burnt toast life

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.

commencing countdown, engines on

Anyone going through infertility knows that waiting is a huge part of the process. We’re always waiting for something – appointments, AF, ovulation day… you get the picture. I’m not sure if the constant waiting leads to inevitable impatience or if I’m just an impatient person stuck in a long process. All I know is that I despise all the waiting (as I’ve mentioned a hundred times before. Sorry.)

Tomorrow marks 6 weeks since the D&C. It’s been a lifetime and it’s gone by in the blink of an eye. By that I mean it feels like the tragedy is still fresh, but it also feels like eternity waiting to move on to next steps. Infertility makes you feel empty; hollow; barren. Miscarriage, as I’m sure some of you may know, defies explanation. It is the exponential version of all those words. It is more extreme than language can express.

After my miscarriage, I just wanted to be pregnant again. People cautioned against rushing things and mentally replacing the babies I had lost with a new pregnancy. It’s a tough thing. It’s tough to know when you’re “done” mourning since I don’t think you’re ever really over it. Every day just gets a little easier.

The good news is that my wait is officially over. I went for my Day 3 baseline testing yesterday. Dr. Z, who has the most abrupt bedside manner I have ever encountered in the medical field, burst into my ultrasound without knocking and barked out instructions in broken English, “You come back in 2 weeks, yes? Two weeks today. That Wednesday. We do natural cycle transfer.” He never even looked at me (which was OK, because my legs were up in stirrups at that point), just furrowed his brow and stared at my chart before rushing out again. The tech was even chuckling to herself at how he handled it. I mean, it was funny, and also a relief. I didn’t have to wait for the phone call confirming my levels were normal or abnormal. I didn’t have to sit down and justify myself to anyone, or plead my case to do the transfer this month.

I’m not sure why I assumed I would have to explain myself, but I spent the past few days preparing myself to do it. I pictured the New Hope people sitting me down and demanding to know why this happened and what I was going to do to prevent it from happening again. Turns out they’re just as eager to get me pregnant again as I am to be pregnant again. Is it because of the trial? Is it because they want as many live births to report as they can get? Probably. But that’s OK by me. I don’t need them to care about me and my life on a personal level; I’ll take a brusque bedside manner and good success rates any day.

So we’re good to go for round two. I’m happy that I don’t have to wait. I did get the call eventually and my levels are in range. My HCG is still 8 (down from 33 two weeks ago) but they did not seem to care about that. It’s low enough that we can move forward. I didn’t have to defend myself, I didn’t have to beg and plead and no one barred the doors or changed the number. It’s just like riding a bike, people… it’s just like riding a bike.

just when you think you’re doing fine…

Today I received a phone call that I was expecting, but somehow it knocked me right onto my emotional behind. That part was unexpected.

You might have noticed, and I’m sure people in the real world definitely noticed, that I’ve been doing pretty great. I keep doubting myself and doing little self-checks, asking my emotions, “Are we OK here? Good? Not gonna cry or be sad? OK then, I guess we’re not sad today.” I believed it. It felt a little strange to feel so normal so quickly. But as my mother wisely warned, the sadness tends to hit you gently like a Mack truck barreling down the highway, and right when you least expect it.

Today my OB/GYN called with the results of the chromosomal tests that were run on the embryos. She called personally, which I appreciated. Both of the babies were perfectly fine and not abnormal in any way. The uterine tissue was also normal. And oh yeah, the babies were girls. That had a lot to do with the emotional crumble, I think – I knew they were real and I knew they were babies, but knowing the genders made reality extra super real. Those were my daughters.

I took the call, sat back down at my desk, and within minutes had to quickly exit stage left to go sob in the parking lot. The whole scene was quite melodramatic – me, alone in the parking lot, blubbering and repeating over and over again, “I’m sorry” as petals from the trees gently floated by.

Why am I sorry? I’m sorry I didn’t know that my first exaggerated HFCS allergic reaction was actually a warning sign. I’m sorry that I kept eating candy and terrible foods, ignoring my body’s protests. I’m sorry I feel bitter every time I see a pregnant person eating junk food (Why do they get to do it with no consequence?) I’m sorry I ever let myself get so excited. I’m sorry I truly believed that miscarriage was just something that happened to other people. I’m sorry for being so hard on myself today. I’m sorry for shouldering the blame. But I can’t help it. I failed. This body failed. Those babies were perfect, and I was not.

Tomorrow I’ll wake up and feel OK again. Tomorrow I’ll look to the future with hope and feast on my dressing-free salad with a renewed sense of purpose. I don’t miss bread or pasta or preservative-laden snack cakes. I feel light and clean. I feel like I’m coming to peace with my digestive/immune systems (I don’t know if that’s really a thing, but I’m doing it). Tomorrow will be better.

But today, I’m just so damn sorry.

Fat, poor and introspective in the Cayman Islands

Things got better in Cayman. We figured out that the room service was sub-par, but the restaurants at the hotel were pretty good, so we just needed to motivate our lazy asses to get out of the room. I never thought I’d have the life experience to say the phrase, “Don’t order room service at the Ritz in Cayman, it’s positively dreadful,” but here I am saying it. Oh, and in case anyone was wondering, there were no pregnant women on our snorkeling excursion. Right when I let my guard down enough to enjoy the trip, another boat zipped past and slowed just long enough for me to notice a very pregnant passenger, also in a bikini. Apparently that’s a thing there. Also, HAHA, UNIVERSE, VERY FUNNY.

There were times I felt a little bit like the Beverly Hillbillies at the hotel. It’s not just that we don’t fit into that financial bracket – it’s a whole other mindset and way of behaving. I think I’m pretty good at “faking it ’til I make it” but as for my husband… God love him, he does not care what people think, and he won’t pretend to be anyone other than exactly who he is. Really I should take a lesson from him and stop being so worried about appearances (and no, I’m not just saying this because he reads all my posts). I was the girl quietly slipping the complimentary Molton Brown shampoos and lotions and cute little jars of honey into my handbag while maintaining what I hoped was an expression of total indifference. But Eric totally surprised me when we went to a dinner with my aunt and two of her lawyer friends. Her colleague, a Caymanian resident, picked us up in his Jaguar and whisked us over to a gorgeous open air restaurant where we dined on lobster and sipped mojitos in the balmy 80 degree evening. I was thinking, “A girl could get used to this,” and hoping I’d think of interesting enough things to say during dinner. But then it turns out I didn’t need to worry about it, because Eric totally held his own during the conversation, regaling them with tales of the military that they found a hell of a lot more interesting than discussing billable hours. And he didn’t even have to fake it.

stole a lot of good free stuff

stole a lot of good free stuff


On our way to the beach one morning Eric asked, “Why are you walking funny? Just get off a horse?” I didn’t even notice I was doing it. But after he said something, I figured out the problem. When wearing dresses or bathing suit bottoms, it became apparent that my thighs rub together when I walk (something that has never been an issue before). To accommodate their larger circumference, I had inadvertently and involuntarily adopted a wider stance, therefore making me walk like I just got done jockeying or alternately, had just had some kind of bathroom mishap. Oh, the shame of it all.

I know I’ve been so weight focused and it’s probably getting annoying to hear but honestly, I was terrified when I got my BFP. I was certain that I would balloon to elephantine proportions during the pregnancy. My stomach getting bigger was one thing. But my thighs and my arms and even my calves? They were already too big for me, and had the potential of getting bigger still. I can’t explain how much I felt like a foreigner trapped in my own body.

Before packing for the trip, I made the mistake of hastily texting my sister saying, “None of my clothes for vacation will fit my fat ass. Looks like I’ll need to borrow yours.” I need to mention two things: 1) My sister is extremely sensitive and 2) She’s not fat at all. But we are built differently and she gravitates towards mediums while I (used to) make a beeline for the extra smalls. I also need to mention that my sister is incredibly beautiful whereas I am more “pretty” or even “average-leaning cute.” I think that’s part of the problem, or even most of the problem, with the weight gain. For the longest time I’ve relied on my thinness to keep me feeling attractive. Like, OK, my face isn’t a 10, but at least I look decent in a pair of jeans. It’s like I’ve become invisible to the world now that I’m larger.

The fact that I have to keep reiterating how I’m not obsessed with appearances probably proves that I am obsessed with them, and clearly I’m in denial. I’m smart enough to know that my self-worth is not directly proportional to my weight nor is my being thin or not thin an indication of how attractive I am. I know. But going on vacation in April forced me to thrust my winter-hibernation and especially out of sorts post-infertility and even post-miscarriage body into a bikini and skimpy cover-up. And I did this at a resort populated with women whose full-time jobs appeared to be working out, tanning and getting manicures. I felt a bit like the Pillsbury Dough Boy at the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. And, at heart, I’m feeling quite betrayed by my body both inside and out. It’s no wonder my self-image issues go deeper than just how much extra pasta I’ve been eating.

I stuck to my new diet today, which was extra hard since I haven’t gone grocery shopping since vacation and there’s pretty much nothing but eggs in my fridge. I took a great “before” picture that I contemplated posting, but I’m thinking I’ll wait until I have a noticeable “after.” I also ate an apple this afternoon and then suffered the absolute worst stomach pains, so I’m convinced I have Fructose Malabsorption as my PCP suggested. Looks like it’s legit broccoli and chicken from here on out. Bring it.

Greetings from the Pregnant Women’s Convention, Grand Cayman edition

I was going to hold off on posting until I got back from vacation. I wanted to just take a break from blogging and infertility and drama for five days. But alas, you cannot take a break from reality, even when you are in paradise.

I could not wait to post because 1) shit is on my mind, 2) it’s a lot of shit, so I don’t want to post it all at once and 3) relaxing vacations offer plenty of spare time to write, write and write some more.

Here I am on Grand Cayman Island, staying at The Ritz-Carlton and trying to enjoy myself. There was one cute baby on the plane. Fine, OK, I dealt with it. But apparently someone forgot to mention that there must be a Pregnant Women’s Convention here at the hotel. Within the first ten minutes of sitting by the pool on the first day, Pregnant Woman #1 waddled her happy pregnant ass over and plopped into the chair right next to me. Awesome. Then Pregnant Woman #2 passed me in the hallway. Today is day two and around Pregnant Woman #6 (in a cute bikini, no less) I’ve stopped counting and just resigned myself to laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing. I would not classify this as a “kid-friendly” hotel by any means. I would not come here for a wild and fun family vacation. But I guess there are a lot of lawyers and hedge fund managers here and the men brought their wives to enjoy the beach while they’re stuck in conferences. Their pregnant wives. Or maybe there’s really a Pregnant Women’s Convention. Frankly, it wouldn’t shock me.

Moral of the story? There’s no escaping your state of mind, even if you leave your state. As frustrating as it was to see those women and the occasional cherubic baby in a stroller, the worst moment so far happened when I casually glanced at Eric in profile and couldn’t help but picture that our babies probably had his facial structure. I don’t know why I thought that and it’s something that could have happened anywhere. It just proves that I’m never safe from my own self-inflicted misery.

I’m making it sound like I’m having a terrible time, but really I’m not. This place is incredible. The water is turquoise and warm, the sand is white, the weather (minus a brief rain shower today) is perfect. My complaints, besides the inundation of pregnant people, are just the food and the prices. I mean, $15 cocktails and $25 salads would be one thing if they were mind-blowing. But honestly? Every single thing I’ve eaten has left me uttering, “I’ve had better,” all while trying hard not to calculate just how much we’ve wasted on dried-out-cheese encrusted nachos.

Tomorrow we’re going snorkeling and swimming with stingrays, two things that are actually worth the money and will hopefully deter the league of pregnant chicks. Tuesday we’re planning to go on a rum distillery tour and a brewery tour, which are things I would not have enjoyed as much if I’d still been knocked up.

As far as existential crises and major life decisions, I’ll save those chats for a later post. Let’s just say I’ve been doing some serious thinking about my life and knowing that I’m a super control freak surrounded by uncontrollable situations, it should make for an interesting next couple of months and even years. I need to make real changes if I want things to change. Simple to say… not so simple to do.

And for now, here’s some sandy toes:

toes