Don't Count Your Eggs

Is it possible to simply catch up with an old friend?

This morning I got an email from an old friend. It was a sweet email that began by admitting she didn't know how to begin. It was from someone I was best friends with in high school and slowly grew apart from. We went to each others weddings and kind of kept tabs on each other, I believe she knows a little about what's been going on for me, but for the most part our relationship drifted. When I read her words--sending me love and hoping I get what I've been dreaming of, I had an overwhelming feeling of sadness. It was a very nice email, but it made me realize all the relationships that I've lost or that have been strained by infertility. It made me have to acknowledge that as much as I don't want to be defined by infertility, a part of me very much is. My life is kind of divided into pre-IF and... IF. Eventually I will be able to add post-IF, perhaps, and I'll have a different perspective.

I hardly remember myself before the storm hit. Sometimes we have experiences in our lives that are so powerful, so painful, that we can't help but be changed. I can honestly say that infertility has had some pretty crappy consequences in terms of some relationships, but I have also gained a lot. I have gained a lot of friends and a new community and deeper understanding of what it means to pursue parenthood with all your heart and soul. There have been some positive unintended consequences and many ways in which my experiences on the Island have made me a better person. 

But I have lost some things, some people, some ability to relate and connect. I started thinking about maybe trying to get together with this old friend of mine. Meet for tea after years of minimal contact. How do I catch someone up on the last four years of my life without having to go through a time-line of disappointment? Without having to explain what a follicle is and how IVF actually works--or doesn't work. I don't speak the same language as many people in the fertile world, and while I know there are many other things to talk about--infertility is such an integral part of my life and who I am, it doesn't feel right not to talk about it. In some ways, surviving this insanity is also something I'm proud of. 

Sometimes, maybe, I feel afraid that I will be misunderstood. Sometimes I don't really want to re-live all of it.  Sometimes I feel like those friends who jumped shipped don't deserve the Cliffs Notes version. I don't need people telling me how strong I am or how grateful I help them feel about their lack of fertility struggles. Sometimes I feel it's my duty to educate people on the IF struggle so they can be more sensitive to others. I guess it kind of depends on the day. I imagine this dilemma is exponentially harder for those who aren't public about their IF struggle. For people who hold this as a secret, it must be really hard to meet up with an old friend or see family you haven't seen in a while and find a reasonable answer to the question, "How have you been?" Sometimes you just want to scream, "You have NO idea!" but instead you nod and smile and say, "Good. You know, hanging in there."

How we all share our story is a very personal choice. So is who we share with. I have to constantly remind myself that people do care about me, they often just don't know how. Fertile friends might feel guilt or they might feel like this IF roller coaster is just too much for them to handle. They are celebrating their own babies birthdays and stressing about zoo themed party favors while many Islanders are trying to figure out a way to regroup. It's hard when so many friends will hit this milestone of parenthood with ease and grace while others clunk along, scrambling to find all the parts to create a family. 

But that's just how it is. I know my truth. I know my strength. I know my dedication to my family-to- be and I know the level of my resilience. I know I have overcome things not everyone out there can. So is it possible to simply catch up with an old friend? Sure, why not. I can be honest and genuine and I can honor how I feel that given day. If I want to share, I will, if I don't, I'll talk about the work and reminisce about high school and discuss  how funny life is. 

Wishing everyone a beautiful long holiday weekend (if you're on this side of the world ;). 

It's Gonna Be Ok

I've spent the better part of this week just trying to take a deep breath. Part anxiety, but also I just have this weird feeling like I can't really breathe. I was reading that it may have something to do with the progesterone. Anyway. I went to my OBGYN today and caught myself doing what I always do. Preparing for the worst.

Us IF Islanders have heard it and seen it all. We've ridden the good-news bad-news wave so many times it's made us sick and searching for which way is up. I've been working really hard, using meditation and guided imagery and hypnosis tapes to try and picture the positive. The sense memories or the images that are stamped into my brain are ones of fear and disappointment, so I'm trying to rewire my noggin' to imagine everything going well. To hear my doctor saying "all looks great," and other things I've never heard him say.  To visualize myself with a big belly and eventually a real live Momo. Between retraining my brain to be optimistic and trying to take a deep breath, the days just go! 

Last night I felt dread. I know too many people who have had solid heartbeats one day and two weeks later had none. Every time a thought like that entered my brain I imagined catching it in a butterfly net and releasing it far far away. I replaced the fearful thoughts with more hopeful ones, and reminded myself I don't have to be on the defense, because whatever will be will be.

This morning as I waited, pants-less, in the doctor's office, I felt that dread creep in. After all, it has been ten whole days since my last ultrasound. I had a flash of my doctor saying the words, "I'm sorry," and then I forced myself to stop. Just STOP. Preparing for the worst doesn't actually help make the blow any better. It just decreases time in a happy place. It's so useless!! I know that! My brain just will NOT get the memo! But for a moment I was able to stop. I just sat there, looking at the old school models of vaginas and fallopian tubes and reading signs posted in spanish about breastfeeding. I was just there. Pants-less. Waiting. A little cold. Present. In that moment all was fine. 

The doctor came in and we saw Momo. He had more parts. What looked like arm buds and a massive head area. And there was his flickering heart. Blood monster was nowhere to be seen. All was where it was supposed to be. To think Momo was a microscopic cell in a freezer for four years continues to baffle my mind. Now he's morphing into something beautiful before my eyes. 

So all is fine. It's gonna be ok. For now. And now is all I have. 

Running out of real estate

My butt is done. It told me after progesterone in oil butt breakfast this morning, that it's done. Even though my rear end is exponentially larger than when we started this glorious "journey," Noah is running out of real estate. My butt is red and lumpy and swollen and itchy and I'm amazed that I can sit on it for the majority of the day. I was tempted to post a picture of my butt, but thought better of it. Instead I'll post a picture of our dining room table's center piece:

I don't know why my pictures get so flipped around here. I can't wait for the day I can take this box of goodies to the appropriate disposal site (???) and say goodbye to it forever. Ten more days. Ten more shots. I'm supposed to "graduate" from my RE on Sept 8th, if all looks ok, and then maybe I'll be able to add on a few letters to the P word. 

I remember our first injection lesson back in 2012. I was terrified of the menopur needle, and Noah was so nervous his hand was visibly shaky. The night before he was to give me my first shot at home, by ourselves Noah threw up. The physical aspect of IF Island was extremely upsetting to both of us. After multiple medicated IUI's and IVF--shooting menopur and follistim and ganirelix and lupron and omnitrop and estrogen and progesterone...what am I missing-- I can say we are pros now. It almost seems cute to watch how nervous we both were--my sweaty armpits, his death grip on my belly chubs. 

Years have gone by. I have to stop myself from thinking about how much medication my body has endured, because it kind of freaks me out. All I can think is that all those unsuccessful attempts, those thousands of dollars of injections, those skin pricks and bruises, have, perhaps, led me to where I am. With my swollen butt and my Momo, who is hopefully still nuzzled away in there. (I'll know on Thursday when I go to my OBGYN). 

Would I do all of it all over again if this ends up in a real live Momo with fingers and toes? Absolutely. Does it suck? Absolutely. Is it unfair and terrible and crappy? Absolutely. Can we survive it? Absolutely.

Sending love to anyone who has an overflowing red bio-hazard box somewhere in their home. You can do it! 

Part of the club

This weekend, Noah's brother and best friend came to town for a two-day music festival and some hardcore bro time. It was the first time in months that Noah got to have fun, and it made me happy to see him so happy. When Noah isn't at work he's dealing with me in some way. My doctor appointments, my feelings, my worries--it's rare that he gets to have a a full weekend of music and good food and acting like an idiot with his friends. It's also rare that he gets to feel 'part of the club' so to speak. 

Noah has three good friends that he grew up with, and his younger brother. If they were better athletes, they could have been a misfit basketball team. But instead they are now grown men who act like children when they get together, and I say that in the most endearing way. Noah is happiest when he's with his crew. During our infertility struggles over the years, though, all of his good friends have had babies and some are expecting seconds (and thirds!). This has made the social circle a tough place for us at times, and has exemplified how much infertility can impact ones entire life. 

Both his younger brother and his best friend who spent the weekend with us are expecting babies. (I wrote about the challenges of having a pregnant sister-in-law a few months ago, just before we were preparing for the FET in Seattle.)  It made me feel so grateful this weekend that Noah could also feel part of the club. We have been on the outside of all of this for so long, that even if something goes south for us, I'm still so appreciative that he was able to have this weekend to relate to his friends in this other way. I know Noah rarely thinks about these kinds of things and is able to completely separate other people's pregnancies from our struggles, but this weekend just seemed easier. Which was also another reminder to me of all the times it hasn't been easy.

Infertility is a bomb that gets dropped and ripples through ones social, emotional, and relational life. It impacts your mind, body, bank account, friendships, family, relationship, feelings about yourself--it can be the ultimate destroyer in so many ways. And it's relentless. There is no mercy. There is no justice. Each one of us has to find ways to cope and to shift our attitudes and find ways to accept the unknown path that is in front of us. We have to dig deep for that inner strength and that resilience and find a way to get back up after we've been knocked down. We have to be able to appreciate ourselves and our partners and believe that somehow we will find a way to create a family. 

Many people have a supportive family or friends to talk to, but a lot of people don't. I often get emails from people who say they've never told anyone what they are going through, which can make an already isolating experience even more isolating. My heart goes out to those who feel truly alone in suffering with this. Know that you're not alone and that one way to get support could be finding a good therapist. (Resolve can be a resource for finding one.)

A few months ago I took a training in New York with a wonderful therapist named Helen Adrienne. I wrote a short post about the experience while I was out there. It was a training for mental health professionals to learn mind body techniques to help the infertility patient. I went as both a clinician (I'm a Licensed Clinical Social Worker) and a patient and have just begun my process of shifting my own private practice to helping those suffering with infertility. Helen has just announced that she is doing another two-day training in November, so if you are a mental health professional, it is definitely something to check out. 

I don't know if and when I'll ever feel fully 'part of the P club.' And honestly, I don't know that I want to. I think it is much easier for Noah to breathe a sigh of relief and jump back in. Our journey to get to where we are today is just different, and I feel more understood in the IF community. I'm ok with that. It's a special club and I'm proud to be amongst such incredible warriors. Sending love to everyone still on the battlefield and wishing that everyone can find a way to feel less isolated.  

Is there a secret to a BFP?

I've gotten a few emails from people lately asking what I did differently to make this last transfer work. I think it's very sweet that anyone thinks I did something magical to make this work, as if I had any control over the situation. But I understand the question. I've asked it to dozens of people who've had success and have gotten so many different answers I could hardly keep track. Eat a pineapple for five days after transfer, only drink warm beverages, keep your feet warm, don't push when you have to poop, don't shower for the first two days, do acupuncture, take a zillion herbs and supplements, do hypnosis, do bed rest, don't do bed rest... It's crazy making!  I did a lot of these things each time. I always ate a pineapple and kept warm. After my first transfer I did super strict bed rest and slept on the couch as my doc didn't want me to go up stairs. My second transfer I went upstairs and slept in my bed. Neither worked. If there was a secret to getting a positive beta, I swear I wouldn't hold out. 

There are three things I did every time that I think can only be helpful:

1) I did meditations and let go of whatever happened before and believed that this was it. I named my embryos and imagined them blossoming in my belly. I sent them love and opened my heart to them. This did not bring success any time but the last time, but I did it anyway, because it helped me imagine the possibility of a positive outcome. 

2) I ate the pineapple core. Why not, it was yummy. And I kept warm. The pineapple and warm socks seemed harmless enough to do each time, but I swear, if someone told me that a face mask of porcupine quills and a skunk poop sandwich would get me that BFP I would have done it.

3) I took it real easy for the 2ww. Permission to lay around, thank you very much.

I did these things because I thought they would help our outcome, but they didn't always. The answer to the question of what worked for us this last FET, I think, was that I let go of our genetics. That's the honest truth to why I think Momo worked.

I've written about how we knew to move to donor eggs and about the emotional and relational challenges of moving to embryo adoption, and while none of these are easy decisions, I think letting go of our genetics, specifically my eggs, and focusing on our priority, being parents, is what worked this time. 

Moving to third party reproduction is a very personal choice. Because I have a specific diagnosis of Diminished Ovarian Reserves and I know my ovarian functioning is compromised, it was perhaps a little easier for me to move away from my eggs. It was  harder for Noah, because his sperm is good. But in the end, we couldn't afford an egg donor, and we wanted to get off the Island ASAP, and we found Momo. When I found Momo, I kind of had a feeling.  Momo's batch of embryos was "proven" in a way. The anonymous egg donor that created Momo has three kids of her own and helped multiple people have babies, including Momo's full biological sibling. Good eggs are much more likely to equal a BFP. That's a fact. So when I think of why this worked this time, I feel like that is our answer. But I also believe that maybe Momo is just meant to be our baby. I hope so.

I know people who did multiple transfers of good quality embryos that didn't work and when they were down to their last wonky two, they end up with twins. I know people who swear by acupuncture and herbs, and I to believe that can only help. I know folks who did 10 days of bed rest and others who went back to work that same day. Both ended up with positives. So I guess the moral is there really is no prescription. Each person has to do what they feel is best for them to know in their hearts they did every thing they could. I did everything I could each and every time, and finally something worked. 

Sending lots of love this Friday! Much luck to anyone about to have a transfer. Do whatever it is you need to do to feel like you gave it your best shot, but know there is a lot of pure luck involved too. Wishing you all so much luck!

It's gonna happen, just believe it

Last night I had a dream about my grandma. We were at a shoe store that looked more like someone's living room and we were waiting for the extremely nasty sales woman to find a pair of shoes my grandma wanted to try on and buy. (Grandma loved her a fancy pair of shoes.) My grandma and I, in the dream, both knew she was going to die and that buying new shoes, especially the pointy black snake-skin looking ones she was after, was kind of ridiculous, but she wanted them and I was determined to get them for her. We waited for an hour in this strange living room and finally the sales woman came back out and said, "we only have them in a size one." I started yelling at her and my grandma started crying and then I woke up in a cold sweat at 4am. 

My grandma passed away in February 2013, just after her 94th birthday. Noah and I were coming out of our first unsuccessful IVF and we're gearing up for our rounds of IUI and had not yet even thought about using my sister as an egg donor. 

I fell back asleep last night and when I woke up again this morning, my first thought was, "I can't believe my grandma died." It has been over a year, but the idea that we had/have been on IF Island for long enough for people to die while we've been trying to make a baby made me sad. I know several people who have lost parents and grandparents while in the process. I actually had several losses of close family members while Noah and I have been in process, and this morning I had an overwhelming feeling that I wish I could have finally been able to share good news.

I don't think anyone in the world loved me as much as my grandma did. It's that unconditional kind of love you feel in your bones. I knew she wanted so badly for something to work for us, and when I'd call her crying she'd always say, "Sweetheart, it's gonna happen. I promise you. It's gonna happen." 

Just before she died I told her I was sorry we couldn't make her a great grandmother. My cousin and his wife actually swooped in and granted her that gift, but I was sad I couldn't. She just smiled, her eyes were slowly fading but she was still sharp at times, and she said, "Sweetheart, it's gonna happen. Just believe it."

I'm slowly starting to believe that maybe this is really happening. I wish I could share it with my grandma, who probably would have just said, "see, I told you it would happen." I think she would be amazed at the science behind an adopted embryo and proud of me that we chose this interesting alternative to family building. 

Today I'm sending love to anyone who has lost a loved one during their IF journey. The sad of it all gets intensified in a way. But on the other end of that sad is the beauty that comes from appreciating your own life, the people in your life, and the life you are or will potentially create or simple the life you will love unconditionally. 

Don't Complain, This is What You Wanted!

Yesterday my RE asked me how I felt. I told him I've never felt so happy to feel so crappy, and he responded by saying he could prescribe me something to make me feel better if I needed. Fine. That's nice. But I've felt crappy since 2010, so this is just a different version of how living on IF Island makes a person feel.

When we started trying in 2010, I was using ovulation predictors and taking my temperature every morning. I was obsessive and told by some people to gain a little weight so I did what I could to fatten up a bit. For someone like me who used to hit the gym several times a week and does yoga religiously and likes to hike and go for long bike rides, I quickly started to feel crappy in my body. (Here are a few past posts about the physical discomfort of the whole IF shebang.) I know a few people on IF Island who are marathon runners and crossfit folks and I'm sure the physical sacrifices of living on the Island are even harder for people like them. 

After trying naturally and "fattening up" a bit, we started ART. That meant hormones and 2ww and being told not to do yoga or twist or jump or pretty much do anything. The emotional toll was severe so I sometimes ate to feel better, because nothing felt good except mint chip ice cream. The hormones made me feel lethargic so I wasn't motivated to even workout at times. Paying for a gym membership seemed like a waste, because post transfer or IUI or even trying naturally, I was in a two week period of not wanting to strain my stomach or do anything to potentially compromise anything that might be implanting. And then the years flew by and the hormone weight settled in areas of my body that just made me feel heavy and gross, and no matter what I did it just stuck. Then I turned 33. Then 34. And this heavy, mushy feeling has become my norm. I hate it, but I've stopped resenting it. It is what it is, and one day I'll be able to work up a sweat and feel good again. 

So the fact that I'm basically in bed for much of the day trying to shove as much food into my face as possible while also trying not to barf my brains out just feels like the next level of all this. I actually feel concerned if I don't feel sick. But if one more person tells me this is what I wanted, someone is going to get hurt. Yes, this IS what I wanted and NO, I'm not complaining, I'm stating facts. But honestly, If I WAS complaining, I think I have every right to. Just because I went through four extra years of feeling miserable doesn't make me less entitled to bitch and moan than someone who got knocked up after a drunken night. But seriously, I'm not complaining. 

I am sending a huge hug, though, to everyone on IF Island who just physically feels like the word blech. I get it. It's terrible. I don't know when it's going to pass but I just think of it as yet another early sacrifice we make for our kids-to-be. 

Learning to Anticipate Good News

My parents wanted to come to today's ultrasound at the RE. My family has been an integral part of this process so having them come was a normal thing for us, but I felt a little nervous about it, because Noah and I are still on edge, wondering if the other shoe is going to drop. 

I remember my friend Lisa telling me a story about the worst moment of her IF journey. Lisa had literally been through everything-- multiple IVF's, IVF with donor eggs that didn't work, multiple miscarriages, one which was a set of twins that she miscarried a few weeks apart. Her journey was awful. But the worst moment for her, the one that brought her to tears when we interviewed her for our documentary, was when she brought her mother to an ultrasound to hear the heartbeat and there was no heartbeat. It had been over 12 years since this happened. She has two gorgeous sons, one adopted, one from a donor egg and surrogate, but it still made Lisa emotional.  Though I'm well aware that her story and situation has nothing to do with mine, I couldn't help but have that fear. What if my parents come and we hear nothing? (Here's a hopeful clip from that interview with Lisa and David in case you want to see a story of IF Island survivors.)

But instead of the worst moment of our journey (I can name about 10 already anyway, no need to add, right?), we had the best moment. Mom and dad stood next to me while the doc explained that the heartbeat is strong at 170 bpm and the blood monster is continuing to shrink. Noah and I are still cautious with our feelings of excitement, but we have to constantly remind ourselves that a different outcome is possible this time. Here's Momo today. I think I'm growing a little frog. Blood monster dying a slow death on the right (top). Oops, it's kind of sideways but whatever. 

I think letting go ofyour past story is one of the most difficult things to be able to do when you've been dealing with infertility for so long and have had repeated unsuccessful cycles and disappointments and losses. I have another friend who is pregnant after using donor eggs, and her anxiety is beginning to mount as she gets closer to the week in her pregnancy when she miscarried the last time. That scar is there. She has to tell herself it's different this time. We all have to tell ourselves each attempt, each embryo, each stimulation cycle, each pregnancy is its own, independent of all other outcomes. I'm not saying that's an easy thing to do, but it's the only way we can possibly tame some of the anxiety.

Learning to anticipate good news is a learned skill. I've been trying to rewire my brain away from just waiting for things to fall apart to expecting a positive outcome. I do that by challenging my negative thoughts. When I start to think that something bad is happening because I have a moment where I don't feel totally sick to my stomach, I ask myself what proof I have that something bad is actually happening. None. What's the point of anticipating doom and gloom? I force myself to stick with the last bit of factual information I have, and for today that's a little frog in my uterus with a beating heart.

So we will stay with the good news of today that Momo is getting stronger and blood monster is getting smaller and maybe someday soon I will start to feel like this is real. Until then, saltines and ginger chews. 

Standing at the borderland

Today was my first OBGYN appointment. I will just say upfront that Momo is fine. Blood monster is smaller. We are moving in the right direction.

My appointment was at 8:30am. I was seen around 10am. And got home around noon without having time to do the blood work they wanted because Noah needed to get to work. I've been completely spoiled by the private luxury offices of the fertility clinic. It's like going from the Ritz-Carlton to Motel 6. The nurses were total deadbeats and I felt so out of place. Not because I'm posh, but because I didn't know how to answer their questions. When was your last menstrual period? What was the flow like? Umm...I have a given "estimated date" but my last period was god knows when, I've been on so much medication. Are you or the baby's father a known carrier for any of the following genetic disorders? Umm...I, as the mother, and my husband, as the father are not. But we have no idea about the genetic mother and father--or rather egg and sperm. The egg donor was screened. That's what I know. 

The nurse seemed a little frustrated that I didn't fit into any of their boxes and it made me feel a little sad. I was confusing to the nurse, so she quickly did a domestic violence screening on me and then asked me to do a urine sample. I peed in the cup but couldn't find where to put it. I walked out with the pee and another nurse told me to go back into the waiting room. I looked at her and said, "I'm holding my own pee," and she rolled her eyes, put a little strip into the cup of pee to test for sugars or proteins or something, and told me to go dump the pee. WHAT IS HAPPENING? Is this how "normal" people are treated? 

My doctor is very sweet. Her equiptment is the 1990's version of the high tech gear my RE has, but it got the job done. Momo still has a beating heart, and she said it was strong. Though she didn't fully measure it because the machine wasn't "cooperating," she said the size looked fine. And the hematoma seemed smaller. Ok. I'm not too worried because I'll go to my RE on Monday and will get to clearly see what's happening in there. All that matters is Momo seems to be ok.

I got home and just felt...off. Where do I belong? My RE knows and understands my hyper-vigilance. To my OBGYN I must seems out of my mind, with my list of questions about miscarriage and abnormalities. She said not to worry because I will get to have all the major testing done because I will be "OF ADVANCED MATERNAL AGE" when I reach my expected due date. Advanced maternal age? I started trying for a baby when I turned 30! The fertility doc kept telling me how young I was. Now I'm an old bag?

Am I really in fact making this transition to the P world? It doesn't seem like it. And yet, maybe it should. And what about the fact that I really know nothing about Momo's genetics? For a moment it did make me sad. Somehow it made me feel...distant and like I wanted to apologize to Momo for not knowing. But then a more rational side of my brain reminded me that none of us really knows that much about anything. That we will learn about Momo's genetics as we go along. And that none of it really matters. Things may come up and we will deal with them. And maybe nothing will come up and all will be fine. Every one of us is a completely unique being. Momo especially.  Momo doesn't fit into any generic box, and that makes him (or her) special and beautiful. All that matters is that he/she is already loved by two strangers that rescued him from a cold, dark freezer one beautiful summer day in Seattle. 

There really is no rescue boat

When I first got my passport stamped to enter IF Island, I didn't really know what was happening. I had to go to that Stirrup Queens website to look up the acronyms, because I didn't speak the language. I started searching for other blogs I could relate to and sometimes it was helpful, sometimes it was overwhelming. I decided to start this blog as a way to kind of find my own voice in this, and to hopefully be able to share with others. 

I remember early on, coming across infertility blogs of people who had gone on to get P and then parent. And while part of me felt relieved and genuinely happy for them and the knowledge that this can work for people and people do get out, I also felt a little...annoyed? Jealous? Those are not exactly the right words. But I was slightly turned off by the blogs of people who had become P and then only wrote about being P. It made sense, that was now their experience, and the thing about blogs is they happen in real time. But I felt a little...abandoned, because I was in the absolute depths of my IF despair. There were moments where I even forgot what the goal was because all I could see was the next needle in front of me or the crossed-off cycle calendar and empty prescription bottles in the trash. 

I remember saying to Noah, "what's going to happen to the blog if we ever get pregnant?" He looked at me like I was a complete idiot and said something about that being the goal and still being able to write about both. I guess in my mind once P happened I thought a rescue boat would scoot up to the Island, and a sexy Brazilian guy would hand me (and Noah of course) a virgin margarita and zip me off to another Island where people just talked about baby names and complained about P symptoms. I couldn't have been more wrong. There's no speedy rescue boat, and definitely no sexy Brazilian. 

I guess what I'm trying to say is being a little P and then slowly gaining momentum towards being solidly P actually just feels like another step in the infertility journey. Granted, it's the big step we all want to take, but I'm definitely not off the Island. I will never abandon my fellow Islanders and this blog is not going to shift to being all about P. I honestly know nothing about that anyway, but I'm learning and I so appreciate the guidance and comments from all of you who are or have been P.

Many people are just starting their journey, doing their first IUI or IVF, coming off of their first cancelled cycle, waiting for their first betas, deciding to move to third party or adoption. I'm going to do my best to continue to write about all these things and am going to get better at posting more video, though I have to say it kind of upsets me when I see how young Noah and I (and our RE) look when we first started ART. I think four years on IF Island aged us exponentially!

So I guess that was a wordy way to say I'm still infertile. (Ugh, I hate that word) and that's still what this blog is about. It's about the journey and about learning how to pick yourself up again when you've been knocked down, yet again. I really hope I don't have to experience that heartbreak again. I know it would be way worse than it's ever been. So I'll continue to focus on the positives and imagine and visualize Momo growing and hanging on and becoming the baby that was meant to be our baby. I'm going to be grateful to feel completely sick to my stomach and on bed rest until further notice. I'm going to hope to see a stronger heartbeat and a bigger gummy bear at tomorrow's ultrasound, and I'll do my very best to surrender the process with all it's unknowns. 

And I wish everyone out there, not matter where you are in your process lots of love and strength. 

One Step at A Time

One of the hardest things about living on IF Island is the absolute necessity of living completely in the present moment. For a planner like me, this has always been a challenge. I remember when we started trying to do IVF for the first time (back when I was a young and spry) and it took literally four or five months to even get the go ahead to start a cycle. What? One month I had a giant cyst, another month I had way too few follicles, another month something else lame happened--they weren't synchronized or something. Whatever the reason, each time we went in to the RE I assumed we were starting, calculated how many days of stims I'd be on, factored in the 2ww and then allowed myself to have a faint idea of what my due date would be. WAS I AN IDIOT? No. I was an IVF Virgin. And that's ok. I kind of miss that hopefulness of innocence.

And it probably does happen for people--where they go in for IVF, they're able to start when they planned, and it works. It does. I met a couple who had one false start and then got two embryos, put two in, got two out. They recognize the miracle that is and is grateful for their short visit on IF Island. That is not my story. At all. So I guess my point is you just never know. You never know what is around the corner. You never know what joyous miracle might take place or when the rug might be pulled out from under you. You really do just have to go one step at a time.

Someone commented about making sure I get a 10 week ultrasound to check for chromosome abnormalities etc. after my first feeling of panic passed, I thought, "10 weeks? I hope so!" I'm just waiting for my next ultrasound on Friday with my OBGYN and then again with my RE on Monday. Seriously, is there a support group for ultrasound lovers anonymous? I'll be 8 weeks next week. That feels huge. I can't even fathom 10 weeks. Double digits?! Come on Momo! 

I'm grateful to have gotten this far. And to have gotten a good report yesterday. While I know how quickly good news can become bad news, I'm not anticipating doom, but I'm also not...counting my eggs before they're hatched. I'm trying to just be. 

The Seattle clinic sent me a sheet with some of my "facts," which included my "expected due date." Seeing it made my hairline sweat. I'm trying to imagine only positive things. I'm trying to visualize a growing belly and a Momo that looks less like a miniature buffalo and more like a tiny person. I think those are all good things to do. But I'm still cautious in my optimism and know that I have to always stay with the facts of today. 

Wishing everyone out there so much strength in taking this journey one step at a time. Sometimes it feels like one step forward and two steps back, I know. And sometimes it's a giant leap towards the goal. Wherever you may be just remember that we can only do our best in a given moment, and we just don't always know the outcome. Patience. Love. Acceptance. We will get there. Each one of us will find a way to solve the puzzle of how to create our family.

I Broke My Streak

For the first time in four years I feel like we got good news. Momo is in there. Measuring at 7w1d (which is what I am) and 133 bpm (which is an average heart rate), Momo is looking good. I think I just created his (or her) first baseball card stats. Take a look:

Momo looks like a tiny buffalo on its side. The blood blob is still there. So we aren't in the clear, but it got smaller. Momo seems to not care about the blood monster. He's flexible and easy going like his dad. 

So I'm back in bed (Momo also likes to be lazy like his mom). My RE said to just be still, let this blood situation clear up, and check back in in a week.  Yes Sir! 

So that's the plan. I'm starting to believe this might be real. Not ready to say the P word, but getting close. I know anything can happen, but something in my gut (perhaps a tiny buffalo with a heartbeat) tells me Momo wants to be here. My Doc said we got a slow start, but, "it's a fighter, like its mama."

Indeed. I'll take the good news today but with no attachments or expectations. Just gratitude to be one step closer. 

 

Happy Friday IF Islanders!

Greetings from my bed for yet another day laying on my ass!

Actually, I look more like...

I've officially spent the better part of this week thinking about, worrying about, talking about, and monitoring what may or may not be coming out of my private parts. I'm really putting my masters degree to good use. I woke up this morning and decided this blood monster with it's horrifying name (subchorionic hematoma) is ridiculous. Have I seriously come this far only to be wiped out by some blob of stale blood? No. That's not happening. That's truly absurd. If there's a problem with the embryo--if it isn't developing properly or something seems wrong, ok, I understand these things happen. But a friggin' pool of blood that just happened to form to threaten and intimidate and rob me of any possible feelings of joy and excitement over finally getting P? No. I don't think so. 

P at last! P at last! Thank God almighty we're P at last! Yeah, no. I'm not going out like this.

I've been good. I've been sedentary. I've been eating as much as I can. It sounds like a prescription for an absolute obese disaster but whatever. This is a moment in time, and this too shall pass. 

This morning, a fellow IF Island friend who I've never met but have grown very close to texted me one single word. Negative. Followed by a broken heart emoji. She is on her second transfer on her second donor cycle and getting her text first thing this morning made me want to punch a hole in the wall. She has a few more frosties on ice but come on! When will her torture end? It was a reminder that there is no justice on IF Island. There is nothing fair. But it is another moment in time, and this too shall pass for her. 

IF Island is filled with highs and lows. More lows than highs. I so relate to the feeling of that broken heart emoji. Here's a video post from the day after all our embryos fell apart in the dish. My heart wasn't just cleanly broken down the middle, it was completely shattered. I always fear that shattered heart is just around the corner, but today, I'll send love to my friend and I'll decide to just be positive about my situation. There may be time for sadness and broken hearts later, when we know things for sure. But as long as we don't, I'm choosing to find hope in the uncertainty rather than fear and dread. It may not change the outcome but it will give me a day of possibly feeling decent. We all need those days.

Sending love to all the broken hearts and sending an optimistic spin to anyone in a place of uncomfortable uncertainty. 

Emotional Whirlwind

Yesterday was a total whirlwind of emotions. It started with scared--seeing a giant glob of blood next to Momo and not knowing what was going on freaked me out. Then I became obsessed with finding answers--looking to Dr. Google for what this blood clot with the worst name EVER actually is. I didn't quit understand the hematoma and thought maybe it was happening because there is something wrong with the embryo. My doc said something about nature taking its course if the embryo is bad, and I was trying to make sense of that. Was this nature taking its course? Then I got really angry--why is this happening? These things happen in less than 3% of pregnancies, and after all this I just happen to be one of them? SERIOUSLY? I blamed myself thinking maybe I did this by going for a long walk two weeks ago. I was angry with the Seattle clinic for being so nonchalant about bed rest and encouraging activity after an FET. I was angry that Momo might not be getting the nutrients he needs because the blob of blood is in the way.  I was angry that it seemed like my body was sabotaging me, yet again. I was angry that we saw a heartbeat and felt nothing but fear. Then I was sad. Just plain sad to the core of my being.

Noah came home last night tired. He brought home food and said, "I thought hearing our baby's heartbeat would be the best day of our lives." I felt sad that we've been robbed of the joy this experience is "supposed" to bring. As much as I tried to just focus on the positives--that we heard a heartbeat, I couldn't. My truth is that I'm scared. I'm not pessimistic, just scared.

Through our years on IF Island we've been in this emotional whirlwind before. Feelings spin so quickly they make you sick. Things happen that we never fathomed could happen, and half the time you don't understand what's going on. You cry until your eyeball sockets hurt and your brain feels like it's throbbing in your head, and then you have to make a decision. Am I going to be overwhelmed by my feelings, or am I going to regain some control? I wavered for much of the day. I had moments where I felt like if this pregnancy isn't going to be viable, just put me out of my misery already. Followed by moments of feeling so sure that Momo wants to be our baby, is meant to be our baby, no blood monster is going to get in our way and Momo and I are going to fight this thing to its blood-clotty death! As I wavered between feelings of regret and anger and fear and determination and hope I tried to find a moment of stillness. I imagined myself still, bare feet in a cold rushing river. How can I make my mind and my emotional self just still? At least for a moment. 

In my moment of stillness I decided this is another lesson in learning to be ok with uncertainty. I cannot look back at what may or may not have happened and I cannot look forward to what might happen. I can just be still. Physically and emotionally. I can try to imagine the blood monster (I kind of want to name it Kurtis, I don't know why) shriveling up and dying--absorbing into my body and falling out. Ugh, how gross. And I can picture Momo, our little fighter. The legend of Momotaro is that he was born out of a peach, (Momo actually means peach) and he went on to battle villains and ogres that were terrorizing his family's village, and in the end saved the town. Noah speaks to Momo every night. He puts his scruffy face to my belly, identifies himself, "Momo, this is your dad," and then instructs Momo to keep hanging on. No matter what ogre or villain or blood monster is trying to attack you--just hold on! To bad Momo is the size of an orange seed and doesn't have legs to kick this things ass!

My dad wrote me an email this morning. It read:

Last night I had a dream that you were on something like an island. Mom and I were looking for you. We came to a wall, and I heard the slight distant cry of a baby behind it.  We started to break down the wall, got a hole in it, and came to a wooden fence.  We started to take that apart.  And then we saw you, holding your baby, coming out of a room. Didn't feel like an island then.  You looked at us but didn't smile in relief. You were just so tired and concerned about staying alive. I don't know where you got food to eat, but the baby was only surviving thru you and it was big enough that it looked like it should be on some solid foods.  

 

So, what does it mean?  That we would break thru all barriers to get to you?  That you can survive conditions that would normally undermine anyone else?

 Perhaps surviving the blood monster is my first test of parenthood. Perhaps I have to learn to break through the emotional barriers of fear and the physical barriers of my own body threatening our little bean. Perhaps there are a lot of red flags and warning signs for me, and I have to choose to see nothing but Momo. Beating at 109 beats per minute. Not because I'm an ignorant fool, but because it doesn't serve me at all to focus on the red flags. 

 

I know this pregnancy will either work, or it wont. Wow, that's the first time I acknowledged that I'm...and I actually wrote the P word. I hate the sentence it's in. I know that much of it is out of my hands. I know that if something is wrong with the embryo, nature will most likely take its course and I have to come to terms with that. I know that I have to be still and present and open to whatever is. I also know that I have 12 episodes of Master Chef that can get me through the day. And I have so many incredibly supportive fellow IF Islanders! Thank you all so much for posting your stories and sharing information. Thank you all so much!

Just Another Day in Paradise...ugh

So I do have a subchorionic hematoma, and it ain't pretty. Last night was a repeat of saturday night, complete with a golf ball size blob of something scary. Lots of bright red blood. The funny thing about all this is once something freakish happens I get a little desensitized. Of course it's always scary but I was like, "Oh terrific, that's happening again." Knowing Momo was still there after the last blood bath made me feel like it was possible for him to still be there today. 

And he is. But...

He's surrounded by blood. And a lot of it. 

So that's Momo in his little sac on the right, and the large mass-like blob on the left is the pool of blood. Glorious. The doc said it looked like there was some "separation", and Momo is measuring a little small at 5 weeks 6 days when I am 6 weeks 3 days today. Not good signs. None of what has happened thus far have been good signs. Except for one. Momo's heartbeat. We heard it today for the first time. 109 beautiful little beats per minute. It's a little slow but also very early. 

So now what? I wait. That blood is going to have to come out at some point and either it will take Momo with it or it won't. There's no way to know. My doc feels like there have been so many red flags, that if Momo doesn't survive than there was something wrong and it wasn't meant to be. If Momo does survive whatever is looming around the corner for us, than I don't care how small he's measuring, he's the toughest, strongest baby there ever was. He's also probably a girl in that case.

Thanks to everyone for the support and for sharing similar stories. I know things can go either way and I'm trying to stay positive. Today I'm on bed rest and Momo is there and has a beating heart. A storm is coming and we'll just have to see if we're both still standing in the aftermath. 

Ultrasound Junkie

I'm kind of an addict. Nothing makes me feel higher than seeing that little black blob on the ultrasound monitor. And we saw it again today. Exhale. 

Saturday night looked like a murder scene in our bathroom. Gross, but I'm just going to say it. I was scared. I know bleeding is "normal" but none of what is happening feels normal. And when you see chunks and blobs of bloody...stuff, yeah...the feeling is far from normal.

Our doctor has been so great out here. He stays calm but takes me seriously and is willing to do whatever to give me reassurance. He asked if I wanted to take the ultrasound machine home and for a split second I thought he was being serious and I thought, "Yeah, I think we can fit that in the car." I'm an idiot. 

So Momo is fighting to stay in there. I imagine my uterus is like a dark outer space, and Momo is a little moon in the vast nothingness. He's having to dodge flying pieces of who knows what that are falling and oozing, but he's ok. Still hanging on. We go back August 11th (can I really wait that long?) to see if he has a little beating heart. 

I've never felt so crazy and paranoid in my life. That's not entirely true, but it's kind of true. This whole business of infertility and being a little P after years of infertility can make a sane gal nuts and a somewhat sane gal really nuts! I'm constantly bringing myself back to the facts that I know now. In this moment Momo is still there. He's growing and hanging on and I'm not bleeding anymore. Thems the facts. 

My mom is making me lunch and I'm joyously scratching my lumpy progesterone filled butt cheeks with a plastic fork. Anyone else get totally itchy from progesterone in oil? Apparently that too is "normal," though I'm not sure my tactic for making it feel better is.

Thanks to everyone for sending love and support and for posting comments about similar experiences. It really helps! 

Hubs Post - Helpless not Hopeless

Hubs here. I’ve been asked to write something. This is what I wrote:

This week has been … challenging. It’s been frustrating. It’s been difficult. Actually, the term FUBAR comes to mind. They say God never gives you more than you can handle. Maybe God has a higher opinion of my character than He should. In a week that began promisingly enough - Maya’s increasing beta score showed that Momo did indeed exist - we have since faced a burglary of our home, an unyielding fear that every cramp or sign of blood would mean the end of Maya’s brief PUPO (I just learned what that means), my first look at Momo, and a midnight “Is this the end?” panic. Also, the Giants have been playing horribly and work is getting stressful. So yeah, it’s been tough.

Last night, must have been close to 12:30, I awoke with a shot. Maya was in the bathroom. “I’m bleeding!” This didn’t sound like the last couple times she’d reported blood. This was panic and pain and fear. Saving you a more descriptive explanation, there was blood. And it could have been a blood clot. Or it could have been the beginning of the end of our quest for Momo. I still don’t know. Minutes later, I was sat up in bed, exhausted and wide awake, holding a crying wife who was looking for reassurance and Google answers. And the day had started in such a promising way.

Saturday morning we had gone to the doctor for another beta blood test. Our RE, his schedule jammed up with multiple procedures, took the time to clear a room for us and do an ultrasound on Maya. My first live look at Momo. And there it was. He was? She was?! Bigger than the last time. A gestational sac and yolk and pole. All these words that make sense but all I could see was what looked like a pulsing UFO on a black and white television. And I saw hope and promise and a chance. And I believed. So it was a rather helpless feeling, sixteen hours later, when Maya asked me, “Is that Momo in the toilet?” 

I believe Momo is still in there. I’m not a doctor though. I just hold out hope and believe that with all of the horrible misses and losses and frustrations we’ve gone through in this that at some point, some how, our luck will change. I have to hold on to something and I choose to hold on to hope. In reality, we’re helpless. I’m helpless. And that - in all of these feelings - is one of the worst. I can’t help my wife. I can’t give her an answer. I can’t do anything more than try to calm her nerves and keep her thinking in a positive way. To the husbands and wives and partners that may be reading this, that’s what you have to do for her. Be positive. Even when it’s a helpless situation, you be positive. Believe your chances can change. Believe the coin will land on heads, the roulette ball will find your number. Believe. After all, helpless doesn’t mean hopeless.

 

There's no such thing as smooth sailing off IF Island

So yesterday at work, I ran to the bathroom just before seeing a client, and there was blood. Red blood. What felt like a decent amount of blood. I freaked out. Cried for two minutes. Pulled it together enough to see my client, and then a friend drove me to my RE, where I saw this:

That's Momo. The good news is Momo has all the bits of possibly becoming a baby. At 5 weeks and a day or so, there was a yolk sac and the beginnings of a fetal pole. I have no idea what those things are and it feels a little weird thinking about what is going on in my body right now, but they are good things. There is something in there. My RE was not pleased with the fact I was bleeding, and the shape of the overall sac. He wanted it to be more round, less oval. He would be a very difficult person to pick out a diamond ring for--he's pretty particular. I asked what it could mean and basically what I'm gathering is it could mean absolutely nothing. Blood happens some times and the Seattle nurse said sometimes progesterone causes some bleeding. Or it could mean the sac is collapsing and on it's way out. While he said a lot of positive things, I've been fixated on the word collapsing.

It really is a terrible word in general. There is nothing good about the word collapsing, unless you are talking about a terrorist organization or a dictatorship. 

I notice that my brain does this. It holds onto the bad news or the uncertain part. It doesn't help me at all to feel more worried. I'm training my brain to be more pragmatic and balanced. There is good news and there is bad news. That's usually the case with me. So I have to see it all for what it is. More information and more uncertainty. I had a beta HCG blood draw yesterday and will go back again tomorrow to do it again so he can see if the number is rising. That will tip the scale in favor of good news. Until then, I've been instructed to sit on my giant, bruised, lumpy ass and "just relax." If I had a dollar for every time someone said that to me I'd be able to afford these fertility treatments!

Noah believes that the key to Momo's survival is protein powder. Noah believes the key to most things surviving is protein powder. So I'm drinking my chalky protein shakes and staying hydrated and trying my best not to Google "abnormal gestational sac."  What did we do before Google? We all must have been so much saner!

I'm choosing to believe that sometimes blood happens, and it's normal and ok. I'm choosing to believe that Momo is a fighter and with the help of Noah's magical protein powder, he will be fine. I'm now getting a second progesterone shot to the butt daily (yay!) so maybe that will help too. And that's all I can do at this juncture.

Happy Friday everyone! Have a fabulous weekend.