Don't Count Your Eggs

Taking a Moment to feel grateful

I normally don't veer from fertility related topics, but given what happened yesterday I feel like I have to take a moment. Yesterday around 11am, our condo was broken in to. Someone broke through the window and in a hurry grabbed a few things, went through a few drawers and bolted. A few neighbors saw the guy making his way out of our supposedly secure complex on Noah's bike, and one of our neighbors confronted him and ended up getting the bike back. The guy basically took off with our iPad and a few other things, but nothing real valuable.

Except for my sense of safety. 

Noah and I have lived in this place for several years and I've always felt very safe. We sleep with our windows open and during the day I leave the back door open to let some air in. Not anymore. I'm sitting at home now, waiting for the fingerprint guy to come and take prints.

It's a really violating feeling to have something like this happen, and it made me realize how lucky I am on a daily basis to have a sense of safety, a home, a husband, neighbors who look out for us, food--all the basics. There are a lot of people around the world who don't have that. A basic sense of security is something I've taken for granted. 

As I dialed 911, I was frantic. I didn't know what had happened and what was missing and all I could think about was if my panic was negatively impacting Momo. I don't even know if Momo is in there, or what he may be doing in there, but yesterday I felt like he was. It was kind of the first time. I felt like my job was to calm my body down as best I could and get the police to come. 

The police came and the rest of the day was uneventful. We were able to track the iPad but the police refused to go after it, trying to get the guy, because they said that Google maps isn't that reliable. Umm..excuse me, Google is where I get about 94% of my information, Sir. 

Anyway, what yesterday reminded of is to be grateful, always, for the basic needs that I have met in my life. At times when I've been at a really low point, I'm sometimes able to tap into remembering the things I appreciate. For all of us that do have love and warmth and food and shelter and safety, it's not small thing. Sometimes feeling that gratitude can help in moments of pain or frustration or sadness. 

It's the last two days to vote for Resolve's Hope Award for best blog. Please take a moment to do so. Wishing everyone out there peace and love today. 

Is This Normal?

On Saturday night I was jarred awake by an intense pain in my stomach. I rushed to the bathroom to see if that would relieve the pain, but it didn’t, and immediately I started to sweat and fear the worst. I was convinced I was having an ectopic and my tube was going to explode and I would die from internal bleeding. I tried to calm down but the pain was there and it was for reals. I have had some cramping all week, off and on, which can be “normal” according to the internet. But this feeling was different. Noah tried to calm me down but I was a wreck. We decided if the pain didn’t subside in an hour we would go to the emergency room, and I got in bed and tried to breath through it while Noah Googled all the possibilities. And there were a lot of possibilities. After 30 minutes the pain decreased, and after 45 minutes it was practically gone, and I fell back asleep, gripping my belly and hoping that Momo was still in there. How was your Saturday night?

 

Not knowing what to expect is scary. It is one of the hardest things about infertility treatments and about this next grayish area where I’ve just landed. Even when you’re given some parameters of what is supposed to happen, it rarely turns out how you thought it was going to be.

 

The only thing normal about infertility is uncertainty. Not only are the treatments foreign in the beginning, but you also don’t know when you’re going to get out. Years ago, if someone said to me, “this is going to be a nightmare and you’ll go through all kinds of devastating things, but in 2015 you’ll have your baby,” I could have gone through it, no problem. The physical and emotional pain--all of it. With bells on, if I knew my outdate. But it doesn’t work like that. Often with infertility as things fail to work, you get more (sometimes less) information that somehow often makes the situation worse. All the while your bank account and relationships and spirit are running out like sand through an hourglass. This uncertainty, I’m learning, doesn’t really stop even when you have rising beta numbers. I’m still feeling it now. It’s as if I was able to purchase the ferry ticket off the Island, but now I’m just waiting. I don’t know if a boat is going to show up. I don’t know if my ride will be cancelled due to technical difficulties, or an unexpected storm coming in. I don’t know if I’ll finally be able to step aboard and then the ship will sink. Or if it will indeed take me to the other side of all this.  I’m still living with that uncertainty.

 

The trauma of the last four years have primed me to expect the worst. I simply know too much about what can go wrong. So when something doesn’t feel right, alarm bells go off in my body. It’s completely physical, and though my brain can tell me everything is ok, my body starts to freak out. I know it’s because in every situation I’ve been in thus far, the other shoe has dropped. Imagining a different outcome, a positive outcome is something I’ve had to work on. A lot. A friend of mine is a hypnotherapist and she has been helping me do this. She has been tapping into my unconscious self to be able to trust my body again, and envision all things positive. I’m getting better. I feel hopeful and positive about Momo. But the other night I remembered my deep seeded fear and knew I had a lot more work to do on letting go of that trauma.

 

What helps me and has helped me through this process are different success stories. As part of the documentary Noah and I have been making, we’ve interviewed a variety of people/couples who have found their way off the Island. Though it doesn’t seem like it, all of us will get off. Sometimes it is with a resolution we never fathomed.

 

Tammy is at the far end of the hope spectrum. She and her husband had multiple factors (one of which was actually a prescription medication her husband was on that the didn't know was negatively impacting his sperm) and were essentially told they would never conceive naturally. After several years and multiple inseminations, IVF with donor eggs was recommended. Well, Tammy, who was over 40, did conceive her baby girl naturally, proving that we never really know what’s going to happen on our journey.

 

 

 

Even though Tammy might be an unusual case, it helps me to remember anything can happen. Noah and I have met a lot of people who, after years of treatments, have found a resolution to their infertility crisis. Noah and I never imagined that we would be here, crossing our fingers to hear a heartbeat at our August 8^th ultrasound. I never thought I’d be a little pregnant with a teeny tiny bean of human life that isn’t genetically related to me or my husband. I never thought I’d be a little pregnant, period. Infertility feels so never ending. But I’m trying to convince myself that perhaps this is my resolution in the making. I’m trying to create a new new normal, yet again. 

Next Batter Up in the Beta League

I'm still on first. Huffing. Getting to first base is a big deal for me. Have I mentioned I've been accused of running "backwards in slow motion"? I won't say by whom. Noah's up to bat. A lefty, wearing his lucky high black socks. He squints into the outfield trying to strategize his hit. First pitch he swings for the fences. It's a hit! He drops the bat and hustles towards first screaming at me to, "stop running backwards in slow motion!" Um-hm. I make it to third, Noah stops at second. A double. My beta was 173.

I can hear in my dad's voice that he's ecstatic. And nervous. He told me not to, "eat raw fish." As if I haven't been avoiding raw fish for FOUR YEARS! Everyone wants to say the P word, but I'm not ready for that yet. I don't know how to feel. It's another base hit. Another hurdle jumped over. Another step forward. All I can think about are people on IF Island who didn't get good news today. My heart goes out to you.

Now we wait and get an ultrasound either at the end of next week or the beginning of August to see if Momo knows how to smile for the camera yet. I emailed my RE here and he just responded that I should come in for an ultrasound. I wrote him back asking if it's ok to feel happy. He wrote back, "yes." So I will allow myself to be happy. In this moment. The only moment I've got. It's so hard not to let the sense memories and trauma of the last four years creep into my brain, but I've got to fight that off. There is no room for that now. 

This morning I imagined an internal dialogue between Momo and my uterus (who I've just named Utilda). The conversation went something like this:

Momo (looking around, frightened): Ummm. Where am I?

Utilda (snoring): Zzzzzzzzzzzz….

Momo: Excuse me? Anyone out there? It’s dark and…really warm and squishy in here. The last placed I lived was friggin’ freezing!

Utilda (waking up from a four year slumber): Huh? What? What’s going on?

Momo: I keep hearing the voice of a strange man telling me to “nuzzle in.” He keeps telling me he loves me and wants me to be strong. But I have no idea where I am or what I’m supposed to do here. Can you help me?

Utilda (shrugs): I just sit around, Homie. I have no idea what to do. But if you’re suppose to “nuzzle in,” there’s plenty of space. Come on over here.

                        Momo slowly swims over and finds a spot on Utilda and cozies up.

Momo: Mmmm. This is nice. I feel safe. Now what?

Utilda: How am I supposed to know. I don’t even know what I’m doing here.

                          Suddenly Utilda starts to tremble and twist and shake. (I've been having weird cramps?)

Utilda: Ahhhhh!! What’s happening? Get off me! I’m freaking out. Weird stuff is happening.

Momo (hanging on for dear life): I’m scared!! Something is…

                        Momo gets swallowed up by Utilda. Utilda lets out a big satisfied burp, and settles down.

Momo (voice is muffled as if talking through a thick pillow): Hello?

Utilda (rolling her eyes): You still here? I thought I got rid of you. I’m not sure about you.

Momo: Well, the man voice said to “hang on” and I did. Now I’m here. I think I’m growing quiet attached to you, Utilda. Maybe we can be friends. Maybe I can hang out with you for a while.

Utilda: I guess. It’s been lonely down here, alone, for so long. I didn’t even realize I was alive until…well, until you woke me up. Yeah. We can be friends. Stick with me, little pal, you’ll be ok.

             Momo snuggles in and closes his giant shrimp-like eyes. In his sleep he starts to morph into a tiny alien-like creature. Utilda starts to stretch herself out to make room for Momo. And the man voice, calm and directive, tells them both he loves them and they will be ok. As long as they are strong and hold onto each other. Momo dreams of meeting the man voice. Momo knows he will be loved and safe. Momo knows he is finally home. 

I hope Momo sticks around. I feel totally paranoid and superstitious but am trying to just be present with the facts. Maybe I'll even let myself be a little excited. Thanks to everyone for all the support. If you haven't yet voted for Resolve's Hope Award, please vote here.

Beta Roulette

The game is tied. It's the bottom of the 9th with two outs. First pitch is high, but I swing and miss. Second pitch is over the plate, but I foul it. Third pitch I make contact. The ball flies just over the second baseman's head and I run as fast as I can to first base, and beat the throw by inches. Safe. Team Momo lives to see another day.  Beta got up to 72. 

DON'T GET TOO EXCITED!

AND I'M SORRY I'M POSTING SO LATE. 

The result didn't come in until close to 4pm!!! For whatever reason. And I was at work. 

72 is more than triple where I started, but it's still a low number, according to the Seattle nurse. She said she was, "cautiously optimistic" (which is better than "technically pregnant") but that I need to be monitored. And will need to continue to be monitored. For a while. They want to see my beta rise to 115 by Friday. 

So this wasn't a walk-off home-run, but it was a base hit that keeps us in the game. My stomach has been cramping since I got the news. Nerves? I hope. I can say I felt relieved, and for a moment dare I admit excited? But I know this can still go south. I don't know if this is a rise before a hard fall--a slow, tortuous decline to an eventual broken heart, or if my story is going to be different this time. If it's actually a slow start to a happy ending and a new beginning. All I know is in this moment my numbers are increasing, and I still can't take a normal deep breath. All I have control over is figuring out how to take that deep breath. I'm going to celebrate the small victories cautiously, and continue to try and be neutral but optimistic. Last night I came to terms with this not being my time. I sat with the sadness and just knew I'd be ok. We on IF Island are warriors and survivors. We are parents who will fight lions and tigers and bears to find our babies. That means we will stay focused and present with what we have in front of us. And we will do everything we can to move forward, appreciating the moments of good news for what they are. Moments of good news. 

Hoping everyone out there on the Island can have a few moments of good news! Is everything here this dramatic for everyone, or am I a drama queen? (Dad, don't answer that). Thank you all so much for the love and support. If you haven't yet voted, please take a second to here.

The Hope Train has a Broken...wheel?

Do trains have wheels? They do, right? Of course they do. Right? Noah is the conductor of our hope train right now. And I so appreciate everyone else who is on board. But my honest truth is that I'm kind of...running along side. I haven't been able to stop crying since yesterday. I woke up crying. There is just fear water flowing out of my face right now, and as much as I want to only see the stories of a 23 beta that turned into a healthy baby, (thank you all for your positive stories of low betas becoming beautiful babies. It's what got Noah to find his conductor's hat. That and the fact that he really likes that denim railroad stripe pattern. And hats) I also know that a 23 can become a 31 and then another crack in my already broken heart. 

I feel like my period has been wanting to come but is being held off by the progesterone shots. I've been feeling that for a few days, and all I can think about is all the times I've felt pregnant. All the times I was convinced and I was dead wrong. I can only hope that my maternal intuition is like my sense of direction, totally off. If I say make a left, you can place your money on a right turn being the correct move. Maybe if I feel Aunt Flow knocking on the door I will actually be wrong this time. 

It's been interesting to read the different comments (thank you everyone so much for the amazing amount of support). Some people feel like a congrats is in order, while others say, "I'm sorry." We all see a situation for what it is, and then we put our spin on it. Some of us jump to the worst case scenario (I put myself in that boat, initially at least), while others remain wholeheartedly optimistic (Noah's the captain of that ship, he also likes wearing crisp blue and white stripes). Sometimes hope is all we have, and sometimes the reality of a situation makes hope feel near impossible. Right now my glass feels half full and half empty at the same time. I don't think that how I interpret it is going to change the outcome. No matter how hard I cross my fingers or how badly I want Momo to stick--it either will or it won't. Crying about the uncertainty isn't going to help me either. In fact, it has given me a raging headache. So the best I can be is completely neutral. I'm open to the chance that this could work out, and realistic to the possibility that it won't. None of this is about fair or deserving or thinking one way or another. It's about accepting each moment for what it is and getting through one step at a time and reminding myself that I'm going to be ok. Somehow. I think.  Right now I just have to wait. If I hold my breath I will drop dead, and if I continue to ball my eyes out I will feel like crap. I have to keep breathing and stay grounded in what is true. Yesterday I got a number. It was low, but it wasn't zero. It's the closest I've ever gotten. That's all I know that is fact. I might as well be somewhat optimistic because the alternative feels even worse.

This situation feels oddly familiar. I have a video clip from last year of a moment where good news quickly became bad news. The feeling I have my stomach is kind of similar to how I felt that week. During our first IVF cycle, there was a good news/bad news roller coaster that we rode for about five days after retrieval as our embryos were fighting to become something. One day they were all beautifully fertilized, the next day they were fragmented, the next day one stopped developing but one that was really fragmented started looking like it was correcting itself. It was absolute torture. Noah and I hung on until the plug was pulled.  Every night we held hands and tried to imagine a miracle. Since it was our first IVF cycle, we just didn't know what to expect. Years later, the only thing I do know is to expect the unexpected. This is not our first rodeo. It's crazy that even after all this time I can be...surprised. I kind of thought beta day would give us clarity. An answer to which direction we were heading. But I guess not.

So I will put my energy into staying calm and keeping the negativity out of my body and mind. My body is fighting for Momo to stay, and Momo fighting to be something, and tomorrow I'll know if we both won. 

Is There A Way To Be a Little Pregnant?

If anyone is going to find an answer to that question, it's obviously going to be me. Queen of, "this isn't totally normal, but..." So I got my beta results. And there is a number. 23. Which is higher than 1 and .5 and 0, which were some of my previous beta numbers. But the nurse in Seattle said the number is low. They are looking for 50 or above. The internet says a zillion and five things. I designated one friend to be on "research" duty to find out what this means and apparently what it means is that I have to wait until Wednesday to see if my number increases. The Seattle nurse said they want to see an increase of 60%.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sooo... 

This is the closest I've gotten, but outlook doesn't seem so good. Could it be a chemical pregnancy? An ectopic? A cruel tease? A slow implanter? A miracle in the waiting? Another EXTREME test of patience? (I have a PhD in patience now, I think I'm ready to move on to whatever comes next.) 

If I didn't want to cry so badly I think I'd be laughing. This just doesn't feel funny. This feels like I'm hanging off a cliff by an almost transparent piece of string. But as Noah reminded me, we're not dead yet. I don't know if I should start mentally preparing for the other shoe to drop, to start letting go, or if I should stay hopeful. I think as long as there is another breath left, I'll take it. That's all I can do. In this moment I have a number. A low number, but a number nonetheless. And I have the entire season 2 of Orange is the New Black. So I'll binge watch until my next beta on Weds and hope that my anxiety doesn't kill me before then.

Thank you all so much for all the support and well wishes and VOTES! 

Stay tuned...

Hubs Post - Maya's Massive Mango Meltdown

Noah here. Hope you're well. You look great.

It's been a little more than a week since we did our frozen embryo transfer. I've been giving Maya medication for much longer. One of these medications is a morning shot of progesterone. It's not fun for Maya. It's not fun for me to give the shot. But we do it, every morning, because we want to have a baby. Then I make her tea and hope she can get some rest and I go to the gym to work out my helplessness and frustration. Today being Sunday, I also played in my rec league softball game (we won, thanks for asking). It was good to be outside, being active, and getting sweaty in the sunshine. I had to say it was a good day. Except for that one hour.

You see, there was an incident with a mango. I've never in my life cut a mango but when Maya said she wanted to eat one I said I'd prep it for her. She said there was a certain way to do it. I said I'm not an idiot, I can cut a fruit. So then I cut it - did you know there's a giant pit in there and not lots of little seeds? And then I realized that a mango is not a papaya. Mangoes are stringy and don't cut easily. I essentially shredded the mango. And, of course, it was the last mango in the house. Plate presentation wasn't great either. I gave it to Maya and it was all downhill from there. There was yelling, tears, accusations, and me not knowing whether to laugh, cry, or just run out of the house. It was a meltdown of epic proportions.  I was simultaneously embarrassed, empathetic, and entertained. After all, how should you react when the woman you love is sobbing uncontrollably, rips a shredded mango from your hand and screams, "I'm just going to eat this! Like an animal!"

Of course this was not really about the mango. It's never about the mango. It's about the fact that every day I shoot needles into her butt - sometimes twice - and I don't put anything in my butt. I go work out or play sports to blow off steam and take my mind off the stress of our situation. Maya has had to postpone her yoga and her workouts until she knows whether or not she's pregnant. She's also got an incredible cocktail of chemicals and hormones swirling around her body, while the most foreign substance in my blood is a nice afternoon espresso. Maya's routines and comforts, like many of you, have been disrupted. It's difficult. And it can be frustrating when you see others - namely your spouse - enjoying the activities that make them feel whole and good. So for the first time, I patrolled center field in my game with an understanding that I was lucky to be out there. I ate ice cream for dessert tonight and appreciated that I could, while Maya's bowl sat empty. No reason to feel guilty but I do appreciate what I'm able to do and I appreciate the sacrifice my wife is making in her own life to keep her body just right. There was only one mango, and she really wanted it. Her butt was bruised and sore, and that mango was going to help it feel better. 

Tomorrow Maya will go in for her beta blood test and we should find out if our little adopted embryo is growing up nice and big (I think they look like shrimp with giant eyes at this point). The last time we were waiting for a positive/negative I was at a loss for words.

Finally, thanks again for all the support and the votes for Resolve's Hope Award for best blog. If you haven't voted yet, please take a second to do so. She doesn't like to self-promote but I think she's got an amazing voice that has connected and resonated with a lot of other great people. To vote, click here.

That's that. Wish us luck. Say a prayer, cross a couple fingers, think happy thoughts, send a supportive tweet. This time tomorrow I hope I'm feeling happy and eating a celebratory mango.

Are You There Momo? It's Me, Mama

Just like many others in the 2ww, I really wish I could feel something. Or better yet, I wish I didn't think I felt everything. A flutter, a cramp, a twinge...ugh. The Google ban is still in effect so there are no pseudo explanations for my real or imagined "symptoms." I have to think anything I may be feeling today is related to the fries I gorged on last night. Again. It wasn't a "craving," it was me throwing in the towel to ever fitting into my skinny jeans again. At least for now. Don't tell Noah. 

Yesterday, I made a folder on my computer desktop called MOMOTARO. I dragged four documents into the folder: one labeled EGG PROVIDER followed by a three digit number. One labeled SPERM PROVIDER with a matching three digit number. One labeled CONSENT. And one screen grab photo of the egg donor as a child. That's what I have of Momo's family history.  Three pieces of paper and a copy of an old photo. Well, that's all I have of Momo's genetic family history. The history of how he/she came to be (if in fact he/she comes to be) is in another folder on my desktop called BOOK. I'm two years and 297 pages in and still waiting for my ending. This child will actually have quite a history and will always know how badly he/she was wanted. Noah says it best in this video clip from over a year ago, when we didn't know embryo adoption was even an option. So that's what I've doing with my 2ww. Scrapbooking. 

Several IF Island buddies have written in about being somewhere in the 2ww and to all of you, all I can say is I'm sorry and congrats. I'm so happy to be here, to know I have a chance right now, to know something magical could possibly be happening deep inside my french fry filled belly. That's really all I should focus on. The gratitude of being able to be here-- finally. But the wait is just torture. I keep telling myself it's just another day but...who am I kidding? Another day I get to cross off the medication calendar, as if I'm wishing the days and weeks away. How can I commit to living the days of my life fully when all I really feel like I'm doing is distracting myself enough to get to Monday?

Sometimes I get sad thinking about how I've spent years like this. Gearing up for a cycle, getting through a cycle, and recovering from the aftermath. And repeat. The other day my mom asked me how many IVF cycles we have done over the past two plus years, and I had to think about it. I wasn't sure what counted. Do the five months of false starts leading up to our first and only IVF using my eggs count? It cost us in time and money and brain space. Does the round with my sister count as an IVF cycle, even though she went through the actual stimulation part? I think so. If the actual number of procedures counts--we can throw in a laparoscopy and IUI's and clomid rounds, and FET's, if we are really keeping tally-- but I think it's more about the lifestyle of an IF Islander that takes a serious toll. With every 2ww I think I gain four gray hairs and three forehead wrinkles. 

My 2ww is now down to a 4 day wait. I've actually been doing ok this time. I've been repeating my mantra: "It is or it isn't," and trying to focus at work and keep myself occupied. My mantra is kind of blunt, but it's true. And somehow it helps stop my obsessive thoughts from dancing circles around my skull. I kind of yell it to myself in my head and my brain goes, "Jeez, ok, that's kinda harsh." I feel like Karl Pilkington having this conversation with my own brain, but y'all know what I'm getting at.

Good luck to anyone else out there in the 2ww! One more day down. Noah just walked in and said, "time for your butt breakfast." Sometimes we just have to laugh at the insanity.

If you haven't yet voted for the blog for RESOLVE'S Hope Award, please take 30 seconds to do so by clicking here or on the badge at the side of the page or below. 

IVF Sisterhood

I went to lunch with my parents yesterday, and we sat next to two women who were engaged in really intense conversation. Actually, one woman (the pregnant one) was intensely talking while the other woman, who looked totally shell shocked, took notes in a black leather notebook. The preggo was talking loudly about sperm and eggs and ICSI--explaining all the details and emotions of an IVF cycle. She clearly has the same PhD as many of us Islanders have-- a doctorate degree in modern reproduction. This woman knew her stuff, and I have to say, there was a sense of pride in her voice. A pride about all that she went through (turned out to be 7 IVFs and yes, I got that all from eavesdropping) and all that she endured. Pride that her marriage was still in tact and that she could now take a newbie, a freshman, and IVF virgin, under her wing to help guide her through the bumpy Island terrain. Pride that she was now, finally, pregnant with a baby girl. 

The woman who sat across from preggo literally looked horrified. Her eyes were red and her mouth was agape as she quickly scribbled notes about follicles and AMH and estrogen and aspiration. It brought me back to a time when all these terms were a foreign language. To a time when I thought my ovaries were in my vagina. Oh, me.  Here's a video post from 2013 that illustrates my naivety. So cute. 

My parents and I sat in silence, listening--trying to say a few words about who knows what every once in a while, so as not to be totally obvious. This situation has happened to me once before, at the gym. I was in a towel about to jump in the shower when I overheard a woman talking about her IVF weight and how hard it was to lose. I actually went up to her and introduced myself. This was way before I did my first cycle and IVF sounded like a trip to the moon.

After dad paid the bill, as we got up to leave, I put my hand on preggo and said, "I couldn't help but overhear..." I said a few things about my FET and 4 years of infertility, and preggo and I hugged like old friends while her horrified friend broke out into full flowing tears. In one instant, preggo and I just knew what the other had been through. We knew the fight and the heartbreak and the obsession and the hope. We knew those moments of crying on the bathroom floor and feeling like your entire world has just been flushed down the toilet. And we knew what it took--in the very depths of our core-- to get back up and get energized to do it all over again. Her friend, clearly, had not known all of that. Yet. I touched her arm as the tears streamed down her face, and just told her it was going to be ok. Some how, some way, it will be ok for her. 

We all wished each other luck--because that's all this really is, and I left. It was a true exchange of love and well wishes and support in a matter of 30 seconds. I felt...privileged to understand. It was like belonging to a secret sorority of the toughest chicks on the planet. 

Then my parents took me to Costco and I nearly had an aneurysm.

Six more days until beta! When did the hours get so long? This morning, pre butt shot, Noah came back from the gym, his hair dripping with sweat, and he used my hairbrush to get his hair out of his face, and I freaked out. How rude and gross! And I remembered why the hours are soooo long. Because I'm hormonal and I'm anxious and I don't like sweaty hairbrushes. 

Sending love and patience and a reminder to anyone injecting anything into their butt or bellies or beyond that IT'S NOT YOU! IT'S THE HORMONES! At least that's what I'm going to keep telling myself. 

Getting through the next week. AHHHH!

We got home late last night and I slept hard. The progesterone induced crazy dreams have begun, and last night's dream was something about my strange neighbor holding my sister and me captive in a weird house. It seems like the last time I was in the two week wait I had similar bizarre dreams. Though this isn't a 2ww, it's a 1ww. One more week! I have made a promise with another friend in her glorious waiting period, that we will not Google anything. Period. No "early pregnancy symptoms," "success rates of hatching blastocysts," "how much pineapple core is too much?" or "did I ruin my chances by tripping on a step?" There are so many mixed reviews on bed rest and what to do during this time period, it can make a person crazy. I'm already crazy-- no need to add fuel to the fire.

It also doesn't help to be superstitious. Last night, at the Seattle airport, I did something I vowed never to do. I bought a onesie:

Before we left for Seattle I made a joke that if we found a onesie that said "Made in Seattle," we should get it, because Momo was literally made in Seattle. We didn't do much onesie shopping on our trip, but as we were walking through the airport, this little number caught my eye. In my head nothing says bad juju like buying a onesie prematurely-- but I also thought, "what are the odds that I find a made in Seattle onesie at the airport on my way out of town? Maybe it's good luck?"

Bad juju and good luck are all completely relative to how I'm feeling in a given moment! Being paranoid that rolling over on my stomach too hard will make or break our success is ridiculous. Many of us can't help these thoughts, but in the end it just feels like reasons to blame ourselves if things don't go well. All of us do everything we can in a given cycle. Sometimes things work, sometimes they don't. We have to slow down within reason, but also live our lives. If it's either going to work or it isn't, buying a onesie isn't going to affect the outcome. 

So I'm not going to see this little onesie I got as a good luck charm or otherwise. I'm going to shove it under the bed with all the other good luck trinkets I've collected over the years. Hopefully, one day, I'll be able to pull it out and snap Momo into it--remembering the moment Noah and I were hustling to catch a flight home--Noah carrying all of our luggage while I carried just this little onesie in a brown paper bag. Either that, or I'll send it to my brother-in-law whose baby is due at the end of this year. 

So much love and patience to anyone in this waiting torture! Hoping this is our ticket off the Island!

So Nice to Meet You, Now Please Take off Your Underpants

Momotaro, our donated embryo is in! Here's baby's first head shot: 

They did assisted hatching, so that's why it's kind of coming out of its shell. Momo is a little shy, like its dad.  The transfer was easy, the doctor was nice (met her for the first time today and spent about four minutes with her), and the embryologist said it thawed well and looked good. What more can I ask for? More valium.

It really has taken a lot to get here. Not just the physical journey of getting in a car, then a plane, then a train/light rail, then a boat (Noah's family lives on an island off of Seattle), then another car-- but the journey of getting to embryo adoption. It's not exactly something you wake up one morning and decide to do. Some serious...stuff has to go down before one gets to this decision. And it is in that...stuff where we've learned and hurt and grown and compromised and stood dumbfounded with my pants around my ankles waiting for my morning shot and thinking, "how did this happen?" Learning to sit with and wade through the... stuff forces you to keep stepping up to the plate and swinging for the fences, even when you keep striking out. This...stuff teaches you to show up for yourself and your partner and your baby-to-be--even after repeated abuse and heartbreak. 

I haven't always thought of this...stuff as a journey. There was a lot of time spent confused and crying--angry at how this was all playing out. I still have my moments, no doubt, but I just keep reminding myself that I will be a mom.  Maybe I am right now as I write this. Mom to a day five hatching blastocyst that's been trying to implant into my puffy uterus lining for the last five hours and 14 minutes. 

So now I follow Dr. Google's bed rest advice (did I mention I'm really bad at best rest and am totally not following the last bed rest protocol because this clinic says there is not need to be totally still) by eating pineapple core, drinking hot beverages, and keeping my feet warm. Even though I'm perfectly aware that Momotaro will either stick or not, the thickness of my socks and the temperature of my beverages give me some sense of control. 

I have no delusions about having control over the outcome. Last night I freaked out because I've had greasy french fries three times in the past two days. Very unlike me. I suddenly became convinced that I'd sabotaged the FET by not eating healthy foods. Noah had to remind me that a few fries will not come between me and my baby. Any baby of mine will inevitably love french fries. What I can control right now is my optimism, even if it means the fall will feel that much farther. The fall will suck and hurt anyway-- I might as well send my absolute whole-hearted truth into the universe that I want this. I want this to work really, really bad. And in about ten days I'll know if it did. 

Thanks to everyone for all the love and support, and good luck to my fellow Islanders who have procedures in the upcoming days!

Resolve's Hope Award for Best Blog Nominee!

                                                

So this little old blog that started out as a way to express my feelings and connect to other IF Islanders was just nominated for Resolve's Hope Award for best blog! Please click here and vote if you find this blog helpful. It's been great to read some of the other blogs because it means more people are talking about infertility and sharing their stories. That's important. Infertility can be very isolating, and no one should feel alone.

When Noah and I entered this very elite world of A.R.T., we had NO IDEA where we were or where we were headed. What we did know was this place, this Island, was different. The normal rules of life we were used to--if you work hard you will succeed--didn't apply. At all. We also knew that many people felt shame about their infertility, and as a social worker, that really didn't sit well with me. That's part of why we decided to start documenting our journey on film. We'd never really seen what infertility looked like, until now. Now we've seen it all through our own experiences with IUI, IVF, sibling egg donation and now embryo adoption, and through interviewing other couples, we've also learned more about egg donation and surrogacy and open adoption and other alternative family building options. We as a society are at the beginning stages of normalizing that there are many different ways to build a family. And we hope our film will help that cause.

None of us would choose to be here on IF Island. It's total insanity. Infertility completely overwhelms one's life and relationships--sometimes it hits so hard it rocks your sense of self to the core. It's destabilizing and at times plain torture, but having gone through what we have so far has made us better people and will make us better parents. I have no doubt in my mind.

So while we didn't choose to be here, here we are. Trying to make the sweetest lemonade we can out of some sour-ass lemons, as Noah always says. Our FET is tomorrow at 1pm. This is a clip of us just before our last FET. I guess I kind of feel the same way--just ready to do this thing. Actually, this time I feel more like how I imagine a boxer feels before a fight-- a little anxious, a little pumped, and a lot ready to kick some ass!

The Runaway Brain

Dealing with infertility has become my primary occupation over the last few years, but when I’m not running to doctors appointments or trying to convert units of measurements to figure out how much medication I have left, I actually have a job. For the past six years I’ve been working as a therapist for a non-profit organization that provides mental health services to kids and families.

Lately, I’ve been seeing a lot of teens with symptoms of anxiety or depression, and I often find myself using cognitive behavioral strategies to help them recognize their cognitive distortions. My teens will come in totally convinced that they are going to fail school because teachers always hate them, or that they will never get asked out because their peers don’t find them attractive. We talk through their thought process, examine the evidence, and find a way to reframe their thoughts so that they are more accurate and less negative.

This morning post butt shot, I followed the winding road of my thoughts to a dark cave of doubt. I started thinking that I’m always on the wrong side of the coin and started doubting that this embryo will work. I found myself raising my anxiety levels with thoughts about having nothing left if it doesn’t work. The cloud of negativity started to sit heavy over me. And then I realized how hard it is to practice what I preach. It’s really hard to tell your negative thoughts to go away, even if they are super unhelpful. It’s really hard to believe that this could be it, when you’ve thought that a half a dozen times before and you’ve been proven dead wrong. But it’s also a really important skill to cultivate. The ability to recognize those automatic negative thoughts and come up with alternatives to them.

Yes, it’s true. Nothing thus far has worked for us, and statistically I’m usually falling on the side of the percentage that makes my RE go, “Huh. That’s odd.” But…and there is a but…that doesn’t make the success of this embryo any more or less likely. Each chance is its own individual opportunity. My unlucky streak has nothing to do with anything. I have to keep the thoughts pure and logical. It will either work or it won’t. This is the best chance we have had so far,  as a child was made from these embryos four years ago. Those are the facts.

If it doesn’t work, we will be devastated, but we will use all the coping tools we’ve collected over the past few years on IF Island to move forward. I can’t under estimate our ability to bounce back. I also can’t waste time thinking about the what-ifs.

Noah and I are getting on a plane today at 5:45pm. I’m leaving any negative thoughts, doubts and fears at the Alaska Airlines gate at LAX. I’m not bringing that baggage with me. Instead, I have a bag of syringes, my favorite yoga pants and these other pants I call my buffet pants (can you imagine what those look like? Whatever, I can button them), and a ring that belonged to my grandma, and we’re heading out to get our baby.

I know there are several of you out there cycling with me. Stay positive! We’re on a mission, so don’t let your brain work against you! As one person commented, I hope we can all get our tickets for the next boat off this Island! I’ll be writing from the road since I’ll have plenty of time laying on my back.

Whose brilliant idea was it to put progesterone in sesame oil anyway?

I mean, seriously? That stuff is thick! And it has to be injected into my butt. EVERY DAY! Possibly for three months, if I'm lucky! Audible exhale.

Progesterone shots have begun. Noah and I have a little early morning routine. He wakes up and gets me the good ice pack. I lay on my face, half asleep, holding said ice pack to my butt cheek as he builds the shot. He warms the vial between his hands and then warms it again once the liquid is in the syringe. Then he pinches and shoots. Never have I been so thankful for the added IVF weight that has gone straight to my butt! He does a countdown, then places a heating pad on my rear end, and together we try and massage my punctured cheek to help the thick liquid disperse. This will be our morning routine for the next several weeks, at least.

As I  lay face down under the heating pad, I often think about these intimate moments between us. It is these moments that make me convinced that there is just as much love in the way we are (hopefully) conceiving our child, as there is when people do it the old fashioned way. Maybe even more. Dedication. Endurance. Determination. Tenderness. I know things about myself and my husband that I only assumed to be true before. I know for a fact that we will do anything for our child. Anything. 

Those of us who struggle to make our family are a special group of people. We all have these intimate moments with ourselves and with our partners. Moments of feeling truly connected in our pain and in our joy. Moments of insight that build a keen awareness and understanding of what it means to want something so bad and to love someone that doesn't yet exist. Moments where you can't believe this is what your life has become, but you still feel so blessed to have all that you have. Those spoken or unspoken times when your heart swells with respect and gratitude and you can appreciate the true miracle it is to be alive and loved, and what it means to be working towards creating life. From scratch.

Sometimes I think about all the people involved in helping us have this next opportunity. The egg donor, the infertile couple who donated their embryo, my RE in LA, the staff at this other clinic, and a very special family friend who has helped us financially-- it's truly taking a village. When I find myself feeling angry about the cost of blood tests and meds and...all of it, really, I try and refocus on all that has had to align for us to actually be scheduled for this FET on Friday, that will hopefully result in our baby.

I consider all of you stranded on IF Island to be part of my village, and I hope I can be part of yours. Each one of us has a similar story of loss and defeat and hope, but we will take slightly different routes to get off the Island. We can truly understand the emotional roller coaster, and can empathize with the feeling of disappointment after a BFN, or the heartbreak after a loss--or the prick of that progesterone shot straight to the buns. It's a special club of warriors, us IFers. I'm honored to be amongst such strength and willpower. 

Sending so much love and respect to everyone on the Island. 

FET Scheduled!...I think...

So yesterday I went to my RE's office (he's out of town but I still had the ultrasound), and everything looked to be in order. The nurse in Seattle said they were willing to schedule us, even though my estrogen and progesterone labs hadn't come in yet. So we got scheduled for Next Friday the 11th in the afternoon. Whoo hoo! I felt a huge sense of relief. Finally, there was a plan. My anxiety made a slight shift towards excitement and I found myself thinking next Friday, a week from today, we're going to get our baby. Since I have tears at the ready at all times, (may also just be the estrogen) my eyes start to water just thinking that. 

Then around 6pm, way after the clinic closes, my blood lab results came in and my estradiol levels had dropped over 650 points. What? I started to panic. What does this mean? Why is it dropping when we are doing the same medication we have been? It's supposed to be going up, I think, not down? What will this mean? My relief lasted but a few hours, and then I was back to feeling the way I usually feel on IF Island...confused and frantic. The most used word here on the Island for me is, "huh?" Followed by, "why?" then "are you serious?" then "well, what can we do?" then, "I can't believe that just happened?" I wrote my RE, who is on vacation somewhere with his family, and his brief response was that it was "very odd" that my levels dropped unless I changed the dosage. That what it. When I asked what I should do, he didn't respond, because he doesn't feel he is the doctor in charge here. But the doctor in charge in Seattle is out for the long weekend (I hope at least someone is at the clinic today).  I also found out she will not be doing my transfer because she is on vacation next week. Whatever. I feel like I could do my own transfer at this point. Just give me a long straw and a mirror and I'll get that embryo in. 

Anyway, the momentary feeling of relief followed by uncertainty is par for the course. I found an old post about this insanity from October of last year when I was preparing for an FET. 

Sometimes I wonder if it's just me, or if nothing seems to go according to plan. The human body is mysterious, and making babies is proving to be even more incomprehensible. Didn't we learn in high school health class that a sperm meets an egg and then a baby is made? Yeah, right. For the past two years in the world of ART, nothing for us has taken a normal trajectory. The way I respond to meds is usually backwards, all our beautifully fertilized eggs turned to mush in the dish, 50% of my sister's donated eggs were inseminated by two sperm and had to be tossed, we finally had one lone embryo reach blastocyst stage by day 6, but it took an abnormal developmental trajectory.  "Huh? Why? Are you serious?" 

Nothing is simple. It just isn't. Well, that's not necessarily true. We did interview one couple for our documentary who did IVF once and had a cancelled cycle, but then did it a second time, got two eggs out, put two embryos in and got twins. Yeah, that happens for some people, so it is possible. It's hard to believe that can happen, just as it's hard for me to believe that anyone is ever born!

So the drama continues a bit until I can get a hold of someone who can debunk the mystery of the dropping estrogen, but for now, we have an FET date and a pair of expensive last minute plane tickets bought, so we are as close to a go as we'll get right now.

Sending anyone on this confusing roller coaster ride a big fat hug! And for those in America, happy 4th of July. Noah and I are driving down to San Diego to watch the Giants play the Padres, because nothing says America like baseball and hot dogs! 

Flying by the Seat of Your Pants

Tomorrow I go back to my RE in LA to see what my insides look like, and if I'm ready for the FET to be scheduled. I went to my RE on Monday to check out the situation (because I was super anxious), and everything seemed to be in the right place. Ovaries were quiet, lining was thickening up, estrogen levels are through the roof. The Seattle clinic wants me to go back again tomorrow before they schedule us, which makes me a little nervous. I hate that my brain immediately thinks about what could possibly go wrong. 

Dealing with an out of state clinic is not easy. I just wrote a post for Fertility Authority about how to choose the right clinic or doctor to fit your personality, and I must say, if I had the choice, I probably would not have landed on a big clinic with specific boundaries and protocols. I'm a needy patient with a lot of questions. I'm fairly sure I'm driving the Seattle nurse bananas, but the feeling is mutual. It took a lot to get an estimated date of transfer from our nurse, but it seems like it will be some time next week, if all looks good tomorrow. Fingers crossed. 

While I know I have learned to be patient and flexible with myself and our time on IF Island,  I didn't realize I would also have to be flexible with a doctor and a clinic. They do things different than I'm used to, and I have to remember that that is ok. Their nonchalance and easy going attitude about the whole thing raises my anxiety flag, as does not knowing when we will need to buy plane tickets. 

I'm not a fly by the seat of your pants kind of gal. I'm a planner. I like knowing what comes next. IF Island is really hard for people like me. A type A planner with a tendency towards anxiety? Good luck! I try to remind myself that I might have to get plane tickets the day before, and I might have to shift around my work schedule in whatever way I can. And that's that. Much of life can't be planned. That's a fact. ART cycles can be disorganized and confusing and last minute, and that's scary. But if I can stay grounded, I'll be ok. In this moment, everything in my body looks fine. That and a credit on Alaska Airlines is all I've got. So I'll make it through today and hopefully tomorrow we will have a plan.