t quite know how to coordinate his front legs with his back legs. It was immediately apparent that this was a high energy, high maintenance dog – but he was a purebred Golden worth $1,000 that we were getting for free. He was a big dog (Eric’s happy) but a loyal, friendly dog that’s great with kids (Amanda’s happy).

Then we heard a bit about why the family was getting rid of Ryder, and that’s when I knew he was absolutely, without a doubt coming home with us. Eric already chastised me for speculating and giving credit to hearsay, so I’ll just say this – they (supposedly) did not give him the love and attention he deserved, allergies notwithstanding. It became apparent that he was my “burnt toast dog,” which went along well with my burnt toast husband and various other burnt toast people/items in my life. But that’s another story for another time.

So Ryder is our dog, and so far things are going well. He is rambunctious, excitable, and has endless stores of energy. My biggest complaint so far is the ridiculous amount of dog hair and dog dandruff all over my clean floor. It’s pretty obvious that he has never been to the groomer, so hopefully once we get that out of the way the shedding will be less intense. We took him to the dog park on Saturday afternoon and he had an absolute ball, plus he seems to play well with others. He sleeps curled next to our bed at night and follows Eric around the house wherever he goes. He clearly needs to be trained and to get comfortable in his element, but I can tell he’s a good dog already. We definitely made the right decision – though I still would not call myself a “dog person.”