Don't Count Your Eggs

A Walk, A Film, and A Smile: Happy Friday IF Island

Happy Friday!

Last night, Noah and I walked to get burgers. It's been warm at night here in LA LA Land and we walked down the streets in near silence. I asked him how his day was, he had a few highlights. He asked me what I had eaten that day--I lied about some healthy stuff and we held hands on and off. I looked over at him and could see the indentations of his dimples. It made me smile and I said, "are we genuinely happy for the first time in four years?" He laughed a kind of sad but content laugh. Four years. As much as we were able to find our moments, do things that made us feel whole and normal and happy--much of the past four years have been kind of miserable. The weight of infertility sits like two giant anvils on either shoulder. The uncertainties and medical processes and waiting are cyclical, and with each lap around you just get more worn out and emotionally exhausted. In between it's important to find your happy. We went on little vacations, we went to baseball games and concerts and tried to live normal lives, but it was always a conscious effort to not be unhappy. My yoga practice and finding my mantra saved me in a lot of ways. For Noah, going to the gym and playing rec softball saved him a little. We did our best with what we had, and we learned to survive and find moments of relief and happiness. But last night we allowed ourselves to both feel genuinely happy without trying. I almost forgot what that's like.

Today I wanted to share some info. There's an upcoming walk in SoCal that supports infertility. My friend Candace, who we interviewed for the film, is helping to organize the event. It's Resolve's Walk of Hope in Long Beach on September 21st. Noah and I will be there with a booth sharing information about our documentary, ONE MORE SHOT. (If you haven't watched the extended trailer you can do so here.) 

Noah and I have been working on this film for over two years. And we are excited to just be getting the website up (it's a work in progress, we need to fix up some of the picts still), but we are ready to push full steam ahead to get this thing done and out into the world. It follows our own journey through diagnostic procedures, IUI's, IVF, donor eggs, FET's, and finally embryo adoption, and everything in between. (I still feel very cautious even thinking we have found our ending, but I'm going to believe it until proven otherwise). We also interview several couples who have created their families in alternative ways. This weekend we are supposed to interview a woman who decided to pursue single motherhood later in her reproductive years, and has an 8 week old in her mid forties using donor eggs and donor sperm. 

So stay tuned! If you live in SoCal, we'd love to meet you at the walk! If you don't or can't make it out, please stay connected by signing up on our mailing list on the Doc website! We are hoping to start a fundraiser soon so we can finish this thing legitimately and really start raising awareness about infertility and normalizing the different ways families are made.

Wishing everyone on IF Island a beautiful weekend. 

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. 

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!

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. 

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. 

 

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! 

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.

Getting through the next week. AHHHH!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Resolve's Hope Award for Best Blog Nominee!

                                                

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

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

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

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

The Runaway Brain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FET Scheduled!...I think...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Flying by the Seat of Your Pants

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

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

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

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

Did the clinic really just cancel my cycle?

Yup. Indeed they did. So I rarely post twice in one day but...THEY CANCELLED MY FRIGGIN' CYCLE! Lupron, you failed me, sister! I'm so frustrated. The nurse called, because, apparently the doctor can't talk to me until June 13! No joke. J.U.N.E  13th! And the nurse told me to stop taking Lupron. OK. And start doing what? We've been mentally, emotionally and physically preparing for this embryo donation for MONTHS and...well...cancelled. I got off the phone with the nurse and called a friend, a fellow Islander, and cried until I was laughing. How could I not think this was a possibility? How could I, a seasoned veteran on the Island, one of the Island elders, be caught off guard? How could I have been thrown a curve ball? We should have bought flight insurance.

It's so disappointing. I just can't catch a break. I don't like to feel sorry for myself, but right now I do. I feel like I walked outside to admire a beautiful sunset and bird just crapped in my forehead. I won't dwell in the pity party, because what's the point. Of course I have already started writing my own protocol (because I'm not doing this madness again) and I've been trying to figure out how far back this will set us. What does it matter anyway, I suppose. Time lines and calendars and trying to have a life were thrown out the window a while ago. So I have to let it go. I can't think about the wasted time or the amount of useless medication I've injected into my body that may cause who knows what. I can't read into this in a superstitious way--is this embryo not meant to be? NO! That's not it. It just...is what it is. 

These kinds of things happen on IF Island. You get all geared up for something, a procedure, a pregnancy...and then the rug gets pulled out from under you. And then, well, you stand there on the cold floor, bare footed and crying, until you decide how to take your next step. 

So I will pitch my protocol for a more natural cycle to whatever doctor will listen to me, and we will cancel our flight and wait to talk to the doc on the 13th. One day, I don't know when, but one day, this will all be a distant memory. Noah and I will be reminiscing about trying to prepare for this frozen embryo and I'll say, "Remember, we were cancelled? I did the meds and it didn't even work? That doctor wouldn't even talk to me for two weeks?" and he'll say, "No, did that happen? I thought we just did the transfer." And then we'll argue a bit and he'll tuck our toddler in to bed and I'll go feed the baby, and it will all be behind us. If only. 

If only my body would cooperate!

I've always been a stubborn person. Well, I shouldn't say stubborn, but...who am I kidding, I'm stubborn. Apparently, so is my body. I've known this for a while. When we did our first IVF and I was on tons of stimulating medication, only two of my nine follicles grew. I was what is known as a "low responder" which means I take all these insane meds and my body goes, "meh, what else you got?" Basically, my body doesn't do what it is supposed to do.

Today, my body asserted itself in this way, yet again. I was on birth control for a month and have been on Lupron for just over a week, and today I went to my RE here in LA who is monitoring me for the FET in Seattle. The RE took a gander at my ovaries and said, "what's going on here? It looks like you're on stimulation medication rather than Lupron?" I have four large follicles growing when there is supposed to be nothing but dust in my ovaries!!! I started to laugh. Obviously. OK. So what does this mean? He didn't really know what to say. He feels like he's not the primary doctor for this cycle so he wanted to leave it up to the Seattle doc, who I haven't been able to get a hold of. Like, ever. She's basically the Wizard of Oz. I spoke to the nurse who I guess is going to get back to me later today.

So now I wait. I should be used to waiting. I should be used to things not going according to plan. I should know that I have no control over all of this. But it SUCKS! I just want something to go the way it should, is that too much to ask? Apparently. I'm not sure what any of this means. I have three more weeks of Lupron, so maybe my ovaries will chill out by then. I know that cancelling altogether is also an option. Cancellation is very common for many people, but it's also very disappointing. You do all the meds and have hope that you'll be able to move forward and it turns out to be all for nothing, in a sense. Perhaps I should chancel and ovulate the eggs that are sitting in my ovaries wearing their Lupron shields and hope that the next bunch isn't wearing shields. I don't know if that's an option, but it seems like having follicles sitting in my ovaries for the next three weeks isn't the best plan. What do I know?  I asked my RE today if I could actually get pregnant on this cycle if I stopped the meds. He looked at me and shrugged, "maybe?" Can you imagine? 

The drama and confusion on IF Island is constant. Even when you think you're on a schedule, even when you follow directions exactly, even when you're on medication that works a certain way for 95% of the population, things can go askew. So I just have to go with the flow. I have to ride this wave and see where I land. I will not move forward with this embryo adoption if our chance of success is compromised in any way, so I have to be prepared for having to make a decision that could cost us more time. Never a dull moment on IF Island. 

A ticket off the Island

Yesterday, a friend, a fellow Islander, texted me that she got two pink lines on a pregnancy test. After several years, multiple IUI's and IVF's, she did her last frozen transfer of an embryo that she felt was of medium quality, and lo and behold, the coveted double pink lines! 

I can't even fathom what that might feel like. In the four years Noah and I have been trying, I've never been pregnant. I've wondered and imagined and created psychosomatic symptoms of pregnancy, but never have I seen two pink lines.

I was super excited for my friend, but she wasn't. It almost seemed like she had to force herself to keep a straight face, because she knows the other shoe can easily drop. She went into this last transfer without high hopes. Just after her FET, she immediately started preparing for a BFN and starting a new IVF cycle. She just didn't want to be hopeful or attached. She didn't do acupuncture and she didn't adhere to bed-rest protocols as strictly as she had in the past. She knew in her heart this would either work or it wouldn't, and as of yesterday, it has worked. 

It made me a little sad that she couldn't revel in the joy of being the closest she's ever been to her baby. It seemed unfair that she couldn't at least feel a little happy, because the trauma and knowledge about what happens to those of us on IF Island has made it too scary, too risky, for her to feel excited. Sure, there's probably a little excitement and relief, but there is also fear. Perhaps there will be nine months of fear until she can count fingers and toes. 

I wish there was a way for those of us on IF Island to be able to put all the fears aside and be able to enjoy getting a ticket off the Island, but it's almost impossible. We know too much. We've lived through too much. We've lost too much. Cautiously optimistic is safer than overwhelming excitement. But I guess whatever is going to be will be, and all we can be is present. Present in the moment and in our bodies. It's okay to be present with a feeling of gratitude and happiness, but sometimes it does come with a risk.

At this moment, my friend's body is doing magical things. I'm sending so much love to her and hope that a sense of peace can overpower any feelings of fear. One step closer is better than two steps back, no doubt. 

At this moment I am on week two of birth control. It feels so counter-intuitive to be on the pill in my quest for a baby, but that's my protocol. I will start Lupron in the next two weeks to shut my system down.

So many of us are in different places, different spots on the hope-medication/procedure-excitement or despair cycle that is assisted baby-making. All I can say is that the situation is constantly changing, and all we can really do is be with what is in a given moment. My friend is a good reminder that it does eventually happen for many people. People do get off the Island, even when they least expect it. 

I wish everyone out there some peace with wherever you are in your journey. 

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.

Hubs guest post: Patiently Waiting with Patience

Maya asked me to write another guest blog. I’m starting to feel like I’m writing too much, though. Dear reader, I still want our interactions to feel special and I want you to notice when I’m not around. But one more note couldn’t hurt.

As we await the upcoming beta test to find out whether or not we are taking the next step towards our family (or two steps back), the word that keeps popping up for me is “patience.” I am, by nature, a patient person. My wife, by nature and in practice, is not. And, like it or not, this stumble through the harsh jungles of infertility is not a “I get what I want and I want it now” sort of endeavor. It is, in fact, an excruciating lesson in patience and staying focused on what is important.

Time spent dealing with infertility is like a rubber band. It has a way of expanding (how many times have you uttered, “I can’t believe we’ve been going through treatments for this long”) and contracting (shots and injections every day at the exact same time), sometimes feeling like it is going in both directions at once. The quality you must exhibit, aside from other things like faith and humor, is patience. You take each day as it comes, each injection as it stings, and each phone call as it delivers disappointing news. You do this and you are patient because, in the end, you will have your baby. It may not happen tomorrow or in nine months. It may not even come from you body. Point is, we will all find our finish line. And as long as our goal is to have a family, we will make it happen, one way or another. It is that end that will keep you patient, keep you dedicated when the numbers aren’t right or the test comes back negative.

I’m trying to manage my expectations for the end of this week. I feel like we’ve been knocked down time and again and there are moments when it doesn’t seem like it’s worth getting up and trying any more. But I’m thinking positive thoughts. I’m telling my wife I love her every five minutes. I’m even taking out the trash without being asked. OK, sometimes she has to remind me. “I’m trying. Please be patient with me,” I tell her.

2WW has officially become a 1WW

The weeks go by whether you're having fun or not, so might as well have the most fun possible I suppose. Part of what has been really fun for me is obsessing on TTC message boards about possible "symptoms" during the 2ww, of which I have none. Well, I have had a slight tightness on the left side of my belly which, could very well be gas because I also have gas, which I have not found in my research to be a pregnancy symptom. I have been having some vivid dreams though, the last one being about running up a jungle gym with no pants on trying to hit bad guys with various stuffed animals from my childhood. Oh, and I did have another dream the other night that I was pregnant but it was with my sister's egg and our friend's sperm and everyone was crying and upset that it worked because our friend regretted giving us sperm and Noah and I were like, "why did we do that?"...it was a hot mess. Really strange and I woke up with a weird feeling.

This morning Noah woke up chipper and said he had a "good dream." He has a less insane psyche than I do so I was glad to hear his dream involved a glimpse of a possible future that was positive, but he won't let me share it because he's become a little superstitious. Good dreams are better than bad dreams. That's all I'll say.

I knew a gal who went through IVF and it didn't work out the first round. She did it again and PGD tested the embryos and in the end had two normal embryos, a boy and a girl. By transfer day she and her husband were told that only the girl was developing and the boy embryo had arrested, or whatever they call it when it seems to stop developing. The night before the transfer her husband had a dream that they had a son, and when they went in for transfer he insisted the doctor put both embryos in. Hesitantly, the doctor did, and they got pregnant and now have a beautiful, brilliant, healthy boy. 

I don't know what my point here is really other than I'm going to try and clear up my unconscious mind as much as possible, and keep dreaming. Wishing that everyones dreams come true, unless you're chasing bad guys with no pants and a bag of decrepit stuffed animals. 

Pre FET video post...thinking of pizza

Finally we have a short clip of last Saturday's FET. Well, it's in the waiting room before the procedure. We figured we didn't need to show the actual procedure again because we have footage of that first transfer video here if you haven't seen it already. It was way more magical than the second time around anyway. More people, more excitement, more embryos. 

But this last transfer felt like Noah and I were really just in it to win it together. We were giving it our all and felt like we had nothing to lose. Lone Ranger was kind of our bonus embryo. We had nothing on day 5 and he plumped up on day 6 giving us one more shot. 

What I appreciate most about this scene is how VERY different Noah and I are, and I thank my lucky stars for that every day. I know when I'm obsessing and over thinking things during the remainder of this 2WW I can just ask Noah what he thinks about something and my brain will be stopped in its tracks and refocused on something way less complicated...

 

To trick or to treat...

Noah and I have never been a big fan of Halloween. It's just not our thing. And now that I live in a condo where more people have babies/kids than front doormats, it's REALLY not my thing. But I'm struggling right now, with being the grump in the corner unit. Ugh.

Noah and I moved into this place almost four years ago. It was a new building and we were one of the first people in the place. When buying it, I remember the sales folks telling us most people in the building of just over 100 units were "just like us." Early thirties about to start a family. There was one kid, a four year old then, across the way, and our immediate neighbor was about 8 months pregnant. That was it. And then four years went by and the baby boom happened. In a MAJOR way. Literally everyone in every unit got pregnant and had a baby. Our immediate neighbors got pregnant, moved, and the people who moved in are now 7 months pregnant. People's dogs have had babies. The single woman three units down got divorced and then adopted a baby, which I think is on the way because she's been getting baby stuff delivered to her doorstep daily. 

Every day around 5pm all the mommies and babies and mommies and babies to-be gather in the courtyard and the kids run and scream and the moms chat. I'm usually home around this time, or just getting home and have to pass by and wave and hide behind my front door.  People used to ask me when we were going to have a baby (as if there is some choice in that), but no one asks any more.  They just wave and I wave back and wish I could some how be a part of their little community.  Sometimes. Sometimes I feel like screaming at their kids to shut up--I guess it all depends on my mood. 

It's unfortunate that such intense feelings of resentment and sadness are the two items I've packed for my long-ass journey on IF Island. I love kids. I taught preschool and first grade. I did summer camps and have tutored. I work with kids every day. But when you can't make one it seems a little unbearable to engage in the fertile world. 

I no longer feel as much anger and resentment. I've pretty much accepted our situation. But I still feel like I'd rather avoid the cute costume parade happening outside right now. Does that make me a terrible person? I bought candy and put it outside with a friendly sign. That's about as much as I can do. And I have to tell myself it's ok. I have to let myself be avoidant as I sit and wonder and hope and pray that The Lone Ranger is still somewhere inside of me, and that he/she will one day give me access to a whole other world of joy. 

I felt guilty putting the bowl out front and started thinking about what that says about me and wondering if I'm just a nasty old wench. Well, I may be a nasty old wench but it's not because I put a bowl of candy outside my door. There are plenty of other well deserving reasons. 

So that's it. I'm not going to over-think it.  I'm too old to think Halloween is about dressing like a sexy vampire and too barren to enjoy the cuteness, so I'll wait for Noah to get home and then maybe we'll hole up and watch a movie and dream of a little boy or girl in a Lone Ranger costume riding a fake pony head on a stick.

Wishing everyone a sweet night!

Lone Ranger in!

I'm a bit valiumed out but present enough to form semi coherent senteces. The only important one being the embryo thawed well and has successfully been shot into my lady parts. Thanks for all the well wishes and support. Will write more later when I can open my eyes all the way. One step closer.

This time tomorrow

I don't really have much to write today. I'm eager for it to be this time tomorrow so we can know we've gotten past the next hurdle. I just got back from Gilli's and had a good acupuncture session. Before I left she said, "This is it! Good luck!" 

This is it. Good luck. 

I think my dad is more anxious than I am. My mother-in-law too. TAKE A DEEP BREATH GUYS! It's going to be ok. I feel like we've dragged so many people into this saga with us, and everyone just wants us to be ok and to be happy. We appreciate that so much. And whatever happens we will be ok. What choice do we have?

Today is all about distraction and rest. Good warm food and laughing. We're going to see Bad Grandpa in hopes of buying ourselves two hours of mindless fun head space. I wish I could take my transfer valium today...

Happy Friday all! Send good thoughts to our Lone Ranger so he/she can bust out of that fridge and into my lady parts tomorrow!

Hubs guest post: Just Write About Your Feelings

Maya asked me to submit a guest blog for this week. I think she's convinced that many of you take an added interest in what I have to say for some insight into the male point-of-view regarding infertility and IVF and embryo transfers. Honestly, it does make me smile to think somebody may go back to their husband or partner and say, "this guy is so emotional and he and his wife communicate so well. we can do that, too!" Then I remember that my emotional output is somewhere between Dr. Spock and Patrick Bateman and I figure you're husbands are probably being more emotional than you're giving them credit for.

There is a lot of hyperbole that gets thrown around in our daily lives and rarely is it true. The federal government is the worst thing to happen to America since forever. Miley Cyrus is the sexiest being on the planet. Cronuts are the tastiest food in the world. When it comes to this life of trying to build a family, though, hyperbole goes out the window. Everything we do in this process is a really big deal. Every shot, every transfer, every failure has a chance to change our families - for the better - forever. And no matter how I appear on the outside, I'm thinking about this all the time on the inside.

This upcoming transfer of our "lone ranger" in many ways is our last chance at this. The expenses - financial, emotional, and to Maya's body - are piling up. A loss here and we are back at square one. And that, frankly, scares the hell out of me. I FEEL (point for me!) that going through this process for as long as we have - and I am in awe of those of you who have done it longer - tweaks how you view the next transfer or the next IUI. Time stretches and emotion goes in waves and you get to the point where you don't put the same pressure on yourself for the next event because you've failed so much in the past. In some ways that helps, you're managing your own expectations. You're also guarding your own emotions from the possibility of another loss. One thing I try to remind myself and my wife of, though, is to stay positive. This can be it. This can be our winner. This can be the one. This can be the next step in our lives and, hopefully, this can be the end of a painful odyssey and the beginning of a new and scary and spectacular one (yes, I view children as both scary and spectacular).

This is all a long-winded way of saying, I have feelings and I know what's on the line for us in our upcoming FET. Dear reader, even if your husband or wife or partner or Miley Cyrus poster aren't emoting the same as you or the way you'd like them to, please know that those quiet waters run deep. We're all invested in this in the same way, we just show in it our own ways. And sometimes it's tough for us to communicate it through the ol' mouth hole. My wife knows this. And if she doesn't, hopefully she will read this post and stop hassling me about my feelings.

Have an awesome Friday and good luck with your next step.