Don't Count Your Eggs

Somehow, Some way we get through it

I've been thinking a lot about my friend who I wrote about a few posts ago, who was in her two week wait after an FET of embryos made from her second (or third?) round with her second egg donor. It's a mouthful to say (or write), I can only imagine living through it. She got her beta result earlier this week and it was a no go. She texted me a single word. Negative. 

My heart sank for her because it is just so unfair. That's it. It sucks and it's unfair. I remember that feeling of empty after getting a BFN. It doesn't feel real at first and then when you start thinking about all you went through just to get to that BFN.. you're left feeling sick to your stomach. There's so much build up-- physically and emotionally, and then it's just done. Game over. And you try to find answers and have something make sense and it just doesn't. 

So how do we move on? How does she move on? With one frozen embryo left, she has her Lone Ranger. Her last chance for this cycle. No pressure.

I've met and talked to so many people who have endured all kinds of different...obstacles (to say the least) on their path to parenthood. I have one friend who had six miscarriages, one was a set of twins a few weeks apart. I remember talking to her early on in my own journey and feeling like there was no way I could have kept going. She told me that she would have gone through the same process in order to end up with the two kids she ended up with (one through adoption, one through an egg donor and a surrogate). Now I understand that. All the things--the terrible, painful things, somehow line up in such a way that the baby that is perhaps destined to be yours finds you. Maybe that's wishful thinking, but most people I know who have struggled and come out the other side say things to this extent. It still doesn't negate the heartbreak, though.

But we keep going because we just do. We find a way to grieve and process and let go and move forward and love and hope again and again. We find a way-- and it's different for everyone, to get back up after being knocked down time and time again. We find ways to believe in our bodies and our family-to-be and we somehow let go of past baggage to leave room for a different outcome. For some people moving forward means ending IF treatments and choosing to live child-free, that too is a resolution. But others will keep pushing on and eventually, some how, some way, we get through it. All of us are stronger than we think. 

Sending love and strength this weekend. 

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.

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. 

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. 

Bad News Beta

Ugh. I'm so over this. It's boring. Terribly, awfully, dreadfully boring. Here's a post from last year with the same friggin' topic! I'm really ready for some new news. I do have to say, though, that I don't feel like a jerk for feeling hopeful, they way I have in the past. For some reason, I used to feel...I don't know, embarrassed maybe, for feeling hopeful. Now I don't. I feel proud that Noah and I can give it our all every time, and that we can cry it out and get back up. I didn't know resilience was something I'd learn when trying to make a baby, but I have. It's coming in handy right about now.

So we do have a plan, which involves getting monitored on day 1 of my next cycle (per the Seattle doc) and starting estrogen if all looks good. The one problem with this plan, is that Noah and I are most likely going to be up in Northern, CA for a good friend's wedding on day 1 of my cycle. My LA doc thinks it's fine to come in for monitoring within the first three days, but Seattle didn't seem to think that way. That illustrates frustration #1 when dealing with two different doctors at two different clinics.  Frustration #2 is being reminded of how annoying the timing of all this often is. I literally feel handcuffed to my ovaries! Frustration #3 is the idea that I'm about to ask my friend's  father (who is an OBGYN),  if he can maybe monitor me up north, if necessary. So I'm about to ask my friend's dad if he can go up my bloody vag with a dildo cam ultrasound wand the morning of his son's wedding!! I would be laughing at the continued ridiculousness of the situation if it wasn't my actual life. 

But it is. I guess I can laugh and cry and throw my hands up in the air and surrender to this incredibly long and arduous process.  Perhaps Momotaro, our little frozen Seahawks fan, is meant to be our baby. That's all I can think. My fingers are seriously crossed. We are kind of at the end of our options here, and though I know there are really no guarantees, I have to find a way to be optimistic. 

Thanks for the love and well wishes everyone!

Fearing a False Positive

I've been debating over whether to test my pee. It's a debate Noah and I have had in the past. My blood test is tomorrow, but I want to test my pee today. The problem is, my trusty sidekick, The Internet, says it's possible that the HCG from the trigger shot I got 12 days ago could still be lingering in my system, and could give me a false positive. The only thing worse than yet another negative beta, is a negative beta just after a positive HPT. Um, no thanks! 

Last night I came home with some pregnancy tests that my friend (who still can't believe she is 9 weeks preggn...) gave me. I refuse to spend another dime on these things, so she generously gave me her left overs. I tossed them to Noah.

Me: Should we test my pee in the morning?

Noah: Are we really going to go through this again?

Me: Going through what?

I have selective memory when it comes to the years of obsessively making my sacred morning pee into a tiny cup and all over my hand. I have never once seen two lines. 

Noah: Knowing you could get a false positive will make you insane all day.

Me: True. But if it's negative then we know.

He shrugged. He rarely wins in these situations. But I agreed not to test. And so we patiently wait another day. 

It will be whatever it is. I know I've done everything I can. Our adopted embryo awaits us in Seattle, so we know where to go from here. And that's it. 

Sending love and patience to anyone in the 2ww! 

Three LONG Days until Beta #...I don't even know anymore

I've been here before. This weird space where time slows and my brain becomes absolutely completely singularly focused on what my beta HCG blood test will reveal. (There are really only two choices, I don't know why I get so obsessive). While I know my thoughts and feelings, hopes and desires, have no impact on the outcome, I can't help but feel a little superstitious.

Last night I dreamt that I was on the phone with the RE we are dealing with in Seattle, who was somehow looking at my uterus while I was on the phone, and she found two baby sacs! She said they  could also just be gas, but there was something there. When I woke up, I had this feeling that now there would never be two babies or any babies in there, just because I dreamt about it. It's ridiculous, but apparently thinking like this is something I do. I get worried about jinxing the situation. You would think my thought process would evolve over time, but it hasn't really. You can check out my insanity from August 2013 as we waited for a beta back then, or Noah's patient perspective from November 2013. Sometimes there really is nothing left to do or think, as you can see in this video clip of us on our way to get my blood drawn in Nov 2013. 

I think this time around I'm actually a little calmer because we have a solid back up plan. We spoke to the doctor in Seattle on Friday and decided that we would do a natural FET cycle for the donated embryo. So if/when my Aunt Flow comes to town, I'll start estrogen, be monitored more closely, and we will make our way to Seattle around the second week of July, if my body cooperates. The doctor was actually really nice about all of it, and I feel good with this plan. I don't need to waste an extra month on birth control and I don't have to do Lupron. 

It was really weird, and rare, that my body produced good looking follicles while on birth control and Lupron. It has given us this one last solid attempt at getting pregnant in a somewhat natural way, using both of our genetics. But I have to be honest, while I obviously really hope a miracle has happened and something is brewing inside me as I type this, I don't care about the genetics anymore.  For over six months, I've been preparing emotionally, mentally, and physically, to receive this donated embryo, that taking a step back and getting a chance to use my own eggs for the first time in over a year made me realize that it no longer matters that much to me. I just want to be a mom. I just want to stop doing fertility treatments. I want to stop spending time and money and emotional resources on these cycles. I just want something to work. I realized I have gotten very attached to our little donated embryo, and it made me happy to think that I am really fine with whatever happens. As long as something happens soon!

It's funny how things change. The idea of an egg donor, let alone a donated embryo, was scary and upsetting some time ago. Now I see it all as a beautiful gift and a better chance at reaching our goal of parenthood. But seriously? Something, ANYTHING needs to work soon! This is getting ridiculous.  Friends that were pregnant when we first started trying are having second babies! 

So I will get through today, and tomorrow with my newly learned patience and as many distractions as I can. By Weds afternoon we will know where we are headed next. 

Post BFN Trauma Disorder (PBFNTD)

I'd like to propose a new category of trauma to the new DSM-V. I know I'm a little late in this proposal as the new DSM has already hit the shelves, but there's got to be some way to make Post BFN Trauma Disorder legit.

Because going through these cycles and getting repeated BFN's is TRAUMATIC! 

Case in point, there are symptoms of re-experiencing or re-living the awful moment of getting that phone call, of all that has led up to the phone call, of the intense anxiety waiting for that phone call. And of course the horrible flashback of the nurse saying, "Your beta was a negative, sorry. Have a nice weekend!" HAVE A NICE WEEKEND? 

There are symptoms of avoiding--avoiding certain things, people, social situations, body types (the ones with round bellies) that are reminders of the traumatic experience you've just endured. This kind of avoidance can lead to feelings of isolation and detachment...ummmm...sound familiar?

There are symptoms of "increased arousal" like crying uncontrollably, having anger outbursts, irritability and any other "excessive emotions," like the deep paralyzing fear that a family may never happen for you or the feeling of utter despair because you don't know what to do next and your body and bank account have limited your options.

There can be nightmares and intrusive thoughts, and moments of feeling totally numb. There can be distorted blame, persistent negative beliefs and expectations about oneself or the world. There can be alienation and problems concentrating. There can be physical symptoms, like feeling jittery or totally exhausted all the time.   

I think it's pretty legit. Being on IF Island is like being exposed to a chronic and persistent traumatic situation. You become totally addicted to the hope that some medical intervention is going to get you off the Island, and that hope becomes  the obsession. When that hope fails you, all seems lost. 

It's absolutely traumatic. And the trauma and feelings after a BFN are normal and make sense for the situation. But they aren't fun.

After my last BFN in August I think I was in total shock. I quickly made peace with what happened and was a little too zen about the whole thing. Maybe in the back of my head I knew we had the Lone Ranger sitting in the freezer, maybe I was in shock. But about two weeks after the bad news I had a total breakdown, as if I were hearing about it for the first time. HOW COULD THIS NOT WORK?!! It was a delayed response. Being aware of some of these things this second time around is helpful, but I must say I'm not sure where this is all headed for me.

It's a really personal experience for sure and people go through it differently. In the end we have to find ways to take care of ourselves and each other. Writing and talking about it seems to help me, because there is this moment where my present direct experience suddenly becomes the past. "We tried again, and it didn't work." Past tense. Behind me. 

This morning I woke up not looking like an amateur boxer, the way I did yesterday morning. That was good. I hardly cried yesterday and I'm not sure if it hasn't totally hit me yet or if I'm actually ok.  Time will tell. In the mean time, I'll wait for my boobs to deflate from the progesterone and Noah and I will try to come up with a list of options we have left (probably written on a post-it). 

If and when my feelings...hit the fan, as they say, I'll know it's part of the deal here and that I have to make an extra effort to be good to myself. 

The Morning After

The morning after a BFN has some similarities to other "Mornings After," in that you wake up feeling a little confused, you don't really know what just happened, and all you want to do is get the hell out of the situation. Oh, you also have a raging headache and wish you could hit the rewind button.

But this kind of morning after is also different. At least for me, because I don't feel embarrassed and I don't have regrets. Well, that's not entirely true. I regret that certain experiences turned out the way they did, but I don't know if that's really something I can regret. I regret that my sister spent her summer going through the IVF process with us because it was a lot to ask from her and it was painful for all of us, but I don't regret that we did it, if that makes sense. We can't regret things based on the end result. We knew we had to try donor eggs with her and what she showed us we the meaning of generosity, love, and family in a way that not many other sibling sets get to experience. So I guess regret isn't the right word, I'm sad that she went through all that she did and that in the end we had nothing to show for it. 

Every step of the process has been about making the best choice from a handful of crappy choices, and while the various IVF's and IUI's have given me nothing more than an extra 10 pounds around my belly, I don't regret trying. We had to try. We had to dive in head first, because this was our shot. I can only look back and know we did everything, EVERYTHING we could to make a baby the way we were being told we could, and it didn't work. No regrets. 

What I've learned is that I have more strength and determination than I ever imagined. I've learned a new language and met a new group of incredible people who are surviving this madness every day. I've learned that I have the best family in the world and the most patient, loving,  and supportive husband. I've learned that even though our baby hopes just fell apart at the seams, I actually am very lucky.

So we'll take the weekend to cry it out. In the 13 years Noah and I have been together I have waken up before him a total of four times, so the fact that I'm up and he's still in bed is a signal that he is totally exhausted from all of this. Totally, and utterly beat down. Eventually we will get back up and count what we have left. Unfortunately, it isn't much, but it isn't nothing. It's pretty close to nothing, but not nothing.

So I'll make a big cup of coffee, the caffeinated kind, and go to yoga, and slowly we'll pick up the pieces of our lives and put it back together again. Wishing all who are going through this much strength, and sending thanks to everyone for the kind words of support.

And so it goes...

And sometimes things work out for the positive.

And sometimes things don't.

And sometimes it feels like things happen for a reason.

And sometimes it doesn't.

And sometimes you win.

And sometimes you lose.

And sometime you smile.

And sometimes you cry.

And sometimes your heart breaks again, even when it's already being held together with super glue and duct tape and you can't imagine it breaking into any more pieces.

And sometimes life is fair.

And sometimes it's not. 

And sometimes you want something so badly you think it's bound to happen, because there is no other way.

And sometimes even then you come up empty handed.

And that's life.

That's our life.

We came up empty handed. Again.

We so appreciate all of your support and love and good thoughts, but sadly the saga continues.

Waiting for beta...

Here's us this morning on our way to draw blood at the doc. There really is nothing left to say. I think we've officially lost our minds. 

 

T'was the Night before beta...

T'was the night before beta and all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring, not even my spouse.

All fingers were crossed, all prayers had been said,

Yet Maya and Noah could not go to bed.

They tossed and they turend and thought, "Could this be it?"

Were they finally going to get out of this pit?

They'd spent three long years patiently trying,

Maya was ready to finally stop crying!

They felt lots of doubt, they'd been here before,

Another BFN would be such a bore!

Whatever happened, they knew they'd be okay,

But they hoped that Lone Ranger was here to stay.

So Noah got close to Maya's round tummy,

And begged the Lone Ranger to make Maya a Mummy.

They kissed goodnight, and hoped for a good dream,

They felt so much gratitude for all on their team.

And tomorrow they'll know if a miracle took place,

So that 9 months from now they can see their baby's face.

With much thanks and much love to all in this fight,

Sending good luck and good vibes and of course a good night.