burnt toast life

I’ll never forget you

Blogs seem like a logical place to celebrate anniversaries, both happy and sad. Today I have a sad one.

April 8th, 2013 was hands down the worst day of my life so far (and hopefully forever, because if it gets much worse than that…ugh). That’s not to take away from the sadness of July 8th, 2013, which was also particularly awful. But the thing about April 8th was that it threw me off guard. In no way was I mentally prepared to hear the news that I heard. At first, it was impossible to believe. It really was like I floated up out of my body and was watching it happen to someone else. My twins were there, and they were alive. They were growing and their little hearts were beating. And then they just…weren’t.

I remember everything about that day. The annoying bus ride, the part where I saw them on the screen before I knew anything was wrong yet. The way my heart dropped into my stomach when the tech broke the news. The dread of calling Eric. The dread of telling everyone. The long bus ride back home.

It’s a tough spot to be in, because right now everything about this pregnancy is going well. So I’m happy/sad today. When I think of my twins, tears spring to my eyes in an instant. Perhaps now it’s easier to say things like, “I’ll see them again one day,” or “At least they never suffered; never felt pain of any kind.” It’s easier to say that all now because time has gone by, and because I’m looking forward to the imminent arrival of their sister. But that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about them. I wish I could have had them all. I wish they could know each other.

Today I’m thinking about and praying for anyone who has ever lost a child. Miscarriage, stillbirth, SIDs, everything. Truly, from the depths of my heart, I believe we will get to meet our lost little babies one day. Until then…

everysecond

I’ll never be part of the club

Oh, drama. Why must you torment me?

I’ll start off by saying that everything is fine (which of course you already know based on my expletive-free post title). I wasn’t even planning to write about my OB/GYN visit today because I figured it would be very routine, and I had other topics from the weekend to discuss. I’ll get to those in a moment.

So first of all, I made Eric come along to the appointment because I (wrongly) assumed I’d be getting an ultrasound. We went back into the room and quickly figured out that this wasn’t the case. Apparently “normal” folks don’t get ultrasounds at every visit. Who knew? So I sent him home with a kiss and waited for the doctor to come in.

We chatted, all was great, and then she whipped out the doppler to check the heartbeat. Five minutes of scanning…nothing. I told her I had one at home and sometimes it took me up to ten minutes to find the damn thing. She laughed and said, “Yeah, but I’m not going to spend ten minutes trying. Let’s just give you an ultrasound.”

Yay. I mean…damn. Sent hubby home for nothing.

At this point I was mildly concerned, but not overly concerned, as I had just found the heartbeat yesterday afternoon (once again I say, PRAISE GOD for dopplers). But still… she should be able to find it better than I can, right? Then the nurse popped in and said someone else was in the one and only ultrasound room, so I would have to wait a while until her appointment was done. The doctor came back a few minutes after that and said she would try again with the doppler just so I wouldn’t have to wait.

Scan, scan, scan…nothing.

Seriously?

So I had to sit there, alone, for about 30 minutes waiting for an ultrasound. It was awful. I started having flashbacks. I tried to reassure myself with the fact that I had heard it the day before, but anything can happen in the space of 18 hours. I know that all too well. I was half tempted to hop off the table and try to find it myself, or go down the hall and hustle the other person out of the room through fear and intimidation.

I had mentioned that the brand of prenatal vitamins I was using was making me sick, so at one point during my wait the doctor came back in with a bunch of different samples for me to try to see if any of them worked better. This was also reassuring because I figured if she was truly concerned, she’d wait until the appointment was over before giving them to me. As it was, I was picturing how terrible it would be to have to hand them back at the front desk on the way out. And let’s not even talk about how devastating this news would be to hear two days before Christmas. The thoughts running through my head were pure torture.

Finally, I got to go in the ultrasound room. For one heart-pounding moment I saw a huge dark blob with nothing in it… and I thought, “That cannot be. It cannot be.” But guess what, guys? That big dark blob was my bladder. Which turns out was the root of this whole fiasco. My full bladder had pushed the baby way up high, and the doctor was scanning down near my pubic bone where the heartbeat is normally found. Baby is fine, somersaulting away, heartbeat is at a solid 145. Nothing to fear. Phew.

Panic over, crisis averted, composure restored. Now on to my topic of the day.

It doesn’t matter that I’m pregnant, it doesn’t even matter if one day I actually have a baby. Because the “Normal Mommy Club” is just something I’ll never be a part of.

We went to a Christmas party this weekend. It’s a party that I would have fled from screaming/crying had I not been pregnant right now. There were three pregnant chicks (including me) and the hostess has a three-week-old. Yes, she has a three-week-old and a two-and-a-half year old and managed to plan, coordinate, cook for, and host a Christmas party. Talk about super-mom.

I didn’t get the memo that you’re supposed to get a cute, Christmas-themed maternity shirt to wear around this time of year if you happen to be “with child” (and where do you even buy these)? I went to Walmart and got some oversized, tacky shirt that said something about being naughty in glitter letters. It didn’t occur to me to dress the bump adorably.

It was just so weird. Everyone talking about kids and pregnancy and babies, and for once I got to be included in the conversations. I felt like an imposter. I don’t even know how to answer the questions half the time, or how to reciprocate appropriate questions. I feel like at any moment I’ll be revealed for what I am: so decidedly not part of the club. And pretty much everyone there reads my blog, so it’s not like they don’t know my backstory, but still. I’m pregnant, yet I still cringe every time I hear a cute baby story or see a bump out of the corner of my eye. Will that ever change? Am I scarred for life?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful to be crawling out of the trenches of infertility. I guess what I’m saying is that no matter what point I get to in life, the scars will still be hiding just beneath the surface. I don’t think I’ll ever freely gush over being pregnant or having kids or any of that. I’ll always be on high alert when it comes to all the stuff that used to make me scream on the inside. You can take the girl out of the infertility war, but you can’t erase what’s already happened. I’m forever changed based on this journey.

Just wondering if anyone else feels the same, and assuming that most of you do… I haven’t seen any of you morph into eternally happy mommy bloggers overnight, even those of you who gave birth recently.

I often think about what this blog will become post-baby, and I hope that it stays real and relevant. I’ll never be crafty and organized and vigilant, pureeing all-organic kale into baby food while simultaneously recording every detail in a handmade baby book. I’ll never be great. But I hope that I do stay honest, and irreverent, and humble, and grateful. So, so, so damn grateful.

hummingbirdAs a P.S. – Today I received a gorgeous hummingbird ornament in the mail from Teresa at “Where the *bleep* is our stork?” She so graciously nominated me for The Stork Award a few weeks back, and I swear it has been on my to-do list to finally answer all her questions and nominate some more lovely ladies as well. Teresa, thank you so much. This community makes me feel so warm and accepted. Talk about being part of a club… yeah, this is it for me. No matter where life takes me, I’ll always be one of you.

a few answers and a billion more questions

As promised, here is the post all about Reproductive Immunology. Not sure if it makes much sense, but it’s something. Also, apologies if it’s repetitive. I actually wrote it a couple weeks ago.

On a good note, I think I am finally, after four days and hours of phone calls between me, my insurance, my OB/GYN, and the lab, getting my blood tests done tomorrow. Woo hoo! I also had a (free) consult with my mom’s chiropractor last night and found out that the right side of my spine is totally out of whack and my hips are “stuck” in one position. So hopefully I can get adjusted soon.

Apologies in advance if this post gets a bit too boring or technical. I am going to try to organize my thoughts logically here, but there is just so much going on in my brain. Also, sorry if none of this information is relevant. But if you suffer from recurrent miscarriages, unexplained infertility or IVF failure, there may be something of interest in the following mess of information. Here is my best attempt at working out the crazy wheels a’spinning in my head.

My mom bought me the book “Is Your Body Baby Friendly?” by Dr. Alan Beer. I knew that I would like it better than the “prevent miscarriage by ceasing your daily coke habit” book with just one glance – this book was THICK and HEAVY. It demanded respect. It sparked a little current of hope in me before I even opened the cover.

I’m not here to plug this book, per se, because I can’t speak to its effectiveness just yet. I will say that for $20, it’s definitely a worthy read if you suffer from any of the aforementioned problems. The first thing the book does is point out the absurdity of chalking up miscarriage and IVF failure to bad luck. The goal of Reproductive Immunology (RI) is to determine the source of these problems, and then to treat them. The authors are indignant that RE’s accept failure after failure or that anyone would say it was just “meant to happen that way.” They argue that a woman’s body was designed to accept and nurture pregnancy. When it fails, there is a reason for it. And – you guessed it – most of these problems can be solved with the help of RI.

The book spends a lot of time defending the field itself, citing examples of people calling Reproductive Immunologists “crazy whack jobs who are just out to get your money.” They follow up with proof of their success, describing women who had suffered seven or ten or (God forbid) thirteen miscarriages who carried babies to term by using their prescribed treatments. The book was full of hope, a lot of very in-depth technical explanations and a few logical reasons for recurrent miscarriage. Even if they’re wrong (which I doubt), the fact that SOMEONE was finally trying to explain and treat the mysterious tragedy of miscarriage made me want to weep with relief.

One thing I really enjoyed was that they laid out all the potential immune system problems AND the treatments. So basically I just saved myself $900 on a consult, because I already know what to do, right? Kind of. Here’s the thing: as I already said, Dr. L was so on point by prescribing Prednisone and baby aspirin. I’m so happy she did, because if she hadn’t, I’d be sitting here wondering if something as simple as that could have saved Baby Toast. Since many women they treat aren’t infertile, they also recommend estrogen supplements and Progesterone shots. And I’m like, I did IVF, I already have all that down on lock. It looks like I’ll be needing something even more advanced.

The most effective (if I’m reading correctly) treatment of immune system craziness seems to be IVIg injections. You have to pay a qualified nurse to administer them, they take several hours and you get injected with other people’s blood for $5,000 a session. Insurance doesn’t cover it because proof of effectiveness has not been established (and you can bet your ass that I’ve already searched for clinical trials). I’m going to say this again – $5,000 per session, and you need several throughout your pregnancy. So it doesn’t even matter if I want it, because ain’t no way in hell I’m getting it. Remind me again why I wasn’t born a millionaire?

So. Moving on. The only other thing that I haven’t been prescribed and that I can afford (possibly) is Lovenox injections to stimulate blood flow and Heparin injections (usually used to treat rhematoid arthritis) to balance out ANA antibodies. That’s a lot of injections. Not like I care. But throwing things at the wall and seeing what sticks – is that a healthful approach? Does any of this make sense for me?

So you know how when you’re going through infertility blogs, you look for someone who has a similar background and struggle to yourself? And you follow that person, hoping that your paths will be similar, especially if that path ends with a healthy baby? And it makes you feel so much less alone? I’m beginning to think I’ll never have that. I feel so different from everyone else. First of all, I had a pretty cut-and-dried case of infertility. The sperm analysis told the story of why we weren’t conceiving. We did IVF. It worked. Problem solved, right? Well no, then I had this whole other incredibly complicated problem. Not to be all “woe is me,” but I think I got dealt a pretty shitty hand here. We spent years solving one problem only to find another giant, mysterious, awful, basically unsolvable complication behind it. Sorry to sound like a broken record, but it’s just so damn frustrating. When will we catch a break?

As I’ve mentioned (perhaps ad nauseum), I have never, in all my research, found someone whose food intolerance seemed linked to their miscarriages. I feel like I’m trying to solve some unsolvable mystery here. There’s a short little section in the book that discusses elevated levels of eosinophils and asthma and the possible link to miscarriage, but it’s a tiny little snippet and it doesn’t discuss food at all. I cannot be the only person on earth who has had this happen. But am I supposed to waste $5,000 on other people’s plasma in case I have these killer cells, when really it seems like food intolerance is the issue? If I could just find someone with similar issues, I could follow her protocol. But I am alone here. There is no one like me at all. (As Amy pointed out, gluten allergies have been linked to miscarriage, ’tis true. I think that’s a fairly new school of thought and it’s not mentioned in the book at all. But you can bet your ass gluten is akin to rat poison when it comes to my new diet).

Here is what I know: my body attacked healthy, normal growing babies. That is not normal. Something inside of me is not right, and that thing needs to be corrected. I had my heart set on Bland Diet so I could absolutely ensure that my food intolerance didn’t cause my immune system to overreact. But this book… it’s making me question if the problem runs deeper than that. Maybe the food reactions are just a symptom, not a cause. And lets be honest, the term “NK Killer Cells” is really scary. It’s been haunting me daily since I saw it.

Yup, I’m talking in circles. I’m sorry. I’m happy that I read this book and that people don’t just throw up their hands and say, “It’s God’s will!” I absolutely believe in God, but I also believe that God gave us scientists to solve these problems so we don’t have to just suffer through them. Interestingly, the book includes an entire chapter on Eastern medicine (though Dr. Beer cautions that these remedies should be used in addition to, and not in place of, his protocols). The author of the holistic approach section starts out by saying she’s skeptical of using too many drugs and foreign substances. She, of course, recommends acupuncture and a peaceful diet. I like the idea of that. But is it enough?

So many questions, not a lot of answers. I don’t want to leave things to chance, but I don’t really think I have a choice.

I have, like, a week to figure this out. I feel like the answer is there, I just need to find it. Maybe that’s naive… maybe that’s crazy… yeah, it’s both. Definitely both.

do it differently

Hi, friends.

I want to say thank you. For your kind words of support, obviously, but also for your concern (I’m looking at you, Vanessa). It may be just me and Eric trying to make this baby over here, but I genuinely feel like we’re all in this together. So thanks for being so freaking supportive. It means the world.

I suppose you’re wondering what I plan to do differently this time. So far, I know that my allergic reactions, which logically seem to be causing miscarriages, are food related. Therefore, I’m putting myself on a super bland diet consisting of only the safest foods. What does that mean? It means I’ll be eating meat, eggs, white rice, and most vegetables – and not much else – for the foreseeable future. No fruit. No bread. No gluten. No dairy. Nothing processed. Nothing questionable in any way. In short, the most boring diet known to man. I kicked it off this week with a 36 hour juice cleanse (that’s as long as I lasted before I broke down and had a hard-boiled egg). Juicing is fun, but only when you’re allowed to use fruit. Otherwise the juice is bitter and makes the whole kitchen “smell like hay,” according to Eric.

Do I feel resentful of pregnant girls scarfing down McDonald’s and triple fudge cake without even thinking about it? Of course. But if this is what I have to do, so be it. I would gladly sacrifice delicious food for longer than nine months if it means I get to have a healthy baby.

What else? Well, I finally went on Monday to get my Blood Clotting Disorder Panel testing done. I’ve been putting it off and putting it off, but now we’re down to the wire and the results take two weeks, so I dragged my feet to the lab. Bad news off the bat – my new insurance doesn’t cover the lab I usually go to, and the test is suuuuuper expensive. Great. So I drove to the lab they do cover, waited 20 minutes, then was told that they weren’t sure which test my doctor wanted (there were three choices and they didn’t want to pick the wrong one). They called my doctor to confirm and had to leave a message. So after an hour of running around and frantically making phone calls, I never did get my blood drawn.

As if that’s not enough, the lab lady sounded skeptical that my insurance would cover this test at all, so once I figure out which test it is, I have to call them and confirm it’s covered. Did I mention I HATE our new insurance? Plus the lab they want me to use doesn’t do same-day results, so when we do get to the beta stage, we’re going to have big problems. (The lady at my old lab said that for stat blood work I’ll just need a referral, but still, it’s the rigmarole I have to go through that really ticks me off).

Lab lady has yet to call me back, so today is off the table. It seems like the universe is against me getting this stupid blood work. All the test will really do is determine if I need the Lovenox or not… but part of me is tempted to just take it no matter what. I don’t know. Besides Super Bland Diet, I don’t really have any ideas. Last pregnancy I cut out fructose, but I was still eating gluten and a lot of other crap. I’m pretty sure I reacted to coffee creamer right before it all went to hell. Of course I’m scared that it’s more than that, but there’s no precedent. I touch on this in the Reproductive Immunology Post (this week! I promise!) – there is literally no one else like me. No other person has reported that their food intolerances are linked to recurrent miscarriage. If there was, I could follow their protocol… or something… but as it stands, I’ve never heard of symptoms quite like mine. Frankly, it makes me feel crazy, like I’m spouting conspiracy theories or something. But these things are connected. I just know they are. I can tell when something is wrong, and I know for a fact that the food I ate caused serious reactions. I know my immune system went totally wonky.

So again, thanks for the real talk. Thanks for caring enough to voice concerns. I’m scared… but there’s not much else I can do besides just hope for the best, and this time totally eliminate trigger foods. And pray. Pray a whole lot.

Someone posted this story on Facebook the other day and of course I cried. But it also gave me hope. You never know when your rainbow baby is right around the corner (also, posts like this remind me that recurrent miscarriage or not, it can always be worse. ALWAYS. I cannot imagine how this woman survived with sanity intact).

it’s on

After much debate, both internally and externally, I called New Hope to report CD1 yesterday. And while I’m sure you don’t need me to, I do feel some sense of obligation to defend my decision to do this. Here are my reasons:

1) I was very disappointed when we didn’t get pregnant the low-tech way, despite all evidence that we would not (a.k.a. 2 years of evidence). Maybe it was the itchy nip, maybe it was just the fact that I’ve jumped that hurdle now twice. A BFP didn’t seem impossible anymore. HA!
2) Clinical trial, people, clinical trial. It’s over. My participation in it is questionable, since technically I was supposed to be kicked out in June. Any moment someone is going to realize this.
3) I’m not going to be able to afford going to a Reproductive Immunologist this century. Even if I could, I wouldn’t be able to afford the treatments. So… waiting changes nothing. I know the protocol. Dr. L can prescribe the things I can afford, like Lovenox. So why wait? (I have a whole other long post about my findings on Reproductive Immunology in general, and I will get around to posting it one of these days).

Anyway. I called New Hope yesterday, CD1. Person answering the phone checked my chart, sounded confused as to why I would call, put me on hold for a long time and then transferred me to the clinical trial mailbox (a veritable wasteland of messages that are never returned, as far as I can tell). I left a message, hung up, and started crying. I figured I was out of the trial. I even began researching clinics around here so I could start inquiring about prices for an embryo transfer, though it obviously wasn’t going to work out this month. Then I figured, hey, why not try to shoot them an email (pretty much the only way you can get a response). The nurse replied with, “Can you come in tomorrow?” Can I come in… so you can break up with me in person? So you can do monitoring? I didn’t understand. But still, I simply said, “Yes, I’ll be there.”

While I did feel better that they wanted to see me, I wasn’t entirely convinced that I was still acutally in the trial. Trial patients have red folders, regular patients have green ones (because they pay money?). I was literally the only red folder in a huge stack of appointment folders for the day. But they drew my blood. They did the sono. According to the ultrasound tech, my ovaries “looked perfect.” And then they sent me home.

I’m scheduled to go back Monday, the 23rd. So it sounds like the transfer is happening. I feel… nervous. Like it’s happening really fast, even though it’s really not. I hope that doesn’t mean I’m not ready. I think more than not ready, I’m terrified, so much more than last time. If you have one miscarriage, you won’t necessarily have two. But it seems like once you have two you’re likely to have more and more. And this is probably most likely our last try, despite having two more embryos left after this. But more on that some other time (or hopefully not, because hopefully I won’t have to worry about it).

I have a question that I’ve been curious about for some time now, and if it’s too personal or weird, I apologize. I notice that some of you get many embryos, do a transfer, then when you do another round of IVF you do the whole process over again rather than using the additional embryos from the first go-round. Is this just a fresh vs. frozen thing? A quality thing? I’m curious. As for me, I’m on my round 3 draft picks (I feel terrible saying that, haha, but it’s the truth). First time both stuck. Second time one did. Now… well, like I said, I’m nervous. I didn’t ask what the grading was because I don’t want to stress about it, but I’m assuming it’s good enough to potentially work or they wouldn’t bother. Does that make sense? Again, we have to use what we have either way, I was just wondering why some of you opt not to. Feedback appreciated.

September transfer. June due date. No psychic predictions, no premonitions, no weird coincidences. Just a random month and possibly a Gemini. I can deal with that.

dead ends and best friends

When I was a little girl, my mom used to go for acupuncture at a lovely place that’s still in business, so I knew that was the first place I wanted to check into. He’s a chiropractor, but no longer offers acupuncture. DEAD END.

The nice chiropractor dude suggested a place nearby. There aren’t many acupuncturists in my area, which is annoying. I called the place he suggested and they want $150 for the initial session and $85 for each session thereafter. I was willing to spend about half that. Sure, I spend oodles of money on drugs and commutes to Manhattan for treatment, but those are proven things that work. Someone sticking little needles into me just makes me skeptical, and for that kind of cost, is it worth it? I’m calling this a DEAD END.

The Reproductive Immunologist who offered free Skype consults? He doesn’t do that anymore. You can Skype him for an hour… for $250. Better than $900, but I was really digging the “free” thing. You guessed it – DEAD END.

I’ve been getting really frustrated with the progress I was supposed to be making in August, because now it’s the 9th, and I feel like I’m going nowhere. My diet is… better, not what it should be. I’ve been in control of breakfast and lunch, but then a coworker brought in these amazing looking mini pies, and I ate one. There’s a 9 day long music festival going on in my area that features lots of food and booze. I can’t skip that! And I haven’t. I’ve gone for dinner more than once, and trust me, my meals have been far from Paleo (can we argue that vodka is Paleo since it comes from potatoes?). I still haven’t been able to give up my beloved coffee yet, either. Blah.

every morning is a cuddle morning

every morning is a cuddle morning

Exercise? I’m going to share my biggest problem with you, and maybe you’ll think it’s silly, but here it is: it’s my dog. Every morning Eric gets up at 5:30 and takes the dogs out. And every morning they come back in, eat, and then my little Bird dog comes back to bed to snuggle with me. He curls up into a tight ball and smushes his little rump right up against me. So there I am, in a sea of down comforter and memory foam pillows, looking out into the just breaking light of dawn and feeling this warm ball of love next to me. I think, “Should I go run right now? Should I do yoga?” and it seems impossible. It’s like there’s a magnetic pull in my bed, and I’m unable to resist it. Are these excuses justified? No. Do I feel a wave of guilt sweep over me around 11 a.m. every morning and think, “You should have gone running, you lazy bitch?” Yes. But still, I stay in bed. I effing love my bed.

I’ll get there. My new job starts on Monday and the hours are different, so my morning routine is going to change even if I don’t want it to. I’ll run. I’ll yoga. I’ll eat better, especially when Muskifest ends. There’s light at the end of this tunnel, even if it’s taking longer than I want it to.

Now, enough dead ends and on to best friends.

You know how sometimes you have an absolutely perfect and amazing night when you don’t even expect to? Wednesday was like that for me. I had planned on going to the aforementioned music festival of food ‘n’ booze (Musikfest!) with two of my friends. You can walk around the city streets and drink beer or cocktails from giant plastic mugs, listen to live music for free, and eat all the delicious food you can possibly imagine. It’s the event of the summer for my area, and something we all look forward to all year long. Anyway. I was going to skip out Wednesday because the sky was gray and threatening rain, I was tired, it was muggy, my hair frizzed up and did I mention I was tired? I was just feeling blah. I was two seconds away from saying, screw it, you guys go on without me when I had a change of heart. I hadn’t seen my one friend in months and I wanted to catch up. I dragged my unenthusiastic butt out the door and figured I would just make the best of it.

Please don’t take this the wrong way if you have kids and talk about your kids. Please don’t, because I love them and I love hearing about them. But I figured out that besides just seeing my friends, one of the best things about the night was that NO ONE mentioned babies ONCE. That never happens. Ever. We drank, we ate, we talked. We talked about girl things; we talked about sex and relationships and vacations and things I can’t even remember. We laughed and were silly. It was just so much fun.

The most remarkable thing about this is that the friend who I hadn’t seen in months is a mom. She has two adorable tow-headed boys. But she made it through an entire evening without mentioning them one time. I even asked about her recent vacation to Florida, a perfect opportunity for her to blab on and on about how cute they were doing this or doing that, but she managed to talk about Florida without talking about kids. Like, wait, there’s more to life than just obsessing over kids? WOW.

It made me realized how often I keep my guard up. I’m always on edge, ready to mentally steel myself against pregnant bellies and pregnancy announcements and baby photos and and toddler stories of “Omigosh she usually naps for 45 minutes but yesterday she slept for a whole hour and isn’t that just the cah-raziest thing you ever did hear?” I didn’t even realize how tense it made me until I felt my guard slowly being let down on Wednesday night. I truly relaxed for the first time in what feels like ages. It felt so damn good to just talk about stuff that didn’t stress me out. Stuff that was interesting. Stuff that matters to me, as a woman without kids, right now.

I sent my friend a text later and thanked her for making it through an entire evening without talking about her kids. She didn’t do it on purpose for me; she just did it because she had other things to discuss. She said when she has a girls night, she likes to just leave all that at home. Doesn’t that make sense? I wish this happened more often.

Once again I want to say thank you, best friends. Thank you for a night I absolutely needed. Let’s do it again soon.

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).

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.