burnt toast life

change of a dress

Today was so much better. I guess that’s just how life is – good days and bad days. You can’t lose all hope during the bad days, and you can’t expect the good days to last forever. You just have to keep breathing, keep living and keep going.

Want to know what really helped? My dress today. As most of you may have noticed, I’ve been lamenting my weight gain over the past couple of months and have been reluctant to buy any new clothes, but I feel awkward and uncomfortable wearing my regular clothes because they don’t fit correctly. My mom did a closet cleaning this weekend and I was able to snag a couple of things from her. My mom: she’s the sort of person who will buy things and forget she has them, resulting in a closet stuffed full of brand-new-with-tags merchandise and unworn shoes. She was finally forced to confront the situation when her closet rod detached from the wall and collapsed from the sheer weight of her dress collection. True story.

Besides having a bunch of brand new stuff, she has a range of sizes spanning from size two to about size sixteen. It was nice, because I snatched up a bunch of stuff that wasn’t quite the right size for her or my sister. It was like going shopping and not spending any money. New clothes (literally) for free? Yes, please!

When I put on my brand new, perfect fit black sheath, Coach heels and chunky funky necklace this morning, I felt a little bit glamorous. And that’s when I realized… I’ve been kind of slacking in the personal maintenance department. Sure, I shower every day and put on makeup and blow dry my hair. But that’s where the effort stops. We have a casual dress code at work, so I can literally wear jeans and a t-shirt every single day. My outfits lately have been just that, with flip flops and maybe a bracelet if I’m feeling adventurous. After work I come home, peel off my comfortable clothes and put an even comfier ensemble of yoga pants and oversized shirts (often Eric’s that I’ve stolen) with a messy bun. It’s not sexy. Sometimes it’s not even presentable. And I do believe that your outfit can make your mood better, and your view of yourself can change your whole day.

I doubt I’m going to start dressing up all the time now, and I still love me some wine and yoga pants at the end of a long day. But still… putting in a little effort today made me realize how much I’ve been neglecting me. The girly, silly, makeup and stilettos version of me. I don’t have kids yet, that’s true. So I’m thinking it’s my time to be a little selfish and even a little vain. And if it boosts my mood in the process, that’s really a good thing. Bring on the dresses and impractical heels.

On the fertility front, I got an email from New Hope today that nearly gave me a heart attack right there at my desk. I assumed that they were emailing me to let me know I was out of the trial, my time was up, it’s been real fun but now it’s done. Of course it didn’t actually say that. They asked if I was getting a hysteroscopy (Dr. L mentioned that last time) and also inquired about my well-being. Then at the end they said to “let them know when I’m ready to move forward.”

What an uplifting email, right? See, they don’t normally communicate with me at all. This proves that they still want to keep me around, which helps to ease my worrying mind. On top of that, my friend at work (the same dear soul who suggested clinical trials in the first place) found a Reproductive Immunologist who, according to some quick research, does free Skype consults. FREE! I’ve yet to call or investigate what that entails, but it sure beats $900. At the very least, it gives me a little bit of hope for right now.

So, to sum up – I’m less worried about starting up treatments again (when I’m ready, of course), today I was all, “Damn, I feel like a woman” in my new dress and tomorrow I leave for vacation. My mood is better. My outlook is sunnier. It’s been a pretty good day.

now, if I could just stop crying…

I’ll be honest: things aren’t going well at all. I was actually feeling better a week ago, and I’m not sure why. My mom said it’s hormones and my body going back to “normal” when it doesn’t want to be “normal” (a.k.a. not pregnant). Maybe that’s true. All I know is that in the past couple of days, my eyes have been welling up way more often than usual.

Here’s a list of things that have made me cry in the past week:

1. My pregnant sister-in-law needed the stockpile of maternity clothes that I’ve been hoarding (they’re not even mine, they belong to a bunch of formerly pregnant friends and family members). Remember, I still had them closed up in a room (the not-nursery). Well, she’s getting to the point of needing them, so she texted me about it. I don’t fault her for needing them or for asking me for them. Really, I should have given them back already. But it still freaking sucked to face those damn clothes and pack them back into boxes. So, I cried.
2. An article in Reader’s Digest about a premature baby who had a 0% chance of survival and lived.
3. At a town craft fair on Saturday, I saw a young-ish dad walking around with twin girls. I thought of how Eric doesn’t get to do that. I cried.
4. The movie The Odd Life of Timothy Green. OK, the movie was pretty weird and I actually got bored enough that I stopped watching it halfway through. But the premise and the beginning was quite brutal. It’s about an infertile couple who gives up on treatments and decides to live child-free. They get drunk one night and write out lists of what their kid would have been like, then go out back and bury the lists in the garden. That night a freak rainstorm causes this child, their child, to grow in the garden like a flower. He arrives in their house muddy, ten years old and exactly as they had described, even calling them mom and dad. Yeah, it’s freaking weird. But still… I cried.
5. Jennifer Garner is the mom in the aforementioned movie. I know she has cute kids and that in the movie she’s just pretending to suffer from infertility. Yes, that made me cry.
6. Facebook. Everything about Facebook.
7. Sex (nothing sexier than crying, right?)
8. Re-purposing the non-nursery. We live in a 3 bedroom house – one is the master bedroom, one is the office and one has been a sort of catch-all room. That’s where all the maternity clothes and miscellaneous baby items have lived for the last two years. It’s so obviously meant to be a nursery (right next to the master, perfect little bump out architectural feature where the crib would go). But then Eric got on a cleaning kick this weekend. He totally scoured and reorganized the office. Next he tackled this weird empty room and set it up as a guest room with a single bed that’s been stored in the attic. It makes sense to have it as a guest room – when we have overnight guests, they have to sleep on the couch, which is stupid because we have an extra room and bed and everything. Still, I don’t want to be logical and set it up as a guest room. I probably drove Eric nuts with the amount of times that I said, “But eventually it will be a nursery, right? Like, soon it will be? Very soon?” and he had to repeatedly assure me, “Yes, eventually it will. When the time comes.” And then… I cried.
9. Thinking and over-thinking, then thinking some more
10. Watching our wedding video
11. The realization that I stopped bleeding and that this miscarriage is officially over
12. Stress over what’s next. If I wait, will the trial still do another embryo transfer without charging me? Even if I don’t wait, will it be considered part of the trial, or not? Dr. L said it would, but she also said she was 100% sure Braverman would be covered by insurance, so I don’t have total confidence in the things she tells me. I could ask the question… but then there’s a chance I could get a “no.” I think I’m going to try to sneak in and just call on CD1 when I’m ready to cycle again. But when will that be? Which cycle will I choose? (Stress. Anxiety. Cue more tears).
13. That anxiety attack I mentioned in my last post and the continuing drama surrounding it spurred a hell of a lot of crying (I promise to tell this story eventually, but it’s getting its own post).

I know I must be missing some, because I cried more than thirteen times (scary, but true). There were plenty of times where I cried for no discernible reason at all. I know it’s OK to be sad and to just let it out. I’m also handling it… like, you don’t need to call anyone or anything. I’m not depressed, really; I’m just unbelievably sad. I’m worried (dammit, anti-anxiety pills, work better!) and nervous, and tired and sad.

Once again I’m looking forward to a week long beach trip, this time with my husband and my whole family. And again, it couldn’t come at a more perfect time. I plan to get back to eating better (literally ate an entire tray of brownies and drank a huge bottle of wine over the course of this past week), exercising, exploring acupuncture and starting yoga beginning the Monday I get back, which is the beginning of August. I keep picturing August as my month of healing, and maybe September, too. I haven’t even counted out when I can expect my next period or anything. I’m intentionally avoiding focusing on dates and numbers.

But for now, I just need to stop crying so much.

a little help

I’m the kind of person who hates asking for directions. One time when I had just gotten my license, I decided to load up my brother and sister and spend a summer weekday at the beach. There comes a time on the drive back from the Jersey shore to Pennsylvania that the eight lane highway divides and if you’re stuck in the wrong lane, you’re forced far away from the exit you really want. Thinking that I knew New Jersey decently well (hey, I was born there and much of my family still lives there), I got on the turnpike and decided to keep driving until I recognized something. This was pre-GPS, of course. Six hours later I was pulled over and crying in the parking lot of a sketchy McDonald’s with two terrified minors in my backseat. I felt defeated and childlike when all I wanted was to be an adult for the day. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I how I ever found my way home. All I know is that I should have admitted I needed help long before I reached my breaking point.

Similarly, I’ve been attempting to get through all this infertility and miscarriage drama through sheer power of will. I don’t know, maybe I secretly thought there was a prize for gritting my teeth and soldiering through it. Maybe it’s because when I hear the word “Xanax” I picture an anorexic housewife in a Juicy Couture tracksuit, yelling at her minority nanny to keep the baby quiet while she guzzles wine by the bottle and complains to her equally deplorable friend on the phone about how much STRESS she has. Granted, there are plenty of medicated people in the world who don’t take advantage of the system. I pass no judgement on those folks who need and rely on medication. But as for me, I’ve always felt a sense of pride at checking the N/A box at the doctor’s office when asked what prescriptions I’m currently taking. No surgery, no prescriptions, no chronic conditions. Really the first medically interesting thing that’s happened to me so far has been repeat pregnancy loss. It kind of feels like a blemish on my permanent record. But now I’m finally starting to realize that it just doesn’t matter. There’s no award in life for fewest doctor’s appointments (and if there is, I lost out on it anyway once I started infertility treatments).

anxietyThis is all a big preamble to justify the fact that I finally asked for help from the doctor in the form of anti-anxiety meds. I decided I was going to do it after those pain pills made me feel so calm and relaxed, and then I realized it was the right decision when I had a panic attack yesterday over something sort of stressful but not panic attack worthy (details on that to follow in a later post. Ugh, drama). Of course I realize that I can’t stay on them once we start trying again (and they only gave me half a month’s supply anyway). But I’m hoping that in time, I won’t really need them as much. I have the exact opposite of an addictive personality, so I’ve never really worried about becoming dependent on anything. Not that I’ve ever tried it, but I’m convinced I could shoot heroin, shrug my shoulders and say, “Meh, not bad, but I don’t care if I never do it again.” I’m the kind of person that can smoke a cigarette whenever I want and then just not do it anymore, no problem.

It’s funny how weird I get about taking these low dose pills, yet I had no problem injecting myself with hormones and all kinds of crazy stuff a few short months ago. Maybe it’s because the outcome of the infertility drugs was so much more tangible? Maybe it’s because I place more value on physical health than mental health? I don’t mean to do that. The brain is a mighty force and stress is a big freaking deal (though as I’m starting to realize, NOT necessarily the cause of miscarriage). I know that. It’s just that for me, personally, I always felt like my brain was more powerful than my neuroses. I thought that right up until the point that I realized my brain was really causing my neuroses.

My sister suffered from postpartum depression and she’s one of the biggest reasons I felt OK asking for medication. She went on low dose anti-anxiety pills and was off them in a few short months. It was really no big deal, and she always stayed the same person. She never got a Juicy tracksuit and she never mentioned interviewing nannies or buying wine by the jug. She didn’t want to need medication, but then she did need it, and now she’s all better. It doesn’t get more simple than that. I need to adopt a new mantra: there is no shame in asking for help.

So here I am, joining the ranks of medicated Americans. Because at this point I’m willing to try anything, and I’m sick of feeling two steps away from an anxiety attack every waking minute. It’s time to just freaking calm down.

remembering memories

I have a terrible memory. It’s a part of my identity and I get teased about it pretty much every time my whole family gets together. My mom jokes that rather than wasting money on vacations, summer camps and trips she should have just raised me in a cardboard box because I’d never know the difference.

Some things I remember. For example, I remember the Christmas I was nine. Every Christmas all of my mom’s brothers and sisters and my grandmother come and stay over at our house for a huge dinner and gift exchange. My parents don’t typically give each other gifts (usually my mom just buys herself what she really wants and says to my Dad, “Look at this gorgeous bracelet you bought me!”), but that year my mom had a special one for my dad. She gave him a pair of white baby booties in a little box with a bullet taped to it. I didn’t get the reference at the time (you know what? I still don’t really get it) but everyone congratulating them clued me in to what was going on. I can still see her perfectly, sandwiched in between people on the couch and wearing an oversized green sweatshirt. She had a content little smile on her face. Even at the time I was excited and thought it was such a fun way to announce a pregnancy. I pictured doing something similar in the future (because yes, I was a crazy nine-year-old who thought about shit like that).

Unfortunately, that turned out to be her first miscarriage. She was 13 weeks when she lost the baby. I remember that day, too – I remember she had to go through labor in her bedroom with just my dad helping her. I remember being downstairs in the living room humming to myself because it was so traumatic to hear. I remember being scared and sad and feeling like my heart was breaking for her, and for my whole family.

Funerals are very expensive and money was tight in those days, but she was far enough along that we had something to bury. So on a cold winter’s day my parents loaded us kids into the car and made us bring our sleds so it looked like an innocent day of recreation. We went to the local cemetery with our sled decoys and a big shovel and buried my little lost sibling under a tree. I remember feeling freaked out because we were breaking the rules and I was (and still am) such a rules follower. I still drive by that spot all the time and say a little remembrance prayer every time that I do.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I never thought I would survive a miscarriage. Now that I’ve survived not just one, but two, I am convinced that I could never survive a late term miscarriage (P.S. universe: that is an observation, not a challenge). I can’t even imagine going through labor and delivery knowing that my baby was already gone. Passing tissue is bad enough. I simply cannot fathom more than that. To all you women who have survived it, I am in awe of your strength.

I’ve also been thinking a lot about how I keep stressing out over calming down. I think part of the problem is that anxiety is more than just a lifestyle choice; it’s also part of what makes me who I am. I’m not a calm, mellow, live-and-let-live kind of person. Fundamentally, I am highly emotional and dramatic. I’ve always been this way. I crave extreme emotions and yes, even drama. I thrive on stress and equate it with excitement. Sure, I could do yoga and try to be Zen. But would I still feel like myself? Would I still be Amanda? I’ve been who I am for so long that I’m scared of changing. Of course I would change, and medicate and be peaceful if it meant a successful pregnancy. But it’s still not guaranteed. And sacrificing who I am in the process, is that really even worth it? Do I have to change to stay pregnant?

Sorry for all the sad stuff again. I just have so much going through my mind and I’m trying to process it. I was texting my mom earlier just to confirm the details on everything since my memory is so fickle and she admitted that she buried the details on all this for a long time, so I actually remembered more than she did. It was pretty shocking since we are an extremely non-repressive family. It made me feel bad for bringing it up at all. But then she told me that over time, pain fades. It seems impossible, but I guess it must be true. I’m looking forward to the day when this is all a sad, faraway memory of a long time ago.

Today is my parent’s 30th wedding anniversary. They have been through SO much, but they still ended up together, and happy, and with all the kids they wanted. I can only hope to be that happy and content with the way life worked out one day.

camping and miscarriage are not mutually enjoyable

Fair warning: this post gets a little gross.

We went camping this weekend. We have a cute little pop up camper (no tents and sleeping on the ground with these crazy dogs in tow) and we lucked out enough to get a site steps away from a fully functional bathroom complete with flush toilets and showers. When we go camping, it’s not exactly “roughing it.”

Since we had this trip planned, I didn’t have any intention of taking my miscarriage inducing pill until Monday. But clearly my body had other ideas.

Friday night around 9 I was in the worst mood I’ve ever been in. Not sure if this is related, but it seemed worth noting. I didn’t want anyone to talk to me, touch me, look at me, acknowledge me or even reference me in any way. I was a total bitch on wheels. It was so bad that I ended up just going to bed for fear of starting a colossal fight over nothing at all.

I woke up sometime in the middle of the night and knew without question that I was dying. I’ve had cramps before – it’s part of my monthly misery – but this literally felt like someone had some giant industrial vice and was violently cranking my insides. I’ve never felt pain like that. If someone had walked into the camper offering a full hysterectomy to make the pain go away, I’m pretty sure I would have accepted in a heartbeat.

I stumbled out of the bed, legs shaking, tears rolling down my cheeks and found my emergency supply of ibuprofen in my bag. Eric had finished the last of my soda (curses!) so I had to feel around in the dark, blind without glasses or contacts, until I could find a water to take the pills. The only good part was that the pain seemed to subside in minutes (well, I did take 4). I fell back to sleep.

I awoke again at 4:30 to that familiar feeling of blood loss. I wish there was some way to explain the knowledge that you’re about to bleed a clot because its definitely different than a period… It’s kind of like how when your tampon is full and you just kind of “know it” through a weird feeling? A woman’s sixth sense, if you will? It’s like that. I knew that I needed to get myself up to the restroom, and quickly.

Passing clots is really gross, I’m not going to elaborate more than that. It’s also not awesome when you’re in the woods camping, in a bathroom that is not your own, with toilets that have no water pressure whatsoever that take 5 times to flush properly. It was depressing. It’s what I imagined Monday to be like, only on Monday I would be in the comfort of my own home. I’m sure I still need to take the pill to make sure everything is out of me, but seriously… how much is there? I missed out on seeing it all last time since I had the D&C. I suppose there are positives and negatives to both courses of action. I hope no one reading this ever has to experience it, and if you do, I’m sorry. Make sure you have your Tylenol-codeine prescription filled before you think you’ll need it. That was my mistake for all this.

We go on this camping trip every year along with Eric’s parents and the rest of his family. I remember a few years ago when his mom casually referenced that she could be babysitting one of our kids the following year (at that point she knew we were struggling, she was just being upbeat and hopeful). Last year on this trip I had no prospects in sight, other than the luck of a miracle or someone randomly giving me $20K for IVF. This year I’ve been pregnant twice. I made it further then I ever thought I would even though I still didn’t bring anyone to babysit. It’s still possible to have a baby of our own to take camping next year. Far-fetched, perhaps, but possible.

A few posts back I mentioned someone close to my inner circle who is pregnant. That person is Eric’s sister, and she was camping, too. It’s hard. It’s hard to feel like you’re bleeding to death while knowing that a few hundred feet away there’s a normal person enjoying a normal person pregnancy. It’s hard to hear the laughter and adorable voices of the small children at the next campsite over. It’s hard to eat whatever I want because it just doesn’t matter anymore. I hate it, and I hate feeling bitter over baby bumps. I’m supposed to be happy, too. I’m supposed to have a damn bump. It I was still pregnant with the twins I’d be huge by now. I just… I just feel bitter and also angry at myself for being bitter.

I did manage to find some pain pills and they helped me relax significantly. I usually don’t take serious medication, but I have to admit… it was pretty nice to feel calm. The next morning I was even angry at myself for feeling anxious again, thinking somehow a new mindset would take over. I need to relax myself, my immune system, my crazy overactive brain and my imagination. I just need to figure out how to do that in a natural way.

I realize now that I’m rambling. I’m working from home tomorrow and probably Tuesday since I have to take that lovely pill. I wish this could just be over so I can start all over again.

my three boys love camping

my three boys love camping

and now it’s really over

I can’t lie to you guys. This is a safe place, so I’m going to do what I always do and speak freely. Here’s the truth: I did hang onto a shred of hope for my ultrasound today. It’s stupid, I know it’s stupid. But I just couldn’t help it. For one thing, they made me keep taking the medication, which indicated that they could know something that I didn’t. For another, Eric kept his hope alive, too (mostly for the same reason). I’ll never forget on Tuesday morning hearing him say from the hallway, “…and then they’ll say, it’s a MEEEERACLE!” I laughed. But I also hoped. It’s so hard to not hope.

But alas, my child did not become the next Lazarus. The New Hope ultrasound machine was not broken on Monday. All of my PIO shots this week have been a total waste of time, pain and money. It’s so damn depressing to really let go. Oh, and I finally stopped bleeding after 9 days. I guess now I can look forward to bleeding again sometime soon. (Like, Monday-ish).

We decided (me, my mom, my OB/GYN) not to do another D&C. I’m not as far along, and it’s not twins. I just want my body to heal, and for this task at least, I trust my body to do the right thing. Last time one of the reasons I opted for the D&C was that it sped up the process, but since we’re taking a break anyway, I figured this would be a natural way to pace myself. I got a script for some drug to induce the miscarriage, which is pretty cool. I didn’t know they had those. I thought I just had to wait and wait. But really I can time it and it should only take a few hours. Something else that made me feel a little better was that the embryo is gone already. No more sac; no more visible fetal pole. So I don’t have that super creepy feeling of knowing it’s still… you know… in there. All that’s left is tissue and stuff.

As if this evening wasn’t traumatic enough, I went directly from that soul-crushing ultrasound to the viewing for Eric’s friend. He was 31 years old. It’s just so damn unfair sometimes. I truly wish there was some way to make sense of all this tragedy or to see some kind of reason for it, but I just can’t. You know what? There is no reason. Life just sucks today. Oh, and I happened to overhear a conversation between two young-ish moms as we were walking in. I heard one of them say, “It’s just so different now that we have kids, you know? It makes it so much more real.” Oh, thanks, honey. Thanks for insinuating that my childlessness makes me less capable of feeling sorrow over death. That was EXACTLY what I needed today.

To add another layer of depression to this whole shitty situation, I looked into Reproductive Immunology and Dr. Braverman. I gave them a call, only to find that the consult is $900, not covered by insurance. That’s just the consult. The whole point of doing this clinical trial was that we could not afford to do infertility treatments out of pocket, remember? It would be one thing if it was just $900; I could probably come up with that. But that does not include any of the blood work and testing, it’s just a basic appointment to go over history and have an ultrasound. I would gain nothing from just doing that. I know many of you suggested Kwak-Kim (and I thank you as always for your advice), but I’d be willing to bet she’s not covered either. All of these doctors bill as infertility and Pennsylvania does not mandate infertility coverage, so it’s extremely rare to have it. I’m fucked.

Dr. L insisted that Braverman would be covered. I didn’t believe her, but it was still a nice slap in the face when my theory was confirmed. I’ve been finding blogs of people who have gone to Kwak-Kim and they have been gracious enough to write out the protocol she suggests. It sounds like a lot of PIO, Prednisone, baby aspirin, Lovenox and supplements. So… I’m already halfway there. Is it ridiculous to think I can just guess what she would say without actually seeing her? The only other option I can think of is to see a regular old immunologist around here (which would probably be covered) and see if he/she could order the tests or prescribe the same things. Maybe I would get lucky and find someone who has a modicum of interest or experience in immunology as it relates to miscarriage. I’m clutching at straws, I know. I just need to figure out a way to get some answers on my insurance’s dime rather than on my own.

My mom and I had our post-ultrasound pow-wow and talked about what’s next. She insisted that it’s more than just diet… it’s stress. I need to let go of stress and relax for once in my life. I think part of what makes it so hard is that the process itself is so stressful, which is why taking a break can only help me. I need to get right with my emotions and control-freak tendencies. I need to calm the hell down. I’ve committed myself to starting yoga and at the very least trying acupuncture. I stopped at Barnes & Noble on my way to the appointment to pick up a book called “Preventing Miscarriage.” Let me tell you how fun it was when I couldn’t find it and had to ask at the information desk, loud enough for a gum-snapping college student to overhear. Whatever. I picked it up and started flipping through. There was an entire chapter explaining the trauma of miscarriage, a particularly long section on having an incompetent cervix (so not my problem at all) and a brief section on Environmental Factors. They cautioned against using cocaine and methamphetamines, mentioned the dangers of air pollution and advocated a healthy diet. Seriously? If I was snorting lines of coke every night, I would NOT be questioning my miscarriage. Needless to say, I didn’t buy the book.

My mom has been going through old calendars trying to figure out the name of the doctor who she saw back in ’99. At our pow-wow, I mentioned that I was interested in the book “Is Your Body Baby Friendly?” by Dr. Alan Beer. Her eyes lit up at the name. “That’s it! That’s who I went to see!” she said. I remember how much she said she liked him and how nice he was, plus it turns out he was a mentor to Dr. Kwak-Kim (my mom even talked to her briefly, way back then). It seems like some kind of sign. Dr. Beer has since passed away, but at least I can read his book and hopefully it will have better advice in in than “don’t snort coke.” It’s definitely more in the budget than a $900 meeting just to gaze into Braverman’s baby blues.

Well, after a day chock-full of depressing ultrasounds and viewings for friends who were taken from this Earth way too soon, I’m off to bed. We’re heading into the woods this weekend for a family camping trip. And you know what? I can drink alcohol. And you know what else? I plan to.

can’t I just pick maybe?

I had the foresight to finally sign up for short term disability at work during open enrollment a few months ago. That is how I planned on being paid (at least partially) during my maternity leave. Because I am lazy, I neglected to fill out and submit the questionnaire until just now. I got an email from HR warning that if I did not do it by this Friday, I would be automatically lose the coverage.

The questionnaire was short and simple. It asked if I went sky diving and scuba diving and whether I’ve been treated for drug addiction or heart disease. But then, towards the bottom, it asked me this:

Are you currently pregnant?

Yes, I’m currently pregnant. My HCG is sky high. If I peed on a stick right now, it would most definitely register a positive. There’s an embryo and a yolk sac in my uterus. I still get sick every morning right before breakfast. My stomach is rounder than it normally is.

But then again, no, I’m not currently pregnant. I’m not bringing home a baby in February. That embryo in my uterus is missing a vitally important thing – a heartbeat. That super high HCG should start decreasing soon until it eventually gets back to zero.

Thanks, stupid enrollment form, for ruining my morning. You’re an asshole.

the day after yesterday

I had a weird dream last night. I went to an appointment to meet Dr. Brave.rman (the supposed repeat pregnancy loss deity) and for whatever reason I was wearing yoga pants and a plain ribbed tank top with no bra. The nurse checking me in chastised my choice of wardrobe, saying, “Didn’t you read the explicit instructions that said to ‘dress in casual layers’ for your appointment? The doctor will never accept you as a patient when you’re dressed like that.” So while waiting for him to come into the room, I found some random rack of sample sweaters and frantically tried to cut off the tags and rip off the size stickers (also, bizarrely, to cut it down from long sleeved to 3/4 sleeved) before he came in the room. I did it just in the nick of time. He walked in, accepted my casually layered outfit and proceeded to schedule an appointment. I had brought three black leather-bound books with me thinking that they were my appointment book, but each time I opened one to write down the appointment time, it turned out to really be a Bible. Weird, right?

One more dream and then I promise I’m done. On Friday night I dreamed that I met my baby. I was in the hospital and had just given birth, and I distinctly saw her little face. I remember in my dream crying and being so happy and so, so grateful. In short, it was the perfect moment. At the time I took it as a good omen for the ultrasound on Monday. Now… I hope it’s just a good omen for the future in general, and for me giving birth myself.

Enough about dreams, though. How am I doing? I’m… resigned. It’s just so different this time. In a way it’s a little easier because I was more prepared, whereas last time I was completely blindsided. In a way, it’s also harder. I’ve now become part of a very, very small percentage of the population who suffers from repeat pregnancy loss (RPL). I am the 5%! I’ve never been less excited to be so “special.” After my first miscarriage, many women opened up about their losses and I realized how common it really is. It made me feel sort of all right about it. But two? That’s a whole other ball game. I know it happens, but it’s so much less common. Even though I’m not, I can’t help but feel very alone and terribly flawed.

In a short space of time, I’ve also had to adjust my view of myself. Ever since two years ago when we were first diagnosed, we’ve known that our problem was severe MFI. We were looking at low volume, low count, low morphology, low motility… it seemed so obvious. Everything with me checked out perfectly. I became absolutely convinced that if I could somehow just get my eggs fertilized that the rest would be a cakewalk. That’s why IVF felt like such a dream come true. That’s why my first BFP was so exciting and I wasn’t really scared. That’s why I was knocked on my ass when I lost the twins. I was supposed to be the perfect one (reproductively speaking, of course). We overcame our problem only to find a bigger problem lurking in the shadows. It just makes me feel so broken.

Besides all of that sad stuff, I’m also feeling very grateful today. I’m grateful for my husband. He and I rarely see eye to eye on things (our conflicts are part of what keeps life interesting), but for each and every part of this he’s somehow managed to say what I’m thinking before I can say it. The first time he said, “Let’s try again!” This time he said, “We need to take a break.” Even though I felt the same, it was so comforting that he was the one to say it. It was such a relief to not have to argue about how to proceed.

I’m grateful for the girls at work. My sort-of boss (my actual boss is in the UK…it’s a long story) insisted that I take off yesterday and today, no penalties. My friends at work sent me comforting texts, and my counterpart picked up my slack without comment or complaint. It’s such a relief to not have to worry about work right now. I took the day today to regroup and get my bearings. I really needed that, and I’m so glad I can be honest with work rather than have to make up silly excuses.

I’m grateful for my dear friend Jana who sent me a beautiful bouquet. If you ever want to take a break from reading about infertility and catch up with an uber-cool yet down-to-earth girl living the dream in the big city, check out Brooklyn According to Jana. And in case you needed proof that she’s an excellent writer, here’s the card she sent:

As long as we persist in our our pursuit of our deepest destiny, we will continue to grow. We cannot choose the day or time when we will fully bloom. It happens on its own. Thinking of you.

flowers

Finally, I’m grateful for all of you. I didn’t respond to my comments yesterday as I normally try to, but I will say that each and every one of you made me feel a little bit better. Thank you for caring about me so much. If there’s one thing I can count on, it’s this blog and the willingness of my followers (gee, I sound like a cult leader) to say the right things right when I need them. You may regret requesting that I keep writing though, because I feel like the floodgates are opening, content-wise. I guess it takes a tragedy to really get my writer juices flowing (I think happy people are boring anyway).

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?

hello, my name’s Amanda, and I’m addicted to ultrasounds

***Sorry for the long intros lately, but you can always rest assured that any post without the word “fucking” in the title has a semi-happy ending. Don’t worry.

I’ve figured out how I’m going to make my millions. Ready for this? Four little words: At. Home. Ultrasound. Machine. My market would be primarily infertiles wanting the constant reassurance that their little bean was still growing, and also any unlucky ladies who suffer from prolonged first trimester bleeding. It would have a giant, idiot-proof heart rate monitor that would immediately light up and say, “CALM DOWN YOU CRAZY BITCH, YOUR BABY’S HEART IS STILL BEATING.” I mean, really. In this day and age, shouldn’t there be an app for that?

I called my OB/GYN this morning and as usual, they were not as concerned as I was. They didn’t have any appointments but offered to schedule me an ultrasound at the hospital’s outside lab. I thought that was very nice of them. The nurse warned that they would not be able to give me results at the appointment, but would rather call them in to my doctor, who would in turn call me. In my mind I was thinking, “I’ll just cry and scream until they tell me what’s going on. I’ll refuse to leave.” She said sometimes they will point out the heartbeat, but it just depends on who I got. So I spent the entire day hoping I had a compassionate, caring person who wasn’t into the particular torture of not telling me whether or not my baby had a heartbeat.

The doctor’s office called a few minutes later and also requested that I go for blood work, just to make sure that was all OK. I thought that was a little odd (doesn’t the ultrasound show you more than blood can?) Apparently the doctor who I usually see requested it, and I winced at hearing her name. She specifically told me to wait a few months before getting pregnant again (she’s the one who did my D&C). I haven’t seen her yet, but I’m fully expecting a scolding when I do see her again. Especially now with all my issues. I can’t even pull the, “Oops, didn’t mean to!” I suppose I could say, “Oops, I accidentally got this embryo injected into my ute! I thought I was just getting a pap smear, dammit!”

Truth be told, I couldn’t have imagined surviving the weekend without seeing the heartbeat again. I have negative things associated with ultrasounds at New Hope, not to mention it’s particularly awful to hear your babies are dead when you’re two hours away from home.

Furthermore, I am starting to despise the term “spotting.” Spotting sounds so innocent, so light, so carefree. It sounds like a dab here and a pinch there and tra-la-la-la-la. When people ask me if I’m still “spotting,” I want to say, “No actually, I’m flowing. I’m running like the damn Mississippi River. You could go kayaking.”

I’m being dramatic (what else is new?). While Tuesday evening and Wednesday were pretty flow-like, by Thursday morning the blood could be classified as spotting, I suppose. It came and went every couple of hours. That’s equally frustrating, however, because every time I felt I was in the clear and dried up, it would suddenly start again. But from now on I insist we call it bleeding when that’s what it is. So I’m here to say that first trimester spotting, first trimester flowing and maybe even first trimester gushing (there were moments) still does not necessarily mean it’s the end of the world.

My ultrasound tech at the hospital was approximately 14 years old. I had to refrain from asking Doogie Howser if she herself was menstruating yet. Whatever. She was very nice and chatty and did offer to point out the heartbeat if and when she saw it. She scanned for what felt months and then pointed out the faint, faint flicker on the screen. I was watching her like a hawk and she typed in the letters HB on the screen… then she erased it. I said, “Why did you do that?” in my best stern voice. She replied, “Oh, because I was done.” I couldn’t help but feel like she was lying. She made me hold my breath several times so she could “verify the heartbeat.” I’m thinking, if you have to look that hard to find it, is it really there? She was so smiley and happily chatting that I couldn’t imagine the news was bad. Wouldn’t somber news require a more somber tone? Or was she just a crazy bubbly person with no empathy? She specifically said, “I can tell you if I see a heartbeat, but I can’t comment on whether it’s too fast or too slow. You’ll have to wait for the doctor for that.”

Next, Doogie promised I would get to speak with my doctor on the phone before leaving the building. Again, very nice of her. She said as she was leaving me in the waiting room, “The heartbeat is there, it just might be too slow. Your doctor can tell you more.” Despite her promise of letting me talk to someone before leaving, the front desk people shooed me out before I got the phone call, so it was all just messing with my emotions. As usual.

I was sitting in the waiting room to get the blood work when Eric called to say that one of his good friends, someone who had been at our wedding, someone who Eric had just seen the day before, was found dead this morning. No one knew how or why. I was in shock and just wanted to get home to him, but was stuck waiting even longer to get a beta after a non-reassuring ultrasound. Did I mention I’m not supposed to be stressing out?

The nurse from my OB/GYN called about 30 minutes later. I felt a bit of relief at hearing her voice, knowing that for positively dire news the doctor would call me personally. She confirmed what Doogie had been hinting at all along – Baby Toast’s heartbeat is slower than they’d like to see. Oh, they also confirmed that I do have a subchorionic bleed (or subchorionic hematoma), so that’s the likely source of the bleeding. Basically with one phone call she got me to stop worrying about the bleeding and start worrying about something completely new and frightening – a slow fetal heart rate.

If you ever get this particular diagnosis, DO NOT GOOGLE IT. My first hits included such gems as “fetal mortality rate of 60%” and the like. There were also plenty of success stories of heart rates that magically went from 87 to 150 (or whatever perfect is) in as short as a week. Sigh. I don’t know. The ultrasound was supposed to be reassurance for the weekend and now I’m more freaked out than ever. Lots of women of the interwebs are quick to point out that 6 weeks is so early to make a call on it, but I’m also remembering how nothing was said at my appointment on Tuesday. So are things getting worse?

I have another ultrasound Monday at New Hope (my third in a week’s time) and then my OB/GYN scheduled a “viability ultrasound” for Thursday. It even has to be in a special room. I think that will officially puts me at ultrasound addict status. On one hand my heart is swelling with pride at how much of a drama queen this little girl is (just like her mama). On the other, I’m effing terrified. As usual.