Don't Count Your Eggs

Why are the holidays so hard on IF Island?

They just are. 

Noah and I usually spend turkey day with his family up in Seattle. Thats' where we are now. Looking back on the last few Thanksgivings has given me some...I don't know, perspective in how very thankful I am this year.

Thanksgiving 2012 was the WORST. We were mid IVF cycle and things were quickly falling apart. Noah and I ate the equivalent of airplane food turkey at a hotel in Palms Springs (because we couldn't travel with our doctor appointment schedule) and imagined that Thanksgiving the following year would be different. Thanksgiving 2013 was different but not in a good way. Not in the way we were hoping for. The egg donation cycle we did with my sister the summer of 2013 was a bust, so by November we were still trying to figure things out. That was the time I "found" Momo and we went to meet with the clinic about embryo donation. It all seemed really... bizarre yet hopeful. Last Thanksgiving, 2014 I was on bed rest with Momo, and I couldn't believe she was becoming a person inside of me. I was terrified but thankful for every day she grew bigger and stronger. 

This year we are back in Seattle, with Momo. Now I can't imagine our lives and our family in any other way. Though it's exhausting and chaotic to travel or pretty much do anything with a curious 8 month old, she blows my mind every day and her existence makes me eternally thankful. 

Noah has a group of friends back home who all have kids. Some have one, some have three. Momo is the youngest. Tonight they all came over to crawl on top of each other chew each others toys, and I had a moment of overwhelming gratitude that we could be a part of this. I'm very much aware that many people who go home for the holidays have similar moments of friends and family and babies, yet surrounded by their loved ones they can't help but feel totally alone. Noah and I know that feeling-- that longing and sadness and we send love to everyone out there who is in that situation today.

All I can say is it might take time, years perhaps, but eventually things change. Eventually something has to give. Eventually you don't feel so lonely. 

Happy Thanksgiving. Wishing that regardless of where you are in your journey to parenthood that you can find something beautiful to be thankful for. 

Back To Work

Is it really Friday? The week just went. Last week I went back to work part-time at the agency I've been with for several years, and suddenly I went from feeling there aren't enough hours in the day to absolutely knowing there are not enough hours in the day. It's hard to be away from Momo, but it's also kind of surreal in a similar but very different way from what I felt while going through IVF cycles.

I distinctly remember going back to work after my first unsuccessful IVF cycle and feeling like I was having an out of body experience. I had gone through and was still struggling through an intense emotional situation-- the shock and devastation that follows going through IVF only to have your embryos disintegrate in the dish and having nothing to transfer-- and I went back to work and just...worked. It wasn't as if nothing had happened, people I worked with knew what was going on, but the emotional experience was uniquely mine, and there was work to be done. I'm a therapist, so much of my job was containing my own emotional turmoil to help others deal with theirs. I remember feeling split, like there were two different lives I was living, the inside and the outside. Now I'm back to work after spending three intimate months with Momo, getting to know and understand her, adjusting to my changing body, trying to figure out what it really means to be a mom, and trying to manage my own anxieties and fears about doing the "right" thing for Momo. And there are days where I am stinky and sweating and covered in sticky milk, just trying to find a way to shove some food in my face between Momo's cat naps. Now I have to put of an actual outfit and shoes (none of which fit me anymore for some reason) and we a real person in the world!

Going back to work has again been surreal. Only this time people seem friendly and interested-- "how's the baby?!" Versus the avoidance and confusion or plain not knowing I was met with going back to work after IVF didn't work out. I miss Momo during the day, and my inner experience of missing her and worrying about her and if she's eaten and how she's sleeping and if she is happy-- is very different from my outer experience at work. I'm not really sure where I'm going with this, only to say that this might be a common experience (or maybe it's just me), and in some ways it just feels bizarre--like I'm living in two different worlds. I don't necessarily think it's a bad thing, it's just taking some time to adjust to. 

What seems to be most important for me to remember is that compartmentalizing my life isn't a bad thing, it's a learned skill. It's not being dishonest, it's trying to find balance. It takes some getting used to and some conscious thought and some patience I suppose. When we are going through an emotional experience on the inside, it's also important to be kind to ourselves.

Sending lots of love this Friday to anyone whose inner and outer experience isn't totally matching up. 

My Husband is in Love with Another Girl

And I'm okay with that. Because that other girl is Momo. 

Since the moment she came out, he fell head over heels in love. His voice was the first she heard (or maybe it was mine screaming bloody murder in the background). But as the nurses were drying her off and I was getting bits of my placenta ripped out of me, Noah was talking to his baby girl, welcoming her to the world, telling her how much we love her and how long we've waited to meet her. And the love affair has continued and gotten stronger and I'm kind of a witness to it all happening. And the way he looks at her, talks to her, cares for her, proves to me that the lack of a genetic link doesn't matter. 

Honestly, I worried a little bit about what it might be like-- for him. Knowing his biology was fine but agreeing to embryo donation rather than egg donation because I had a feeling about this embryo. I wondered how he would feel about the baby we would make in this way. I got the opportunity to carry, so I would be connected in a different way, the biological mother. But Noah has no genetic or biological connection and yet I don't think he could feel any more connected to this little girl. His little girl. And that makes my heart smile.

We rarely ever think about genes or embryos or any of the issues that were so pressing and so intense at one time. We are too busy thinking about how long she sleeps, when she should eat, and trying to manage my anxiety about those two things, in addition to all the other stuff I worry about like if she's too hot or too cold, near anything germ-like, etc. etc. etc. There comes this moment where the struggle of the journey becomes the past as we learn how to be with this little person who has taken over our lives (and house) in the past six weeks. 

If infertility has taught us anything, it has taught Noah extreme patience, especially in dealing with me and my worries, and I have learned to be so grateful for my fears and concerns. And we have come to know that love is blind to genes or biology. At least that's what I'm observing over here, as Noah is passing out with Momo in his arms-- he's been stuck in the same position for over an hour because he doesn't want to disturb her sleep. Because he wants her to be happy and comfortable and well rested, and he will do anything for her. Because he's totally utterly in love. 

Dear Anonymous, Thank You For Our Baby...

When Momo was born, I sent an informal birth announcement to the fertility clinic where we had the embryo transfer. I think I wrote "an addition to your success rate" in the subject line. That's what many of these places really care about, right? Whatever. Their success is my success. I'm fine with it. Along with Momo's stats and a pict, I asked if it was...appropriate for me to write a thank you letter to the couple who donated the embryo.

Wow. It's so weird to talk about Momo as an embryo now. She is such a human--though she sounds more like a bulldog and resembles a piglet when she eats.

Anyway. The donor coordinator never responded to the birth announcement, or my request to write a thank you. I was going to follow up today but then thought twice. Maybe it isn't appropriate? Is it selfish of me to want to express gratitude, while hoping that the couple will be willing to connect with Noah and I so Momo can eventually get to know her genetic sibling, a boy that's around 5 years old now? Is it an invasion of this couple's right to remain anonymous if I...break that boundary, even if it goes through the clinic? What can of worms could I potentially be opening? 

Maybe I won't follow up just yet. Maybe I'll let it be for a sec. I wish things were more open, but this is the situation and I probably should respect this couple's desire for anonymity. 

Momo was made from an anonymous egg donor from a frozen egg bank and the husband of the infertile couple who sought the help of the egg donor. The egg donor was shared, so there are perhaps more half siblings. The egg donor herself has at least three kids. I want to find everyone and be one big extended family but I know things don't work that way. Much of what happens with all of this is not up to me. I wonder what Momo will want for herself. Perhaps this part belongs to her. 

For those of us using donated parts, these kinds of issues are going to come up. I'm learning how to navigate and how to better understand how I feel about all of it. When I look at Momo I see our baby. That's it. But I know there is more to the story, and I'm trying to figure out if I have any role in how the story unfolds or if it needs to unfold naturally. Over time. With Momo's desires taking the lead. With respect to the generous strangers who helped her be. 

Hm.

Every situation is so different, and the more I feel curious, or the more I feel like I need to find Momo's genetic history, the more I realize this isn't really up to me. I will stand by my baby girl and help her do whatever she needs to do when the time comes. I'd like more information, but maybe she won't. The bottom line is she has two parents who love her to death and can't stop staring at her and counting her breaths. Maybe in the end that's all that really matters. 

Dad Guest Post: Humbled & Inspired: A Father Reflects

When my daughter Maya asked if I would like to guest blog, I wondered what I might say.  I’ve been following her blog since she started writing it and I have also read all the comments, so I have become educated about an island I knew nothing about four years ago. I have been humbled and inspired by what I’ve read.  

Knowing Maya as well as I do—she is one of my best friends as well as my daughter—I knew that she was a determined, opinionated woman with a strong life force.  I like to think that I was supportive of everything she wanted to do and that I often encouraged her to break through whatever barriers that she encountered.  But dealing with infertility was a barrier that she had to face alone—at least, initially, before any of her family support system could get their bearings. Well, not exactly alone. Her husband Noah was always there and this was something they had to deal with together. 

Over the years, when I saw how unhappy she was, trying everything she could to make a baby, my heart felt just as broken as hers. We have a strong bond and when she hurts, I hurt. And though I told her I would do whatever I could to help, there was really little I could do outside of lending emotional and occasional financial support. It’s a helpless feeling for a parent. Yes, I’ll admit that at times when my wife and I were driving somewhere and we saw someone pushing a stroller with twins and another child tagging along, I thought of stopping the car to make an offer I knew they’d refuse. But in all seriousness, I thought it so unfair that so many young women seemed to be pushing strollers all over L.A. when my daughter was locked out from being one of them and yet wanted so badly to be.

Our journey as a family into the world of Assisted Reproductive Technology really began when Maya and Noah started looking into IVF, and culminated when her younger sister donated her eggs. My wife and I didn’t initially embrace the idea. From our perspective, such a donation could lead to complications. But in the end, we came around to being supportive of their choice, and we were proud of Maya’s sister for being so immediately willing to do whatever she could to help. When that attempt failed, we were all disconsolate.  But once we recovered, it was on to the next step. Maya’s absolute belief that there was a child waiting for her to mother made her resolute. And we took strength from her lead. 

We agreed with the acupuncture and hypnosis treatments and wept with her every time an IUI or IVF failed. But Maya continued to document her story in her blog and on film and we continued to believe that fate would be kind to her.  So when she heard about the frozen embryo that was waiting for her in a clinic in Seattle, we clapped our hands and prayed that this was it, this was the one. 

When Maya’s embryo transfer took, and Momo started to become a reality for us, we were hopeful, but not excited, because we had been through so much over the four years Maya tried to conceive. Excitement would come when she delivered. And when we found out her sister was also pregnant, nine weeks behind Maya, our hope doubled, but we still couldn't get really excited.   We would like to have been excited—excitement is a nice state to be in. It leads to anticipation, to planning, to shopping for strollers and cribs and onesies.  But after years of dealing with the roller coaster of infertility, excitement felt risky.

We’re now finally starting to get excited. But we have gone through so much we never expected to go through: until you start dealing with infertility clinics, with a cartload of medications and needles, with failure after failure while trying to keep hope alive, you just can’t imagine what it takes to turn sadness and despair around.  My wife and I have been there every step of the way. We’ve offered our support, sent out positive thoughts, comforted our daughter the best we could, and when an attempt didn’t work out, we cried together. But we all grew stronger through this ordeal. We’ve become closer. We’ve had the advantage of reading Maya’s blog, so we know her true feelings; and we’ve been inspired by Maya and Noah’s resolve, and their willingness to film their journey so that others who go through this can see they’re not alone.

That they made the decision to document their lives on an island that exiled them from so many of their friends and coworkers, no matter what the outcome, was brave and daring.  For four years they never knew what the ending would be, but they never lost faith. They believed there was a child out there and they believed they would find that child and love that child and they made us all into believers.  

  Maya is now entering her 36^th week after the embryo transfer she was destined to have, and we all eagerly await the arrival of Momo, our first grandchild. And two months after Maya’s big event, we will also be applauding when her sister delivers our second grandchild, a baby boy. We know that we will love and cherish them both equally. 

And probably, as most grandparents do, spoil them rotten.

Who says happy endings only happen in fairy tales?

     My dad is a writer and one of the best perks for our Indiegogo Fundraising Campaign are his books and a super exclusive interview package for a high roller! You can check him out at his website, lawrencegrobel.com. Today begins week two of our fundraiser! We are at about 27% of our goal so please continue to help us spread the word! http://igg.me/at/onemoreshot

Hubs Post: Is Sharing Your Story Right For You?

Hubs post! And, surprise, there will be no football (we shall never speak of the Super Bowl) or baseball (SF Giants are still world champs) talk today.

As most of you know, this week we launched the funding campaign to finish our documentary. I knew that soliciting my friends and co-workers to support our project financially (I HATE asking for anything, especially money) would be a tough ask for a lot of people considering that many of them A) did not know we were making a film, and B) did not know the extent of our fertility troubles. Throughout our time on IF Island, I have kept my discussion of our situation brief and tight. Not that I am ashamed by what we've gone through (actually I feel pretty empowered) but it's hard to cram five years of trying to have a baby and three years of filming a documentary into a text message or a simple chat at the office. 

So I sent the email out and I waited. What would people think? Would they be upset that I'd held out this info? Would they be confused about just what crazy science experiment we'd been performing on Maya? Would we get some ignorant comment of "see, well it all works out in the end" or disapproval on our choice of embryo donation? Honestly, I didn't even have time to regret sending the email. Within minutes I was receiving messages and emails from friends. Not to mention generous contributions. "Amazing," "brave," "Maya is a rock star," "tell me more," "it's all about friends and family." This is what I got back. 

Opening up the conversation about your struggles with infertility is tough. It's kind of like working up the nerve to go talk to that high school crush. It's frightening. She's going to embarrass me. I'm going to embarrass myself. And then ... you just start talking. And you realize she's a real person. And she talks back. And she cares what you have to say. It's normal to fear that your family or your friends or co-workers won't get what you have to say, or they'll put you down for your situation. But, y'know, chances are they're normal people, not sociopaths. And they care about you. And they want you to have the family that you're striving to have.

Tonight as I drove home I called an old friend. He's got a family and we don't talk as much as we used to.  And I told him I was sorry that I didn't mention all of this sooner. This process has been weird, I said, and I was just waiting until I could tell people in my life so that it wouldn't be weird any more. And he said, "I figured you'd say something when you were ready."

Sharing your story is a really personal decision. Not everybody has the support they might need and it can open you up to comments or criticism. It took me a while to come around on the idea of sharing all of this, but I'm glad I did. 

 

Teaching Our Friends and Families How to Talk About Donor Conception

I have a friend who has a child via egg donor and her mother continues to refer to the egg donor as the "real mother" of the child. This drives my friend bananas. She is the "real" mother (is there such a thing as a fake mother?). I know other people who struggle with this kind of stuff within their family. The egg donor is often referred to as the "biological mother" or some other term that includes the word mother. I get this too sometimes, like when people ask me if Momo's father was "the Japanese one." I gently correct people in my response, "Yes, the sperm provider was Japanese," but I understand how IF Islanders might get frustrated with trying to figure out the language of donor conception and educating their loved ones about it. Because let's face it, we can tell people a thousand times what our preferences are when it comes to this stuff and it will still get mangled. 

In all fairness, it is confusing. And it is especially confusing to my parent's generation. My dad continuously refers to the embryo transfer as a transplant or implant (as in liver or dental?) and describes the process of our donor cycle with my sis as Noah's sperm "impregnating" my sister's eggs (it's inseminating, Dad!). I have to constantly re-explain the difference between an egg and embryo to my aunt and occasionally remind my father-in-law that Momo might not look like Noah or me because she's not genetically related. I remember trying to explain IVF to my grandma when she was still alive. She got it, sort of. It appeared that she didn't really know how babies were made naturally, let alone with medical intervention. But she didn't care, she just wanted us to have a baby.

Everyone who has conceived through alternative means and is open about it may have to have a conversation about the terms used to describe their process. We have to try and be patient with others and understand that when many of us grudgingly moved to IF Island, we got a crash course in a new language that our loved ones just didn't get. Being fluent in Spanish or Chinese would probably be way more useful, but here we are. We each have to decided how we want to talk about this stuff and how we want to refer to the outside help some of us got. And that's ok. It's just something to figure out. We are all "real" people and I when Momo's time comes, I will be the "real" mother and Noah will be the "real" father and one day my dad will  know what a sperm does to an egg in a petri dish and he will be the "real" grandpa, finally.  

 

Until then we all keep on trucking. Noah and I have an estimated 30 days until we get to be "real" parents. I just bought a carton of milk that expires ten days past Momo's due date, so I guess that means sh*t just got real, for real. Perhaps we should pack a bag.

Have a great weekend everyone and remember that MARCH 1 is our Indiegogo fundraiser launch date for our documentary, One More Shot. There will be more video posts and updates this month, so stay tuned and help spread the word!

Infertility Around the World

A few weeks ago a writer from Chile contacted me wanting to write about our story and about embryo donation for a local magazine. We chatted on Skype and the article came out today in a magazine called El Mercurio-Revista YA,  so if you can read Spanish you might want to check it out. I'm not really sure what it says because my Espanol skills go to about the 7th grade, but I believe it talks about infertility and embryo donation, and discusses the medical, legal and ethical perspectives in Chile. 

It got me thinking about how infertility is a worldwide issue and experience. The most recent stat in America is that 7.3 million people suffer with infertility. That was in 2012. And I think must be low. I don't know what the numbers are in Australia or Japan or the UK, but it's millions and millions of people around the world. Each country deals with infertility within the context of their culture, and I think it would be really interesting to know more about what that looks like. Laws are different around the world and perhaps that sets the tone for what is medically available and how much support there is for people. It also often sets the tone for how people feel about their fertility struggles, whether it be stigma and shame or an understanding that infertility is a medical diagnosis that isn't anyone's fault. 

Infertility doesn't discriminate. It hits people from all over the world, younger people, older people, men and women, people in Brazil and people in China, well-off and not. And I also know that the feelings on IF Island are universal, so that even if we don't speak the same language we can understand the shared experience. We understand the basic biological urge to procreate and the unrelenting desire to have a family. And yet most people in the struggle feel so totally alone. 

That's one of the reasons Noah and I are documenting our story and the story of others who have built their family in alternative ways. Because people shouldn't feel alone. 

An Open Heart on IF Island

I've written blog posts for Fertility Planit and Fertility Authority this month with the theme of finding ways to keep an open heart to how your baby might come to you. Let me say here, that sometimes it's really not easy.

Last Valentine's Day I wrote this post. I was in a very different space than I am today. I was focused on trying to heal my heart rather than open it to the possibilities. During infertility treatments, I often found that it was my heart that hurt the most. More than the shots, more than the bills-- that space in my chest just felt crushed and deflated.

Sometimes I would try some yoga poses to physically and psychologically open my heart space, by clasping my hands behind my back, bending my elbows then straightening my arms, allowing my chest to rise and my head to tilt back. After a few attempts at taking deep breaths I would just know my heart space was tight and clogged up. It's a terrible feeling--like you just can't breathe.  And the emotions that come with a tight heart space are often ugly ones-- fear, jealousy, anger. But here's the thing, sometimes living on IF Island just makes us feel that way. There is a lot of thought about what could have been and should have been, if only.... There is having to process your own grief while others you know are blissfully moving on. There are relationship strains and lots of feelings you just wish you didn't have. All of it is normal, but all of it sucks. Plain and simple. 

But...there is a but...but it doesn't feel like this forever, and there are things we can try to do to soften the space around the heart and find ways to be open again. Taking ten deep breaths into that heart space, whether I could actually breathe or not, was helpful to me in tough times, because it forced me to be in the moment with my thoughts and feelings and then let them go. On an inhale I would think about whatever was hurting-- the last unsuccessful cycle, the confusion about what to do next, the unfairness of friends getting P by accident-- and at the top of my inhale I would pause, accept the thought or feeling for what it was, and then on the exhale try to just let it go. Whatever happened in the past was the past. It was over. Obsessing about it wasn't going to help me. In the moment I wasn't making big life decisions about what to do next, I was just breathing. And as Noah always said, what happens with other people doesn't affect me. Someone else being P didn't mean I never would be. It was just a reminder of the unfairness, so I tried to let it go. 

Visualizing and breathing like this is a way to get back into the present moment. It's a way to then start breathing in more positive thoughts and feelings. On an inhale it's thinking about all the good things that can fill the heart, and appreciating that I had a beating heart and people who cared about it. It was reminding myself that as unfair and painful as all of this was, that I would one day be a mother. 

That day is now 6-7 weeks away. I could never have moved to embryo donation without and open heart and an open mind. Noah and I both needed to heal and let go and reprioritize. And it took time, but I'm so happy we did. We had to find ways to truly love and appreciate ourselves and each other before we could fully embrace how our baby was going to come to us. And we love Momo now so intensely, I don't think either of us could imagine her coming to us in any other way. 

Valentine's Day is truly about finding gratitude and appreciation for wherever you are in the journey and in your life. It's finding ways to heal and create hope and to love yourself and your partner and family and peeps fully. It's thinking about your baby finding his/her way to you eventually, or looking at your miracle babies and letting your heart fill up with that energy. And if nothing feels like it's working, it's buying yourself a box of heart shaped chocolates and shoving them in your face-- indulging isn't a bad thing this weekend.

Sending so much love to everyone this weekend. 

Things can be different

I've written before about my parents and how our experience on IF Island may have traumatized them a bit.  And my initially tentative P followed by terrifying moments like this hasn't helped any. But I was thinking about them again today, as I inch towards hitting the 32 week mark. I was thinking about what it might be like for them to now finally be expecting not one grandchild, but two. 

Yup. I'm outing my sister.

Over the summer of 2013, my little sis (3 1/2 years younger) generously donated her eggs to us. It was such an incredible gift and was a pretty intense time for my family. My sis did not stimulate well and some red flags were raised about her own fertility. After we transferred three embryos followed by one last frostie, my RE met with my sis to warn her about possible fertility problems. He recommended she do an egg freezing cycle for herself as she was pushing 30 and not yet ready to start a family. It freaked us all out but she didn't really want to talk about it. I thought this was valuable info for her, but she did not agree. It was overwhelming. And a year went by, she got married, and lo and behold she's about six months P. Her due date is exactly two months after mine. 

My parents were shocked. They were nervous for both of us. For me for the obvious reasons (subchorionic hematoma anyone?) and for her, well, just because. It kind of...just happened, even though she was told there was a good chance she'd have some problems. 

Now that we are both far enough along, I think my parents can finally feel a little more confident. Though none of us are going to be able to fully exhale until fingers and toes are counted, things for my family have changed drastically, in ways none of us could have imagined. 

By the summer, my parents will have two grandchildren. A girl and a boy. And my family will be living proof that:

1) Miracles can happen

2) Doctors aren't always right, and

3) Good things sometimes do come to those who wait (and wait and wait)

Nothing stays the same. This time last year none of us knew exactly how Noah and I were going to get out of the IF rabbit hole we had fallen down, and we were all a little worried that my sis might be following in my footsteps. Now, things are very different. 

Sending lots of Friday love to everyone with a reminder that no matter where you are in the fight, things can and will be different. 

House Cleaning Babymoon Part 2: The Chaos Continues...

So I think I mentioned that we live in a loft space with few actual walls and essentially no closets. Don't ask how, I'm not sure, but somehow our place is usually quite neat and organized except for one area. A closet we refer to as "Understairs" because, well, it's under the stairs. 

Over the last few years, Understairs has become a symbol of my mental state during our life on IF Island: chaotic, overwhelming, a complete disaster. What started as a decent sized closet where we could store camping gear and my equipment for ceramics class, a lone box labeled "Maya grad school" and some extra chairs  for when we threw larger dinner parties, became a dumping ground for all of our attempts to stay somewhat afloat during tumultuous times. We bought different workout gear, various stuff for new puppies we tried to adopt, and of course stored our bags and boxes of meds from  multiple IUI and IVF cycles. The closet looked like this:

Yeah.

It was where I could shove things I didn't want to look at. While the rest of our place seemed orderly, Understairs was a nightmare. It was the physical manifestation of how I tried to live my life as normal as possible, yet I had this part I was battling that I had no control over. No way to get a grasp on. No clarity or direction. Just chaos. 

Yesterday, Noah and I decided it was time to clean out Understairs. 

We woke up with a feeling of dread and a tiny bit of excitement (probably for me only, Noah doesn't get too excited about stuff like this). "I think we should have a game plan," he said, at which I laughed. "The plan is to pull everything out, see what's there and figure out what to do with it," I replied. I know better than to make a game plan. We all know how those go. So we started doing just that, pulling out the crap.

Noah was not too pleased with the ordeal, or what he discovered I was hoarding in there. I kind of have a problem with saving scraps of wrapping paper and tissue that can be reused, and I hoard bottles of vitamins that I buy but decide make me feel weird but can't throw away even when they are expired by years. 

But Noah has things like this that he refuses to give up:

His shovel. Actually, it was his granfather's so I get that it has sentimental value, but it's also filthy. His solution was to "just put it in the car," which sparked a discussion about our very different ways of dealing with life dilemmas. Maybe I should also put the word discussion in quotes. 

And then there's this:

He calls this "Hollywood History," as it's the panda suit from the first Jackass movie (he worked on various TV shows with the Jackass guys and some how accumulated not just the head but the full suit.) I call it, "can we please figure out what you want to do with this?" He also has a full bear suit his mother made him, not as a child but as a grown ass man. Did I mention Noah is six feet tall? So there are several bins and duffel bags labeled "costumes" that take up a fair amount of space. If we had a garage these things would be a perfect candidate for sitting in a box in the garage for the next 40 years, but for now they are in the living room in a pile that looks like this:

His costumes are next to the green bowling ball with custom finger holes my dad got me for my sweet sixteen when everyone else was getting cars, and old buckets of paint. 

We will need to get a little storage bin that can go in the garage of our condo (not anything like a house garage you can shove crap in but a small plastic shed that goes next to our tandem parked cars). Noah has agreed that the shovel can live there for a while.

So after hours of digging through the rubble, throwing a lot of stuff out (I still couldn't throw out my boxes of syringes and meds so we put them in a contained box and taped them up. I'm not ready to let them go yet, I know, I know), and discussing our different patterns for holding onto the past and prioritizing ways to leave the path open for the future, Understairs now looks like this:

It feels so good (though the living room is now insanity). 

Sometimes we have major chaos going on in our lives and it's too overwhelming to deal with. Sometimes no matter what we do we are a hot mess. Sometimes the best we can do is shove the disaster aside in order to try and look at the tiny space in front of us so we can take one small step at a time. But there comes a time when we have the strength to tackle the mess head on. We have the ability to see a clear path and the drive to just start digging. It took us four years to get to that place and we are now ready to fill Understairs with stuff for Momo, which is its own kind of insanity. 

Today we are going to finish tackling the office aka the man cave. Noah will continue to have a love affair with the giant paper shredder he got the other day and I will try to figure out what one does with years worth of old checkbooks. 

 

After a few years of darkness, is it ok to send a holiday card?

For many years Noah and I sent out a holiday or New Years card. Just a simple picture of us smiling or being silly to wish people health and happiness. Here are a few from the archives:

And then we packed our bags and moved to IF Island. 2010 was the last holiday card before we went dark. Actually, that's not totally true. We sent this pict from Barcelona in 2011 (when we could still afford to travel) before the major infertility treatments started:

Then we went dark. 

For the holidays in 2012 we were just crawling out of our first unsuccessful IVF cycle. In 2013 we were recovering from my sister's egg donor cycle not working and taking a little break to figure out what was going to come next. I wasn't in the mood to take a goofy holiday pict and honestly couldn't muster a genuine smile. Sometimes life is just really hard. (I wrote a short blog post for Fertility Authority about surviving the holidays today in case anyone is interested.)

This year, while we are home-bound because I still can't really travel or do much, we are able to smile. I'm so grateful for that. I was thinking about doing a holiday card this year but kind of felt weird about it. It's like we fell off the face of the earth and are just popping back in. Is that allowed? It's kind of how I feel about a lot of things--Social gatherings, holiday parties--are we suddenly invited back to the party even though for so long we've both withdrawn and literally just not been invited? 

It's kind of strange to suddenly feel welcome again when for so long Noah and really didn't feel that way. Friends avoided us because they knew we were in a rough place and they didn't know what to say. We avoided friends because they all (yes, all) had new babies and it was just too much. So now what? Do we just pop back on the scene? Reach out more? Send a holiday card? Is there etiquette here? Am I the only one who feels a little funny about it? 

I'm a strong believer in doing whatever you need to do to feel okay while living on IF Island. I think the feelings here are so intense and often misunderstood, that it's important to save yourself. I remember my mom telling me one day I'm not going to be in this dark place, so how I handle myself with other people is important. I was never rude, I just vanished for a while. That's what I needed to do to protect myself, heal my heart, and regain my emotional strength. Now I'm ready to socially engage again and am not totally sure about how to ease my way back in. Perhaps it is with a holiday card. Hm. Noah and I will think about it. 

Wishing everyone who is struggling with holiday galas much love and strength. 

 

Nature vs. Nurture

Over the holiday, Noah texted me a picture of himself with his newborn niece asleep on his chest. It was a sweet snapshot and my immediate thought was that this little being will be more related to him than his own daughter will be. It was just a thought. I didn't have any emotions about it one way or another, which is kind of rare for me.  This baby might look more like Noah than Momo will. It's very likely, since Momo is half Japanese and Noah is the opposite of half Japanese. Well, there's not really an opposite I suppose, but he's not Asian at all.

I don't know why this was one of the first things to pop into my head. I think the very first thing was actually about how cute he looked and how great a dad he is going to be, but the next thought was about genetics. I thought I got "over" this? Maybe I thought once we made a decision and I got far enough along, that I'd never think about the loss of the genetic link, but I do. Sometimes. And I think that's normal and healthy. All of this stuff is a process.  I believe telling your children about donor related issues is also a process. The use of donor eggs or sperm or embryo or even adoption is not a one time conversation. It's not a "disclosure" but an ongoing conversation that changes and evolves as our kids meet different developmental milestones. It's a conversation that happens at different times for us, as parents-to-be of non-genetic children. While I do believe that Momo's genetic link to us doesn't matter, it's not something to ignore. So when this thought about Noah being more related to his niece than to his own child popped into my head I asked myself if this mattered?

I sat with the thought for a while and tried to dig up feelings around it. Was I jealous that others get to have genetic children? Was I sad? For us? For Noah? For Momo? Did I have fear about his attachment to Momo? Or her attachment to him? Did I worry about what she might be like? If she'll be drastically different from us? A tall math-science whiz with an affinity for volleyball? 

I told myself anything I felt was okay. Because it is. My feelings about our journey and our baby might change from week 10 to week 23 (which is what I hit yesterday! Whoo hoo!) to week 36 (please come soon). That's ok. What's more important than the feelings that arise is how I process them and come to understand them. That is what is going to help me honestly and openly navigate all this with Momo when she's older. But the more I sat with this thought, the more I struggled to find a feeling or a meaning. All I feel for Momo is love and the desire to protect her and not let anything bad happen to her. I truly believe that she is the best baby in the world (obviously), and that she is strong and determined in a way that I'm sure will bring me so much joy and so much frustration in the years to come. I also feel she is 100% ours. I do worry about unknown health issues, but a friend who is also P (naturally) and due around the same time reminded me that she worries about all these things too.  It's just a part of parenthood.

So perhaps those of us with non-genetic children will have different thoughts and feelings about these things come up from time to time. And perhaps they will mean something, but maybe they won't. The thought passed and I went back to looking at various over priced baby clothes on-line.  I really can't figure out why it would matter that his niece is more related to him than his daughter. Who cares? It all suddenly seemed so ridiculous. 

When I ask Noah about this kind of stuff he looks at me like I'm kind of crazy. He loves Momo more than anything in the world. Holding his niece did not bring up feelings about his genetic link to his kid. It just brought up amazement that a human can be so small. And when she pooped herself awake, he was equally amazed, and perhaps thankful that there was someone else there to deal with the situation. 

Part of my job, I feel, is to fully understand all the thoughts and feelings that come up for me surrounding this alternative way we are creating our family. But more and more all things lead to love. Things that seem like they should mean something or matter just kind of don't. All that matters is that we love this baby girl so much and can't wait to finally, FINALLY meet her. 

The Language of Donor Conception

I vividly remember learning the language of infertility, back in the good ol' days when I thought ovulation test strips were going to be the key to our conception success. I remember having to look up acronyms and couldn't believe there was a completely different language to describe not only the TTC process but the emotional roller coaster of being in the 2ww or getting a BFN. 

Now I've started to think about the language of donor conception--is that even a correct term? I know many people feel very strongly about the choice of words or how things are phrased, and I respect that. But I think Noah and I are still figuring out how we feel. Being that Momo is a donated embryo, and she is already so public, Noah and I are going to have some 'splaining to do. I asked him this morning how he would want to refer to the sperm that helped create Momo. He looked at me puzzled. "I've never thought about that," he said. And I completely believed him. Momo is his baby. His little girl. That's all he cares about. But eventually we will have to have a name or label for the sperm that created her, won't we? 

Let me get the technology straight first. Momo was created from the egg of an anonymous egg donor, and the sperm of the infertile couple who got (used? hired? paid for?) that egg donor. Then the wife/mother/woman in that infertile couple carried an embryo made from her husband's sperm and that egg donor, and they had a baby. The generous couple then decided to donate the two left over embryos back to the clinic to be given (used? bought?) to another couple/person, us. We dusted off my uterus and implanted one of said embryos into it, (Momo has a sibling waiting for us in the freezer) and now Momo is a 20-week old fetus (baby?), kicking away in there. (Yup, I've started to feel her and sometimes see her punching and kicking more regularly. She seems kinda low, like she's almost reaching for the exit, but I'll take it!). Does that all make sense?

"I don't really like biological father," I said to Noah, in response to his lack of response to my question. Somehow the word father or dad doesn't really sit well with me. As far as I'm concerned, Noah is the father/dad. Period. But perhaps this---man, that we may or may not ever know-- is technically Momo's bio dad. 

"And he wasn't really a sperm donor," I added. Because he wasn't technically a sperm donor. He was the husband. He contributed his sperm to make his own child, and then he donated the embryos that were created using his sperm...but he wasn't really a sperm donor, was he? Some people don't even like the term sperm donor, because the word donor implies that something was donated rather than sold. Sperm and egg donors both (usually) get compensated. So is that really a donation in the proper sense of the word? 

Noah looked at me the way he does most mornings when my brain is wide awake and running laps before 7am--like I'm completely insane, and said, "I don't know. Silent partner? I just want to figure out what I'm going to be called. Dad or Daddy, Daddy-O..." 

Silent partner. I kind of liked that. In the book Finding Our Families by Wendy Kramer, there's a small sections about terminology where different people with different relationships to donor conception comment on terminology. On page 7, a child conceived with sperm donation says that the sperm contribution is not his donor, but his parents' donor, and he considered the "sperm donor" to be his "father." 

Kramer cited a study of 751 offspring (another term I'm not a huge fan of) who were "asked to select all of the different terms with which they referred to their donors; in response, 41% said "donor," 30% said "sperm donor," 28% said "biological father," 11.5% said "donor dad," 85.% used the term "father" and 4.5% used the term "genetic father," (p.8). It appears that this was specific to sperm donation and  includes same sex couples, where there may not be another "father " in the home. But it's kind of interesting to see all the different terms. Terms which I'm sure aren't a constant but that are tried on like different hats during a child's identity formation years. 

I have heard that some people with known donors or a surrogate refer to that other person as "Auntie" or "Uncle." Growing up I had a variety of aunts and uncles, family friends of my parents, who weren't related to me. If that terminology works for a family, why not?

And what about the term embryo donation versus embryo adoption? I use the terms somewhat interchangeably but many people may feel strongly one way or another. Momo is not genetically related to eith one of us, so does that inherently mean she is adopted or is that term reserved for the actual process of adoption? The embryo was donated by the couple, but it sure wasn't donated to us--we paid for it. While the clinic can't claim to charge for the embryo, they can charge for the medical procedure (which was about $3,000) and then they can charge an "administration fee" of $4,000. What was that for? The handful of emails and cycle coordination I did with the nurse? I suppose. The embryo was donated by the infertile couple, so I consider it quite an amazing gift, so the term donated embryo does actually work fine for me. 

It seems like there really isn't a right or wrong, but more a what feels right to each individual and family. What feels right to Noah and I might be different from what feels right to Momo, and we will have to respect that. I will never refer to her as our donor child, she is/will be our baby and Noah and I will be her parents. Not her adopted parents. Not her non-genetic parents. Mom and Dad. Mommy and Daddy. But she will know that there were silent partners out there who helped us find her and have her, and she will know how grateful we are to those people. 

Anyone has thoughts on this? Would love to hear.

Hubs Post: I Have Feelings. Finally.

I’m not an emotional guy. At all. Lately I’ve been joking with Maya that I’m getting soft (that doesn’t sound right). My heart kinda smiles when I’m around little girls (that really doesn’t sound right). It’s like I, gulp, care about people. And I’m - yeesh - growing feelings. Yuck. With a daughter, hopefully, on the way in T-minus 20 weeks, I’m afraid I’m quickly developing a sort of nurturing, warm feeling around people, that I’ve never had before in my life.

 

Have you seen INTERSTELLAR yet? Maya and I saw it today. I broke her out of house arrest bed rest and took her an entire block to the closest movie theater. There is a scene between Matthew McConaughey’s character and his daughter (no spoilers!). There is a discussion about a father making a promise to his daughter. I don’t know what happened. My sinuses got tight, my nose began to itch, and I started crying. Not just some “the Giants win the World Series!” watery eyes. Tears. Big ones. All down my face. I looked at Maya in a panic. What is happening to me? Am I getting soft? The movie wasn’t that good that it should make me cry like this. And yet there I was, Sunday afternoon, balling some emotional McConaughey tears.

 

I can’t remember the last time I cried. Chances are it was either a moment when a favorite sports team of mine won a championship (go Giants!!!) or I was listening to some emotionally charged singer-songwriter ballad after a few too many drinks (Jeff Buckley’s version of “Satisfied Mind” gets me every time). Even then, I’m sure it was more my eyes getting red and burning and then I managed to squeeze out a couple rain drops. Then today happened.

 

Maybe this is what I need to prepare for a daughter. Maybe this is what I’ve needed all along. Maybe I’m a real human after all. I have feelings! Bring on the little girls! (That didn’t sound right again but you get it!) 

 

Below is an example of my relationship with feelings.

 

 

What You Can Gain When You Let Go

I got another book I think will be helpful for anyone who has used the help of donors to create their family. It's called Finding Our Families by Wendy Kramer, the founder of the Donor Sibling Registry. I'm only a few chapters in and honestly, I'm not totally sure I'm going to finish reading it at this juncture, because I haven't really been focused on thinking about or processing what it means that Momo has siblings out there in the world and that she has genetic links to strangers we may or not be able to meet. I wonder about how it will all impact her as she begins to form her identity, but right now, I just want her to grow to be bigger than an avocado and know how loved she is. And I want for hematoma #2 to go away! I can't believe I have another blood monster! Whatever.

But one thing reading some of this book made me think about is how much Noah and I have gained by letting go of some things we felt strongly tied to in the beginning of our journey. Actually, it's this book mixed with the fact that I've been editing video footage of interviews Noah and I have done with each other at various junctures. Yesterday I worked on an interview segment from just before my sister donated eggs. She had offered and then had cold feet. Noah and I interviewed each other on a day we went to a meeting at an adoption agency, and were still waiting for my sis to make a final decision. He and I were in two very different places at that moment, and we discussed what we wanted. He wanted his "baby to made up of partly him," and I wanted out of this infertility lifestyle. My body was exhausted, my sister was unsure, and I felt comfortable with traditional adoption at that moment. Looking back and seeing how strongly Noah felt about his biological connection worried me a little, for a second. Then Noah got home, said his nightly hellos to Momo and talked about how much he loves her already. I'm not worried at all about how he feels about her, but it did make me think about what we've gained by letting go of our genetics.

IF Island is all about loss. It just is. We are all constantly losing something, giving up something, letting go of something we want and how we want it.  We lose time and money and friendships. We lose hope until we can find it again. We lose parts of ourselves, and many of us also lose babies that could have been. That's a major theme here on the Island. But sometimes in the loss, or in the letting go, comes a gain. By letting go of our genetic link, we have Momo. I have gained the opportunity to be P (even if I'm not great at it and it's been kind of a hot mess, I'm still P for the first time in my life and in the fours years we tried to get here). We have gained perspective into what's really important about making a family, and we've gained a deep understanding and respect for the miracle it is to be alive. We've gained patience and empathy and all those important virtues that will ultimately make us better people and better parents. We've gained a community and possibly, down the line, we could gain relationships with generous strangers--the original egg donor and her children of which I think there are at least three, the original infertile couple who donated Momo, and that would be the sperm contribution (I'm not crazy about the term biological dad so I say sperm) and the child they created, and possibly others. And if we never get to meet these anonymous strangers, then we've gained an appreciation for how generous strangers can be.  While it can be viewed as baggage, and perhaps a bit strange, I choose to see it as an incredible thing. I hope Momo feels the same way. 

It's sometimes hard to even fathom gaining anything on this Island, other than more heartbreak and debt. But sometimes, if you look closely and allow yourself to count the blessings, you may actually find a few. Letting go of our genetics will (hopefully in 20 weeks) have gained us a family. A baby, our baby. It didn't go down the way we hoped or planned, but I assume that when we finally meet her, we won't be able to imagine it any other way.

Wishing everyone a beautiful weekend. 

The Five Stages of Grief on IF Island

I just read a comment from a fellow Islander who has been on the Island for 4 years,  been through multiple cycles and procedures, and just got a negative beta on Wednesday and can't financially afford to continue down this path. Her first line to her comment was, "It's over for me." Just like all of us, all she wants is a family. And she appears to have done everything she possibly could to try and get that. My heart goes out to you and all those who are in the moment of feeling that it's over for them. I totally understand that, and have felt that way several times along our journey.

The worst time was after the egg donation cycle with my sister. It was such a rough time and I felt like I had hit whatever the place is that comes after rock bottom. It felt over. And in that moment maybe it was. Even though I always knew Noah and I would find a way to have a family, we were down for the count for some time, because we just didn't know how we would move forward--what we could do, what we could afford, what my body could handle, what our lives and relationship could handle--it was a definite moment of being on hold. But I like to think of it more as a hold, not over. 

I've been working on a book about our journey to parenthood, and am posting a short, semi-edited excerpt from something I wrote after our first IVF proved unfruitful: 

...According to the Kubler-Ross model known as the “Five Stages of Grief,” I was clearly transitioning from anger to bargaining to depression, at warp speed.

The “Five Stages of Grief” theory states simply that there are identifiable stages that most people commonly experience when there is a loss. Though usually this refers to a death, it’s applicable here, as it is with any grief. These stages aren’t necessarily linear, and they often overlap or repeat.  I realized I’d been cycling through these stages repeatedly with every new loss.

 The first stage is Denial. This is how Noah and I put our feelings on hold to get through the Holidays with a smile. We just “tabled” the fact that we had just failed an IVF cycle, and that our chance to become parents felt slimmer than before. We pretended my body was not full of hormones, some not FDA approved, and that we had nothing to show for our efforts.  It didn’t seem real.  So we chose not to think about it, because there was nothing we could do. 

 When January arrived, I entered the second stage, Anger. Pure, overwhelming anger. We were unsure of our next step, and having no plan upset me.   I was so very full of anger,  but I wasn’t sure where to direct it.  So I found a way to pick fights and put myself in situations that could only make me angrier. Whereas anger is normal and probably a necessary step towards healing, I can tell you first hand, it sucks.

 Then comes Bargaining.  That’s what I was doing when taking that pregnancy test, what I do every time I take a pregnancy test. I bargain. If…then…I promise…I swear…please. While our embryos were dying a slow non-cell dividing death, I found myself bargaining a lot. I thought about what I “should” have done differently, and felt guilty for getting my family so invested. I wished and prayed and ultimately moved to the next stage, Depression.

Over the last two years, I’ve been in and out feeling depressed during our effort to make a family. But the depression that comes directly after a specific loss is a debilitating gloom that’s different than the cyclical sadness I’ve felt throughout this process...

I believed getting a puppy would help me enter the final stage of grief, that of Acceptance... We did get a rescue puppy, but the week we got her I had three deaths in my family and had to give the puppy up. The timing was not good. I re-entered the stages of grief for different reasons, but I did come to the point of accepting that our first and only IVF cycle with my eggs didn't work and I would have to let go of my biology. After spending a month funeral hopping Noah and I were ready to figure out the next plan. And we did. And then we figured out the plan that came after that when we had to. And then the next plan after that plan didn't work. I couldn't have fathomed any of the plans we attempted at the time of sadness coming off that first unsuccessful cycle. 

When our hearts are broken and we feel completely devastated we just aren't functioning at our usual capacity. We are broken and sad and hopeless and angry, and justifiably so. But it is in these moments that I tried to just tell myself right now I am empty. Right now I am lost. Right now there are no solutions. But it won't be like this always, and I won't feel like this always. Giving myself time to grieve and process and pause without making any decisions or judgments (easier said than done) helped me not feel all was lost and over, but that I was just falling through space and time holding the pieces of my broken heart in my hands and hoping something would break my fall. Right after another disappointment is the time that it's most important to heal and take care of yourself and your partner and not make decisions. Sometimes there comes a point where it is over and people decide to live child-free. That is a very hard decision to make but understandable for some. But other times the despair and sadness require a time-out so things can be reassessed and goals can be redefined. And out of the destruction often comes a new idea, a new possibility, a new solution.

Each situation is very different and sometimes seeking professional help from a good therapist can help with this process. I send so much love to all those feeling empty right now. All I can say is I've been there and I get it. But I also know that sometimes we are empty and sometimes we are full, and sometimes we are somewhere in-between. That's the changing nature of life and being human and that nothing stays the same forever.

 

A Family Addition

Last night, my pregnant sister-in-law had her baby. Noah and I were on pins and needles for much of the day as Noah received text updates from his brother. We were both genuinely excited and nervous--for them in the moment, and for us in the future. Noah and I have spent so long trying to get something to grow in me, we didn't really think about getting it out. I am still so focused on keeping Momo in I can't imagine the exit strategy. Learning the play by play of birth was...a lot to take in. 

All went well for them and a new human being is officially on the grid. This whole process of making life is so amazing and insane--beautiful and painful. I know Noah and I got to feel the thrill of their experience partly because we know Momo is coming too. Is that terribly selfish? Maybe. But it's the truth. I don't know how I would have felt if we had just come off another unsuccessful cycle or a loss. I don't know how it would be if we were in the process of getting matched with a birth mom through an adoption agency, or had just taken out a loan to pay for an anonymous egg donor. I'd like to think I would be just as excited and that I'd be able to put my own self and situation aside to fully appreciate theirs, but I don't know. There is something specific about infertility that stings at the core, and creates some of the most unwanted feelings of jealousy or frustration. I didn't feel that last night. I just felt happy (and a little terrified of birth, but I'm not there yet.)

I haven't been very present for much of their pregnancy process and I woke up wondering if I was even going to be welcomed to play the role of Auntie, and figure out what that really means. Being on IF Island while friends and family are frolicking around Fertile Farms is a tough spot. Many people you want to support or who you want to be supported by just can't. It's a very hard thing to logically explain but a wedge gets created and both sides start to drift. That's at least what I've found to be a common situation. My mother always said how I handled myself in the moment was important, because one day things would be different. Sometimes I felt I could handle myself well, sometimes I couldn't. Sometimes I feel regret,and sometimes I recognize I did and am still doing the very best I can. I always try to be honest with others, but more importantly with myself. 

Last night when their baby was born and we got a first glimpse, Noah said, "looks like she has my brother's mouth, kind of." We were already looking at identifying the baby through the parents--one of the most common things we all do. Who does she look like? I had an overwhelming feeling in that moment of gratitude. It was weird. I thought I'd be sad or something, that Noah and I won't have that experience of finding our traits in Momo's face, but I wasn't. I felt so thankful to the egg donor and the couple who donated Momo as an embryo, for giving us this chance to grow and make and have Momo. I have no idea what or who Momo will look like, so she will just have to look like herself. I know one thing though, yesterday when I saw her on the ultrasound at the doctor's office, the doc said she looked like she had long legs. Yay for donated genetics, because long legs were not something I would have been able to pass down! (Did I mention the egg donor was 5'11? And I'm 5'5 in heels? Again, terrified about the exit strategy).

Momo is kind of saving our lives right now. It's a lot of pressure, perhaps, on a 17 week old fetus, but it's true. She was waving on the ultrasound yesterday and the placenta previa is slowly making it's way away from my cervix, which hopefully will mean no more blood baths. I'll keep resting for another month and hopefully it will resolve soon. 

My friend Candace once said that adoption is not a cure for infertility. She adopted her incredible baby boy and her life is forever changed. She is a mom now, and that's her main focus, but when she said that adoption isn't a cure, that kind of struck me. Having Momo won't cure our infertility, but it will give us a different focal point. The whole journey (that's still going) has given us an experience and an appreciation that we wouldn't have been able to have otherwise. 

Sending love and wishes that everyone on the Island will soon find a different focus. 

More Ramblings on Relationship Survival

I've written a lot about relationship survival on IF Island and just wrote a piece for Fertility Authority about it again, because I think it's an important topic that a lot of people/couples might struggle with. 

Infertility can take a toll on a marriage or committed partnership. You and your sig fig might not always be on the same page, and the stress of living with infertility often creates this intense pressure-- emotionally pressure, physical pressure, financial pressure. I often felt a pressure to figure it out. I'm a problem solver. I like to analyze a situation and come up with creative solutions, as do many others here on IF Island. The problem with infertility, though, is that sometimes, often times, the problem can't exactly be identified, and the solutions often have a very low chance of success. We all have to weigh in risk factors and time factors and financial factors while at the same time many of us are trying to grieve some specific losses we might feel. Having a partner on the journey with you can be very supportive, but can also cause some tension. 

One thing I wrote about in the recent blog for Fertility Authority is the importance of remembering that you and your partner are on the same team. Team Get Us Off the Island and Get Us a Baby! Sometimes it will be just the two of you and a doctor to whom you pay a lot of money on that Island. Sometimes there will be a lot more people. Our team has shifted over time. Many friends were very supportive in the beginning, but after years of infertility treatments it became a little exhausting for them I think. Also, many of them got pregnant in the time Noah and I were trying, and that created a rift. 

All relationships get affected by infertility--friendships, work relationships, family relationships, even your relationship with yourself. Sometimes relationships can change for the better. I have several friends who have really stuck by me, and we are closer than ever now. My parents have been an incredible source of support, and I think our experience on IF Island has changed them in positive ways as well. And Noah and I are stronger than ever. Many people comment that going through the challenges that infertility brings has made their relationship and communication much better and stronger. I believe in that. I believe that within the chaos and destruction that infertility brings into ones life, some peace and growth can be found. But I also know there can be some tough times and its common to lose some friendships. 

So what's my point? To remember that there is an opportunity to learn something about ourselves and our partners in the madness of infertility. To always be honest with yourself and your other, and to know that you might not problem solve in the same way but that you do have the same goal. To try and communicate in a way that everyone can feel good about, and when needed, to take a time out. To take care of yourself and to try to remember your friends and family are doing the best they can, even if sometimes it doesn't feel that way. And to always, always be kind to yourself and your body. 

Happy Friday IF Island! Sending lots of love this weekend. 

We're Driving Each Other Bananas!

Well, actually, I'm driving him bananas. Bed rest take two, week two begins today and let me say we survived week one by the skin of our teeth. Is that the saying? So weird. 

I've written about the challenges IF Island can have on a relationship many times before, specifically in these few posts. Mostly I've written about the common relationship stressors and the various ways Noah and I have gotten through them. I do feel our relationship is stronger from our experiences and we definitely communicate better. But sometimes the daily grind of what's happening on IF Island and beyond can just kind of make you drive each other crazy.

Being on round two of bed rest (not counting short stints post transfers), means its old news. The first time around was in August with the hematoma. I was so terrified and so sick and nauseous that I could hardly eat or move and basically just moaned in bed, which kind of made things easier. I wasn't as conscious. This time around, Momo is stronger so I'm a little more confident, and I'm more alert, which makes me more frustrated and bossy. I'm very aware of that. And so is Noah.

I am very lucky to have a wonderfully patient husband, but he's a) at work for about 10 hours a day b) forgetful c) exhausted when he gets home. I on the other hand am a) in bed or shuffling around the house for about 10 hours a day b) super specific (slightly OCD) about how I like things c) awake and ready to bark my needs the second he walks through the door. While I am not just flat on my back all day, I can do some things around the house, I notice I start spotting more when I'm upright and more "active." And that makes me panic. So I'm trying to be still and I definitely can't do things like go to the market or climb a ladder to change a light bulb (that's been out for weeks but I'm trying not to notice). I feel helpless and useless which in turn makes me frustrated. Then Noah gets home from his long day and I feel guilty asking him to do all these things and really, I don't want him to go to the market, I want him to hang out with me. But the next day when there's no food in the house, I'm angry that there's no food in the house. See where this is going? In circles. 

Last night we talked about this merry-go-round we're riding. It was almost 10pm and I had a really weird cramp in my left pelvic area that started sharp and went dull and is still there (?), so I was, surprise, in bed, and asked him to bring me a bowl of cereal. He brought up a giant bowl overflowing with cereal, about a half an inch of milk and giant slices of bananas. I suddenly wanted to cry (also, I think the hormones are kicking up a notch, is that possible?). It was so...clumsy and not how I wanted it. On the one hand I was so appreciative that I have him and he was bringing me a late night snack and he actually does take very good care of me, but on the other hand, the milk to cereal ratio just made me feel like crying. I didn't want to criticize his efforts and ask him to go back downstairs to get more milk, but I also didn't really want to eat it dry. First world problems, right? I ended up saying something bitchy about how giant the bowl was and he snapped back something rude like, "well, don't eat it if you don't want all of it."

We were both at our limits and we recognized that right away. The years we've spent learning to problem solve on the Island have taught us how to take a step back and discuss a situation like grown ups. We ended up having a good conversation about how we communicate what we want as well as our disappointments. We avoided another mango meltdown by acknowledging my own limitations and frustrations and how for years things just haven't gone the way I would choose or want. And we acknowledged how Noah has taken on a double load and how some of those duties he just doesn't like or isn't great at. And we came up with a plan of how we were going to tackle the next week. I explained my preference for thinly sliced bananas and he laughed at me. Order was restored. 

I am going to continue to try and be more flexible and patient with him, myself and the situation. He is going to try to remember to do some of the things I ask and work on his plating presentation. And we are going to get through this. 

A special thanks to my friend's who've come by and brought food and good company--you're helping more than you know! 

Committing to Being Your Best Self

I just got back from being up north for my sister's wedding. It was a beautiful day and a super exhausting weekend. She was so happy and my family felt fully able to celebrate. Momo was very much a part of the celebration, too. The last several times my family was together like this was for funerals-- Noah and I were coming off of some kind of "failed" cycle and the tears shed were not happy ones. This weekend was finally different, and I felt complete gratitude for it.

For much of the wedding day, Noah was busy filming the ceremony and running around with my cousins, while I was helping my sis and chatting away. We didn't see much of each other, but every so often I'd look over and catch him laughing or giving my dad a hard time in good fun. He was happy. And it made me think about our own wedding day over six years ago, and how happy we both were then. I've celebrated several anniversaries on this blog writing about hitting that developmental milestone of marriage and having every naive expectation to smoothly sail to the next destination of parenthood only to have the ship come to a screeching halt. 

For this weekend, my sister asked me to write a speech about love and commitment to read during the ceremony, just after they did their vows. I started by talking about my sis and her beau and ended talking about what it means to fully commit to something or someone. For me, to commit fully to someone means to love them through the good, bad and  the ugly. It means waking up every morning with nothing but respect and love in your heart for that person. It means promising to challenge each other and support each other in growing and learning and becoming the best version of yourself. It means being grateful for every day you have together and vowing to always make the other person laugh and smile. Those were my basic thoughts, and it's how Noah and I have tried to be since our own wedding, and how we've tried to approach living on IF Island together. 

Living on IF Island takes another form of commitment. One that involves committing to finding a way to create a family. Once you've landed on IF Island, it's almost as if you have to commit to doing your best, being open to the process, and trying not to lose hope. There's no right or wrong way to approach being on IF Island. It's a very personal experience and each person/couple has to do what they feel is right for them. For Noah and I, we decided we were going to commit fully to finding Momo. We didn't know how or where she'd be, we just knew we weren't leaving this Island without her. We may have had to change our tactics if we were stuck here for longer, and I have so much respect for people who know when to call it.  Sometimes the commitment to doing whatever it takes becomes too much and your commitment to your own life and self and relationship must take priority. But I also know that many of us IF Islanders are determined and committed people who get back up time and again after being knocked down and eventually find a way off the Island. We keep our eye on the prize and truly learn how to become the best version of ourselves. I know I was the worst version of myself for several years, but I had faith that I'd find my way again. There is something in just trusting the process. In total destruction we find a way to rebuild in a stronger and studier way. 

I'm exactly sure where I'm going with all of this. Just my rambling thoughts on a Monday afternoon. But I think part of my reflections about life and love and commitment and partnership and not knowing where the road might lead you just speaks to the very nature of being alive and trying to be your best self every day. 

Wedding Bells

In a few hours--ummm, I really should get out of bed and get dressed--I'm headed to Nor Cal for my sister's wedding. I'm excited for her that this is finally happening! Last week, my sis asked Noah to film the ceremony and Noah grumbled. It's gotten to the point where Noah has become the free videographer at nearly every wedding we go to, and I understand how it's a little annoying. But I looked at him as he got his grumpy on and said, "She gave us her eggs!" That's all I had to say.

We will forever be indebted to my sister for her generous contribution to our process, even though it didn't work. My sister offered to help us last year. We didn't think we would actually get to that point, but we did, and while she had some hesitations when it was time to step up to bat, she donated with such grace and generosity. She didn't complain at all. She was amazing.

After it didn't work I felt terrible. I couldn't believe she went through all that she did and we had nothing to show for it. But Noah helped me put that in check immediately. We tried. She tried. And it was an experience and a gift we will never take for granted. All of these things we've done have been part of our journey, part of the steps we needed to take to know we did all we could. Noah insists we never look back. We only appreciate and learn from the past and  move forward.

OMG. Really--I have to get up and leave for the airport in 30 min and I'm not packed. Ok. So I'll just say that I'm excited to celebrate her this weekend and be with my family. And I wish everyone a great weekend. 

Things Just Got Real

Our cell free DNA test came in and everything looks normal. Noah and I exhaled a sigh of relief. Then we read on. Momo is actually Momoko. Momo is a girl!Or as Noah has just clarified, Momo is not yet a girl but is going to be a girl. The parts have to be formed I guess. Yikes. 

Of course we are thrilled that it appears healthy so far and is human. But I think Noah and I, for some reason assumed Momo was a boy. A boy was made from the this batch of embryos in 2010. So there is a full genetic male sibling out there. And knowing that just made me assume Momo was going to be a boy, because I'm an idiot and that's how my brain works. Also, I think we just pictured raising a boy.

But now we are picturing something else. The fact that I suddenly am picturing something is different. Suddenly S$*T just got real! In a good way. 

When I read the test results to Noah, his face went white. He suddenly saw pink tutus swirling in his brain and he said, "I don't know how to do that." We don't know how to do any of this. I don't know the difference between a hard or soft cheese or if I can drink a fresh squeezed juice. All we both know is infertility. We know how to measure vials of menopur and what a typical follicle count should be. But we also know we can learn, do, and figure out anything that comes our way. That's what four years on IF Island has taught us. No eggs? No money? No genetic connection? No problem. We figured out how to get this little girl cooking with very few ingredients. 

So I have faith in Noah that he will figure out how to braid hair and sing the theme song to Frozen. And I will not freak out about the sudden responsibility I feel to grow this gal and not give her an anxiety disorder in utero.

Last year at this time I was coming off an unsuccessful cycle and trying to find a moment of relief from feeling crappy by way of a cardio hip hop class. We never thought we'd see this day. Four years in a dark hole often blocks the light. But I think the lesson here is always know there is a little light, even if it is just a speck. We on IF Island are problem solvers. We are warriors. We are determined. And some how, some way we find ways to survive the madness and relish in the moments of calm. I don't feel calm yet, but each day feels a step closer. 

Sending lots of love to everyone out there. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's gonna happen, just believe it

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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. 

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.

IVF Sisterhood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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. 

The Pregnant Sister-in-Law

I’ve gotten several emails over the past few weeks from fellow IF Islanders who are dealing with the difficult emotions of having a pregnant sister-in-law. I’ve kind of avoided writing about this topic because I too have a pregnant sister-in-law, and I think she occasionally reads this blog. While I wanted to protect her privacy for a while, I also wanted to write when I could do so from a place of love.

There’s something specific about the pregnant SIL. If my own sister got pregnant, I’d be thrilled—even though she’s 3 ½ years younger and not yet married! When she donated eggs to me, the cycle raised some concerns about her own fertility, and I pray every day that she will never go through what Noah and I are going through. But the pregnant SIL is a different thing for some reason.

I have one friend who had been on IF Island for two years, had gone through several IVF’s and the day after she had an early miscarriage, her SIL, her husband’s younger brother’s wife, announced she was pregnant at a big family dinner. My friend ran from the room crying. She couldn’t help it. The feelings were so raw. Her brother and sister-in-law didn’t know what my friend and her husband had just gone through, so the announcement wasn’t at all spiteful, it was just their news.

The news that my SIL is pregnant came to us a few months ago. Noah’s younger brother sent us an email, and again, as all pregnancy announcements do, feelings of dysfunction and unfairness and frustration began to swell. On the one hand, I was genuinely happy for them and for our family. I will be this child’s only aunt (I think, or one of two, whatever, I will be this child’s favorite aunt). I am very close with my aunts and look forward to the relationship Noah and I will have with this little person. We have a small family and I am happy Noah’s brother and his wife didn’t struggle. But on the other hand, these feelings of…deserving come up. I feel like a jerk writing that down, but I don’t think it’s an uncommon feeling. Noah and I have been trying for longer than his brother and sister-in-law have known each other. His brother is 3+ years younger and will have a child who is genetically his and his families. It is likely Noah will not, and while we no longer feel that means all that much, it’s something. It’s still somehow unfair. Noah’s response to these feelings of mine is, “If I can’t have a biological kid, my brother should be the one to.” True. I guess it just brings up hard feelings of guilt and loss and sadness for me because I’m once again reminded that my body is the root cause of our infertility.

The length of time a couple has been together and how hard it was for them to conceive have somehow become markers for me of whether that couple is deserving or not. It’s totally absurd perhaps, but sometimes you can’t help the rules your brain creates. One of my co-workers has had two kids in the time we’ve been trying. I’m ok with that. She’s older than I am and had been trying for a while before her family came together. Another co-worker was divorcing his first wife when Noah and I started trying. His second child with another woman is due this week. That feels less ok. I don’t know why. It just does. What I have to remember is that my brain isn’t always right. Just because my brain decides someone is less deserving does not make it true. Just because I think or feel something, does not make it fact. Everyone is entitled to follow their bliss and create the best life they can for themselves. Everyone is equally deserving of having a family. Noah and I are just as deserving, not necessarily more, of having the family we desire. Unfortunately we just haven’t been as lucky.

What sometimes makes pregnancy announcements within a family extra hard is that it builds a deeper wedge of misunderstanding. If one person is filled with light and life and another is filled with heartbreak and repetitive bad news, who is the attention going to follow?

Someone wrote me the other day about being pregnant at the same time as her SIL. But this person miscarried while her SIL continues to have a healthy pregnancy. Her SIL is due a within a week of when her baby would be have been due. This person will have to watch her mother celebrate her SIL and the new baby, and will be constantly reminded of her loss and what could have been.

Sometimes friendships get parked when one person gets sequestered to IF Island and another person celebrates the expansion of their family. It’s a crappy but common situation for many. But this kind of separation often can’t happen within a family. So what’s a person to do?

I’ve always been a very big believer in trying to increase understanding through communication. Honestly expressing the conflicting feelings of being excited for and saddened by a pregnancy may help you feel heard. But I have to admit sometimes it doesn’t work. Sometimes fertile and hyper-fertile people just can’t fathom the experience of trying everything possible to achieve something they were able to achieve in one shot. Literally. Sometimes people feel pity, sometimes they compare your fertility struggles to other life struggles they have had. Bottom line is that sometimes others just may not get your pain.

I have learned to understand that that is ok. I remind myself that no one is getting pregnant to hurt me or to make me feel bad. It’s not about me at all. Everyone has the right to move forward in their lives and to experience the joys and excitement of pregnancy. I have choices in how I handle the situation. Sometimes I feel the need to protect myself and give myself space, sometimes I push myself to open my heart the best I can, and share in the joy for another person. It really depends on the day.

My SIL happens to live in the same state we are hopefully traveling to for our embryo adoption. So while I will be getting massive progesterone shots in the butt and praying that this donated little embie sticks, she will be going through her second trimester with that pregnant glow. And that’s just what it is. I have to try and think about the bigger picture. I know she wants the best for us and hopes that this works. I know that I care about her deeply, and she feels the same way about me. Her pregnancy will one day feel like a blessing, and I will have a niece or nephew who I can spoil and love. One day, my SIL and I will have things in common, and we will be able to share in the joys and pitfalls of parenting.

A Baby Shower I was Excited to Attend

Yesterday, Noah and I went to a "welcome baby" shower for one of the couples we interviewed for our film. You can see a clip of Candace and Tommaso here.

Anyway, Candace and Tommaso spent years on IF Island and yesterday they proudly introduced their 4 month old baby, Max, who they adopted at birth. Max is amazing. He's beautiful and healthy, and so are they. After all their struggles, 9 IVF's, surgeries, miscarriages--you name it, they went through it--the two of them are finally off the Island, and let me tell you, it looks good on them.  It gave me a lot of hope that eventually we will get our life back, and it will be sweeter and fuller and better.

Max is 100% their son. He belongs with them. He completes them. I know they wouldn't have it any other way. But did they need to go through all they did to end up with that particular child? I'm not sure. They really went through a lot. I try to think that what is meant to be is meant to be and that timing works in such a way that the child that is meant to be will be. But I'm not totally sure. If our little Momotaro works, will I say we had to go through everything we did for timing to be just right for him or her to be ours? I just don't know. But what I do know is that holding baby Max yesterday, I felt, with no doubt in my heart, that I can and will love and embrace any baby that comes into our lives. You just don't think about DNA when you're finger is being gripped in the palm of a tiny hand. 

The "coming out" party, as they were calling it, felt different from other baby showers I've been to. There was a common understanding of the struggle to create a family, and there was so much love and support in the room. Even though Noah and I didn't have a baby of our own, we didn't feel out of place. It was a nice afternoon.

Noah and I have sought out couples who have built their family in alternative ways, because it gives us hope that there are different ways to make a family. A family is a group of people who love each other and will go to the end of the earth for each other. In the end, that's what matters. 

*Just as an aside here, Noah and I are looking to interview someone/couple who has successfully used an egg donor and someone/couple who has conceived (or is pregnant) using a sperm donor. If you're in the Los Angeles or California area and are interested in being part of our documentary, please contact me. That's my casting call. 

 

Relationship Survival on IF Island

Today is our six year anniversary. Click here for my blog post from our fifth year anniversary. Ugh. If I’m still writing this on our eighth anniversary will someone please check me into the nearest mental institution. For all you Islanders who have been here for that long I have so much respect! Anyway, I found this video clip of us talking over a year ago, and it made me remember why I love Noah so much.

 

 

 

Infertility can be rough on a relationship. It’s stressful and expensive and just freaking terrible in every sense of the word. When we first got married, we made a promise that every year we would go out of the country. Travel and adventure are important to us, and for the first few years of our marriage we were able to fulfill that promise. But once we officially landed on IF Island, our days of adventure went out the window. All of our money and time went directly to my uterus, and we stood by as we watched our life as we knew it slowly circle the drain.  One thing led to another and somehow we have spent four out of the six years we have been married battling infertility.

 

What I can honestly say, though, is that we are actually stronger as a couple. We have had some hard times, no doubt, but being in this ongoing crisis has taught us how to communicate, how to make decisions, and how to have each others back. No matter what. This wasn’t always the case. Early on, I did feel some resentment because I felt like I was putting in a lot more time and effort into figuring things out. I was upset about all my body had to endure, and sometimes I felt like he just wasn’t paying attention. I don’t feel that way anymore. Now I know he understands how I feel, even if he doesn’t agree. He accepts my obsessive nature and I accept that he can fall asleep in two minutes without worrying about something fertility related.  We appreciate each others strengths and try to support each other when needed.

 

Almost everything that happens during an ART cycle happens to my body.  I think Noah took two antibiotics before the day of my egg retrieval and had to jerk off into a cup a few times. That’s about the extent of what he has had to do physically. I’ve felt so crappy for so long, and one of the things I most appreciate is his ability to give my body some credit, and cut it some slack. The body that plops down next to him in bed every night is not the body he married six years ago, and is most certainly not the body he fell in love with 14 years ago. But it is the body that is desperately trying to carry a child that will be ours. It’s a body that has been bruised and poked and prodded and knocked down countless times, but is able to get back up to keep moving forward for our family. My body has taken one for the team, and he knows it. That understanding and appreciation helps me keep going.

 

If our relationship can survive IF Island with just a few scratches, then we can survive just about anything. We know how to be a team, and that will serve us well when we finally become parents.

A Pain in the A$$

I'm not going to lie. Today was rough. Today sucked. It was just one of those days where by noon I wanted to scream, "I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS IS MY LIFE!" I can't believe I've spent four years running in circles. I can't believe how desperate and alone I feel at times. I can't believe friends and co-workers are having second babies. The pregnancy announcements keep coming in, and while I do genuinely feel happy for friends who've been blessed with an easy time, it serves as yet another reminder of our struggle. I feel broken all over again. I feel guilty Noah can't have a genetic child because of me...all those feelings flood back in with every pregnancy announcement. I wish it didn't. As much as I've worked through a lot of those feelings, they still exist. And it is because of these feelings, perhaps, that Noah and I have become so isolated from friends. Friends who we know are celebrating their baby's first birthday-- we just aren't invited anymore. The choice to participate isn't ours. And that just adds to the feeling that I can't believe this is my life.

As I was waiting for the nurse to call me back this afternoon, I had a moment where I was totally and utterly ready to throw in the towel. It was nothing specific, just an overwhelming sense that I don't want to live like this anymore. I know it's a choice. Kind of. I know I'm back on hormones and that is impacting my thought process. I know I just have to be patient. But there are definitely those moments where you just feel fed up--enough is enough.

Noah came home from work and gave me my first shot of delestrogen in the butt. He got half of the liquid in, but pulled the shot out too soon and had to re-shoot me. It was glorious. And we put a heating pad on my butt and watched the Giants play some terrible baseball. We crossed out another day on our cycle calendar and folded laundry, and I continued to worry about how I would handle it if Momotaro, our donated embryo, doesn't work. I ate a half a bag of chocolate chips and broke out into an estrogen induced sweat. 

"Is it really hot in here, or is it me?" I asked. He's heard this line before. He smiled and we slow danced to a Lumineers song and I reminded myself how I would handle it if Momotaro doesn't work. I just would. We just would. And I never thought I could love a person as much as I love and appreciate Noah. And I never thought this is where I would be in my life, at 34, in a ratty T-shirt, blogging about my baby making foibles. Yet here I am. 

As part of the documentary we've been making, (which we just got some amazing editors to work on!) Noah and I have interviewed many people who have survived IF Island. At these low moments, I sometimes watch back footage from these interviews. That's part of why we are making this film, to be able to share these hopeful stories. Noah has to edit some video for me to put up, because the people we talked to are so great. People shared stories of doing all kinds of procedures, IUI and IVF, donor eggs, surrogacy, adoption-- and each one of them ended up with the baby that was meant to be theirs.  They struggled, they spent years of their lives and tens of thousands of dollars, but they created their family, and couldn't see it happening any other way. Some didn't carry their baby, some are not genetically related to their children, some miraculously conceived naturally after they were told they would never be able to conceive. Watching these clips helps me remember that one day this stage will be over. One day we will have a child and we will look back on these dark infertility years as the time in our lives when we learned who we really are and what we are really made of. And we will be able to say we were brave and patient and determined. That gives me hope, which is what I desperately need to cultivate right now. 

Sending everyone on IF Island a little love and a little hope. 

 

Hubs post: Beta results

This wasn't supposed to happen - the chance to conceive naturally this month. This strange detour from our donated embryo up in Seattle wasn't supposed to turn into anything. And it didn't. Maya got her beta blood test results back and they matched the home test she took at 6:00am this morning. No go. Not pregnant. We're disappointed, obviously. It sucks. I'm sad. Maya's frustrated. But, again, this wasn't supposed to happen. We weren't supposed to even think about conceiving naturally. Now, we lick our wounds and get ready to go to Seattle and get that embryo that's waiting for us.

My wife is awesome and tough and - like you - doesn't deserve a day of this journey. But here we are and here we go. Shots, ultrasounds, and then a flight to the great Northwest to put in place a very giant piece of our family's puzzle.

Maya's slammed at work today but she'll update the situation later. Thank you for reading and for tweeting and for commenting and showing so much support to my wife. It gives her strength in a way you cannot fully know. 

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"Let's try and salvage this cycle."

Said my RE this morning. I wanted to throw my arms around him. He's been so good to us, and I realized how important it is to find an RE that's a good fit. But that's a topic for another day. Yes! Let's SALVAGE!

After my very disappointing ultrasound and the Seattle clinic cancelling my cycle, I had a thought. Could I possibly get pregnant this month? Could the gal who's been trying to get pregnant for FOUR YEARS, been through several IUI's and IVF and IVF with donor eggs--who was preparing for an embryo adoption, get pregnant naturally after being on birth control and Lupron? Poetic justice!

At the appointment with my RE on Monday, I asked him if I could get pregnant with the three follicles that looked like they were about to burst out of my ovary, and he shrugged, "maybe." I think he knows better than to use the words never, always, or impossible with me. I seem to prove him and modern science wrong more often than not. But my lining was thin at 4mm, so he suggested I just try naturally and hope for the best. 

That night, I started to think about how to get my lining up, and at the suggestion of Gilli, my trusted acupuncturist, I emailed my RE and asked if I could start taking estrogen. He wrote back some directions and I started scavenging for left over meds. I found a bottle of Estrace (estrogen), six expired progesterone pills, five Endometrin progesterone suppositories, and 17 Crinone progesterone inserts, and wha la! A little makeshift natural-ish cycle! I started taking estrogen on Tuesday and went in to see my RE this morning. Low and behold my lining was up to 7mm and the three follicles were still sitting there. The nurse gave me a shot of HCG to trigger ovulation and the RE instructed me to "make love" at a specific time the next day.

"I think I still know how to do that," I said. The concept of having sex to make a baby is completely foreign to me now. I can't even fathom it, but the whole thing feels just crazy enough for me to feel hopeful. A chance is a chance, however slim. I will continue to plan for the next step and remain completely open and curious about who our baby may be and where it may come from. 

So Noah and I have some doctor's orders to follow this weekend. We won't hold our breaths, but will ride this wave and see where we land. 

Never underestimate the power of hormones

I wanted to write today as a little reminder about what goes on when you live on IF Island, so that we can all take a minute here to step back and be more forgiving and kind to ourselves. Here goes: First, you try to make a baby the old fashioned way, spending months or years testing ovulation and temperature charting and obsessing month after month. The you finally see an RE, do a bunch of tests, and get some heartbreaking news. Then you try a bunch of other stuff, IUI, IVF-- all the while trying to maintain a job, a relationship, life responsibilities, all that jazz. You end up gaining weight that sticks your ass like flies on honey, and feel gross. Then all of your friends and co-workers get pregnant and go on to have babies, while you're standing there, trying to shove said ass into a pair of jeans that used to fit. You can't do many of the things you used to because all of your money is going to your lady parts in some way, and all the while you're jacked up on some kind of hormone that manipulates your system and your mood. HOW ARE ANY OF US STILL STANDING AND NOT COMPLETELY INSANE?

Can we take a minute here to pat ourselves on the back and recognize that if we can wake up in the morning, brush our teeth and be in society without incident, we are exceeding expectations! These meds, from the gateway drug Clomid to the urine of post-menopausal nun's pee in Menopur to what's being shot into my belly every night to shut down my reproductive system, Lupron, are all serious meds with serious side effects. Many of those side effects are emotional! So we go through all this highly emotional stuff, and then we have to pump some cramp into our bodies to completely throw us off our rockers! WTF! 

Clomid was one of the worst ones for me. I nearly ripped Noah's face off with my bare hands. I felt completely crazy. Since it was my first time on any medication like this, I didn't know what to expect, and even though I knew I felt...totally insane, I still didn't think it was strictly the pills. I thought it was just me. My OBGYN never told me there could be significant emotional side effects! When I did some of the other injectables, I knew that the mood swings were probably related, but there is this expectation that we just deal with it. That it's somehow normal and we all need to just keep on trucking. Well...it's not normal. It's not who we are. And it's not going to be like this forever. I knew how bad I felt on meds only after I was off for six months. I had spent YEARS on some kind of medication, in some cycle, either stimulating or shutting down my system. And I felt like complete crap physically, mentally, and emotionally. Only in retrospect can I look back and say, "Huh, I was a lil cray, back then." I had an emotional breakdown over stamps one day that...well, was an emotional breakdown over stamps.

Now that It's been about a week on Lupron, I'm starting to remember that feeling of being medicated. I slowly become a slightly different version of myself. But as an IF Island veteran, I can watch for the signs and know that this isn't the real me. This is the Lupron version of me. With that understanding I can be more patient, I can be more loving, I can treat myself well and take care of myself, and most importantly, I can warn those around me. 

Sending love and wishing everyone on IF Island some patience with yourself and the process. Even when you aren't directly shooting up, the meds linger and last. When all else fails, blame it on the hormones! Stay strong!

The Difficult Decision to Live Child-Free

I haven't written much about the choice of living without children after infertility because Noah and I aren't there, yet. I add the "yet" because after four years on IF Island, I know that nothing is definite. Thoughts, ideas, feelings, decisions, and what seems best at a given time are all constantly changing. And because we haven't come to this decision, I don't know if I feel...qualified to really write about it, so anyone who has made this choice, please comment and chime in. It's an important dialogue to have.

Just after our first IVF cycle was unsuccessful, someone asked me if we had considered not having kids. I responded with a very blunt, "No." You could almost hear the period at the end of the word when I said it. It was not something we had considered, it was not part of our "plan." Cut to two years, more ART treatments including an unsuccessful round of IVF with my sister's donated eggs, and  tens of thousands of dollars later, I can now say, "yes." We have considered it, but it's not the choice we have made for now. We have talked about how much longer we can stand living on IF Island. We have wondered what our lives would be like if we grow old together, just the two of us and perhaps a few furry friends. And we have talked to several people/couples who have made that decision.

One couple I know did a few rounds of IVF and decided this was not how they wanted to spend their time or their money. They knew their chances were very slim because of a variety of factors, and they did not want to go the donor or adoption route. So they made the choice to pour all their love into their dog and into exploring hobbies that made them happy. They spent quality time with their nieces and nephews and redefined their goals and their path. They reconnected to each other and found a way to move forward. They took the time to process and grieve this loss, and they are happy, well adjusted people, who actually say they don't feel like something is missing. They have found other ways to be generative, that don't involve reproduction, and have refocused their energy and creativity on ways of giving back to the world. And they travel and have disposable income and all that jazz. I know another couple who has lived child-free for many years and is now considering adopting an older child through the foster care system. You just never know how things may play out.

I think it's important to remember that living without children after infertility is not throwing in the towel. It's not giving up or walking away. It's a very difficult and heartbreaking choice for many, but it is a choice. Living child-free is making a conscious decision to do something that feels right for you.  It's reclaiming a certain degree of power over your life, and making a commitment to happiness in a different, perhaps unexpected way. None of us chose to be in the situations we are currently in. Life leads us down a path sometimes, that takes twists and turns, and leads us to some other unforeseen path with more twists and turns, and it is up to each of us, individually and with our partners, to take a moment to stop and decide if we want to continue or if we want to change directions. It isn't retracing your steps and going backwards, it's taking a new road. It's taking control of your life back and steering it in a new direction. It think it is empowering to look at it from this point of view, rather than to feel defeated. But maybe that's just me. I'm sure there are a lot of different emotions in this decision, none of them easy to deal with. 

If it gets to the point where Noah and I are completely miserable and our relationship and emotional well-being and mental health and bank account are severely suffering to a point where we feel ready to step away, we will. It will be painful and I don't even know how I will recover, but I will. I always do. I will have to let go of many of the ideas I had for how I wanted-hoped-expected my life to be, and find a way to redefine it. I have already had to do that in many ways.  Though we personally haven't hit that point, we have so much respect and send so much love to all those people out there who have made this very difficult decision.

Should My Parents See a Therapist?

So much of the infertility experience has been focused on me. My body, my relationship, my hormonal outbursts, my needs, etc. It's not often that I sit back and reflect on what this might have been like, and continues to be like, for my parents. 

I've gotten several emails lately from people who are living on IF Island who don't share what is going on for them with their parents because they don't want to burden them, or don't want to upset them. That's a very thoughtful concept, one that never crossed my mind. If my ship is going down, you better believe my folks are going to be paddling for naught along side Noah and I. Sparing their feelings just wasn't an option for me. My IF journey became a family affair early on, and especially when my sister donated her eggs to us. But I also am very close to my parents (as you can see from this video post) and have a very open relationship with them. But I wonder at times how this experience has impacted them. If I am traumatized by much of what we've gone through, what is it like for my mom and dad to have had to watch Noah and I go through all this pain and heartbreak?

I know my mom has had a tough time accepting all the medication and science associated with ART. She believes in natural medicine (I've written about her witch doctor ways in this previous post) and the idea of her child injecting massive amounts of hormones into her body was upsetting. When my little sister also had to juice up with a morning dose of post menopausal nuns pee and whatever else lurked in those tiny expensive vials, my mom just couldn't watch. She couldn't be a part of it. I know it hurt her heart. She respects our decision to pursue baby making in this way, but she doesn't agree that this is what we should have to do. I don't either, but we don't have much choice. I could have just...done nothing I suppose, and would actually be in a very similar spot (no baby), but at least having done what I have I know what we must do to get a family. With diminished ovarian reserve, the waiting game was not one I had any confidence I would win. 

My dad and I are very close. He supports us 150% and has been a sounding board and a cheerleader all along the way. He has tried to learn as much bout the female reproductive system and the modern technologies that attempt to assist it, as his 67 year-old male brain will let him. I love my dad. After the last FET with the Lone Ranger didn't work (you can read about what that felt like if you're so inclined), dad cried. We got the call from the nurse saying my Beta HCG was negative, and that closed the chapter on my sister's egg donation cycle. My parents sat around all day with me, waiting for that call, and when it came and we got the news over speaker phone, dad just lost it. I felt worse than I ever had. I was breaking his heart too. He wants a grandchild so badly, but he also wants us to be happy. I never thought about sparing him the pain, though. Maybe I'm selfish. Maybe I need him. Maybe it's important to have my family by my side.

What I do know is in that moment I became even more determined. Infertility is not going to win. Not when it has crushed the hearts of the people I love. I didn't cry much after that last transfer. I just looked at what we had left, decided we have ALL invested too much time and money and emotions into this madness, and vowed to see it through until we can count fingers and toes. 

I don't know if I wish I could have spared my parents from this experience. Maybe my dad will figure out how to comment on this blog and chime in :) I don't think they would have preferred being spared.  It has brought us closer for sure, and has helped me better understand what it means to be a parent and love and feel so unconditionally for your child. I can't wait until I can have that feeling myself one day. I can only imagine the love my parents will feel for their first grandchild, when our miracle finally happens. I can only assume it will be magnified all the more because of what they've gone through watching us stay stranded on IF Island.  

HUBS POST: BIRDS, BICYCLES, and BABIES

 

Maya was in New York last week doing New York things. I was in California doing what I do (working 70 hours a week). Sunday was my third day off since March. So I did something I like to do that my wife doesn’t: I drove. I drove up the PCH, Neil Young on the stereo, thinking about nothing in particular. At the north end of Malibu, I pulled over and sat by the ocean for an hour. Just stared at the water and the constantly changing tints of blue and green. And I thought - or accepted - that this embryo adoption is really happening. It’s been a struggle for me to give up my genetics and biology in our quest to start a family. After all, I’m the one that’s “fine,” right (don’t mention the flat feet)? But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I am not important. At least "I" am not as important as "we". We want to be a family and right now, embryo adoption is our best shot. I walked up from the water, tracked sand into the car, and drove south with Neil Young. I had found my acceptance of the situation and was ready for the next step.

 

The next day, a freak power outage at my office caused me to find myself at home by late afternoon. Not content to sit around - and with the beach still on my mind - I hopped on my bike and raced south along the bike trail. I saw all sorts of amazing things happening at 5pm on a Monday. Life was going on while I should have been in my office and it inspired the hell out of me. There I was, riding, watching, smiling. On my return ride - just a few miles from home - I spotted several hundred birds in a beautiful swarming, tornado-like configuration. They screeched with excitement and then dropped like stones into the ocean. I pulled over and watched. I’ve been on this planet since the late '70s and I’ve never seen this before. Apparently, the grunion were running (lots of little fish “running”), which is pretty much an overstuffed buffet for any pelican from here to Manhattan Beach. I watched, amazed at what I was looking at, when I saw a young boy running across the sand towards the feeding frenzy. A guy, maybe a little older than me, chased after him. The kid looked back and exclaimed, “This is amazing! I’ve never seen anything like it before!” Hearing that, I went from accepting our plan to looking forward to it, to wanting it to happen now. When it comes down to it, I want a little buddy for this big adventure. I want to see new things with them and I want to see old things in a new way. I don’t care if they have flat feet or aren't as handsome (jokes!) as their father. As long as they like bike rides, Neil Young, and the ocean, I think we’ll be just fine. I’m inspired. I don’t care where the addition to our family comes from, just as long as they end up here. 

 

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 Story of Momotaro

Momotaro is a popular hero from Japanese folklore, and the story about him goes something like this: Once upon a time there was an old woman and an old man who longed for a child but were never able to have one. One day, the old woman went down to the river to wash clothes, when she noticed a giant peach floating down the river. She took the peach and brought it home, so she and her husband could eat it for dessert. Just as the husband was about to cut open the peach, a naked baby boy burst out of it. They named him Momotaro (Peach Boy), and loved him and raised him as their own, knowing he had been sent from heaven. Momotaro went on to be a great hero, gaining animal friends through his generosity, and fighting off ogres and demons to save his town. 

I loved this story as a child and have been thinking about it a lot lately. Yesterday, Noah and I officially closed the chapter on "trying naturally for six more months" before starting to prepare for the embryo adoption transfer. I'm never shocked when my cycle starts, but I did think that maybe this would be the month that a miracle happened, just before we were about to adopt. You hear those stories all the time, but it's not our story. 

Our story continues. Our miracle is still up ahead. I started birth control last night and had a frantic day yeasterday of trying to figure out my schedule with the nurse and looking up best prices for meds...blah blah blah. I had a nice six month break away from all the hormone induced madness and now I'm suiting up and heading right back in.

When I saw I had in fact gotten my period, the usual feelings of sad and disappointment flooded the space around my heart. It just gets tight in my chest and taking a breath feels...harder. I looked at Noah and felt so sad that I can't make a baby with him, but then I shifted my focus. We have a little Momotaro sitting in a freezer, in the dark, in another state, who needs us to come and save him. I don't want the energy that goes into this next step of our process to be overshadowded by sadness and dread and fear. I want to have an open heart and an open mind to be able to embrace our next process fully so that our embryo--our potential baby-- can be received with open arms. 

I have to separate the frustration and exhaustion that surrounds the process of preparing for the embryo from the embryo itself. The process is a nightmare. Going back on Lupron in a few weeks is the worst. Injecting progesterone oil into my butt? No thanks. All with no guarantee?? Ugh. But these are the steps I have to take. So I'll take them. And I'll complain about them. And I'll get through them, one at a time. Remembering all the way that our baby, our Momotaro, is waiting for us.

We Have Something To Share! (No, not that)

I’ve alluded to the documentary Noah and I have been making about our journey to parenthood, but wanted to share the extended trailer. Noah says no one will watch more than 2 minutes of anything on-line unless it features cute animals or boobs, but I’m posting the extended trailer anyway (be aware, it’s 8 minutes long!). We’ve shot more than 100 hours of footage and hope to start fund-raising soon so we can complete a full length film.

As National Infertility Awareness Week comes to a close, the importance of continuing the dialogue about infertility is ever more vital. Those in the infertility community need to know about all the information and support out there, and they need to know that there is no shame in having difficulties conceiving. Those not in the infertility world need to know about what family building is really like for those who struggle, so that a new understanding and sensitivity can be created. Insurance companies, politicians, and others in power need to change how infertility is viewed in the medical field. Having a child is a medical necessity for many of us. It’s a quality of life issue that deserves to be taken seriously and deserves to be covered.

 Noah and I really hope that our story can help to normalize infertility and alternative family building. We had the privilege of interviewing several other couples who’ve survived their stint on IF Island and shared their stories to parenthood with us. Through these amazing “survivors,” we learned about determination, strength, compromise, love, and what it really means to become a family.

We hope that one day, our film will decrease some of the isolation people on IF Island feel, and we hope that everyone on the Mainland can become more educated and aware. We also hope that y’all will watch more than 2 minutes, and stay tuned for the final film. Hopefully we will find our ending soon.

 

Resolve to Know More About a Husband's Role in Infertility

My wife tells me this is a very important week in the world of infertility. We’re supposed to talk about what we need to learn or maybe what we’ve learned that other people can learn from. I don’t know. I’m easily confused and distracted. My wife asked me to write a guest post in honor of this infertility awareness. I’m painfully aware of infertility, unfortunately, as I know you are. I guess one thing I can help others to be aware of is one of the roles a husband plays in this unfortunate process. Feel free to substitute “husband” for “partner” or “wife” in this scenario. Basically, you’re the co-pilot on this long flight to parenthood.

The emotional toll infertility would take on my wife and I individually, and as a couple, was something I was not prepared for. I’m a pretty rock-solid dude that doesn’t get rattled by much, but it’s been the emotional wounds collected on this long process that have hurt worse than shots or medical bills. One of my jobs is to be a cheerleader for my wife as she goes through this arduous battle with her own body. I listen to her worries and frustrations, I wipe her tears, and I do what I can to inject some normalcy into a ridiculous situation. I’m not saying I always do it correctly, that’s just one of my main responsibilities in this situation.

The hard part - and something new co-pilots need to remember - is that not paying attention to how this is having an effect on myself eventually rears up and kicks me. Hard. I often push aside processing my own feelings and anger and frustrations for the sake of dealing with my wife’s, and when I finally do get to that place it can feel overwhelming. So, as a husband, you need to process this, too. In any way. At any time. For me it’s being in nature or playing sports or going to the gym and sweating it out. But you need to do something with that emotion and weight you keep collecting. She’s counting on you to help her. She’s counting on you to listen and be there and be really gentle with those shots. She’s also counting on you to be present and to process this. It may be different from how she processes this horrible situation, but she needs you to go through it, too. Pushing everything aside and not dealing with your own co-pilot fears and sadness may seem like the heroic thing to do but it really doesn’t help either of you in the long run.

I had no idea that I’d have to process much more than frustration, mostly because I had no idea we’d be several years into infertility with no resolution. So if you’re new to this world or you’re several IUIs and IVFs into the process like we are, dig in. Deal with your anger. Allow yourself to yell or cry or whatever you have to do. However you have to do it. And then get right back into helping her.

Resolve to Know more about your family building options

    Noah and I picked up a camera and started to document our journey to parenthood exactly two years ago today. April 20, 2012. We had already spent over a year trying to conceive and were about to have our first appointment with a reproductive endocrinologist (RE). We started filming as a way to process what was going on and because somehow I knew that parts of our story would be important to share, in order to increase awareness of what living on IF Island is really like. As you can see from this clip from the very first interview we did with each other, I didn’t know whether we were at the beginning of our journey, or about to cross the finish line. Looking back at it now, two years, multiple ART cycles, and over $40,000 later, I’m not exactly sure how to feel about what these last two years have been like.

 

 

          

      I’m shocked, to say the least. I had NO IDEA so much could happen and the mystery of how we are going to create our family is still unsolved. I’m sad and angry, for all the obvious reasons. But I’m also amazed. I’m amazed that I’ve learned so much about how families are built, about the strength of the human spirit, about the determination of the biological urge to procreate, about the love of my husband and family, and the generosity of a community of people who struggle so much to have a child. I’m also amazed that I’m still standing, jeez.

            Today, April 20, also marks the beginning of National Infertility Awareness Week (NIAW). It’s a week dedicated to spreading the word and educating people about the various aspects of infertility. I’ll be writing throughout the week on various topics under the headline Resolve to Know More, and I encourage anyone out there seeking more information about infertility to check out RESOLVE.

            Starting our journey to parenthood close to four years ago, there was only one way I could fathom making a family. The old fashioned way. I was armed with ovulation test strips, a digital thermometer, and that gigantic pink book by Toni Weschler, Taking Charge of Your Fertility. I was ready to take charge! After 15 months of that insanity and being told by various doctors that I was young (30) and that I should “just relax,” we finally went to the RE. Suddenly, we entered the very confusing and elite world of assisted reproductive technologies. That’s when I discovered that there are actually several ways to make a baby, and even more ways to construct a family. Over the years we’ve tried many of them.

            We tried the rounds of clomid and IUI’s, then moved to IVF. When IVF left us empty handed, we thought all was lost. With diminished ovarian reserve, (and diminished cash reserve) we knew we simply couldn’t afford to do multiple rounds of IVF until it worked. Then we began to explore the possibility of donated eggs. At first I was terrified and upset that at age 32 I was being told I had to outsource my eggs. But when my younger sister offered to donate, hope was restored. Another option to building a family arose like a ray of sunshine through a dark cloud, and something I could never have fathomed when we began our initial quest for a child, suddenly became a beautiful gift. When my last beta HCG from that round came back negative, Noah and I were crushed. We knew adoption was always an option, but we didn’t feel totally there yet. We couldn’t afford an anonymous egg donor and I really wanted to experience pregnancy. Thus we discovered embryo donation/adoption, which we are planning to pursue in a few months.

            It’s incredible that we in this country do actually have some choices in how we are going to construct a family. Egg, sperm, embryo donation, surrogacy, adoption—none of these are many of our first choices, but after trying one way and not succeeding, we all have to hit the reset button. We have to assess what we have left, what we’re willing to sacrifice, and what our end goal is. For Noah and me, that goal has become finding the best chance of a healthy child that I can carry, that is within our budget. It sounds insane, but it’s not. It the place you get after you’ve tried almost everything you can. It’s the hope you have when you find a new possibility, while your heart is still healing from your last disappointment. It’s the unyielding belief that one day, some how, some way, you will be a parent.

            Some how, some way, Noah and I will be parents. Two years ago when we picked up a camera, we had no idea where we were going with it. We had no idea how our story was going to evolve. We still don’t know how our story is going to unfold, but we are more open and accepting of the process and the various ways we’ve learned that families are made.

    We have resolved to know more about our family building options, and the ones that are the best fit for us. An unintended consequence is that we've also learned more about ourselves, each other, and the kind of parents we wish to be.

 

For more info on infertility, check out:

http://www.resolve.org/infertility101

http://www.resolve.org/national-infertility-awareness-week/about.html

 

Getting on the same page

I've written before about how to know when to move on to a new plan, but one thing I haven't really explored is how to deal with not being on the same page as your significant other. Luckily, Noah and I have mostly been on the same page. We wrote out a decision tree (in 2011, ugh) that gave us a basic guide as to what we thought we would do "if...then..." My body and our bank account had special veto power over that decision tree, and we were always open to adjustments. We didn't know embryo donation existed way back in the naive good ole days when we thought we were just stopping off on IF Island on our way to somewhere better, so that decision was an add on.

While we've agreed to what we were going to do next, we haven't always agreed on the when. The speed at which we move is quite different. He's a turtle, I'm a rabbit. I am  always ready to jump right into the next thing and keep the train moving forward. Noah, on the other hand, likes to step back and process the situation, re-collect himself, and proceed one step at a time. Neither one of us is right or wrong, it's just a different approach. So we've had to do this dance of negotiating and compromise so that we both feel okay.

When we found our embryo match last November, I was ready to go in January but Noah wasn't. He needed more time to feel okay with letting go of his genetics, and I understood that. My eggs seem to be the problem for us, so I have had ample time to mourn the loss of my genetic contribution to the creation of our child. I try and focus on the genetic bullets my kid will get to dodge and remember that nurture is as much a part of what makes a person as nature is. And I will nurture the crap out of my kid! But Noah's sperm has always been the one good thing we had, so letting go of it was harder for both of us. This is where our bank account weighed in with the realization that donor eggs were out of budget. We had to think about what was most important, being a parent, and Noah needed more time to sit with that. 

Part of what he also needed was to try naturally for several more months. Before moving on to the next step, people often need closure. I knew to move on to my sister's donated eggs after our unsuccessful IVF and several IUI's (and the years of trying with ovulation test strips). I probably wouldn't have been totally ready to move on had we not done those last few IUI's. Even though they didn't work and ended up being kind of a waste of time, they were an important part of our story that helped propel us to the next decision. No regrets.

So last November, when we found our frozen embryo, Noah suggested we give ourselves six months to heal, to save up, to try naturally. My first instinct was to scream, "SIX MORE MONTHS? ARE YOU INSANE! I CAN'T LIVE LIKE THIS FOR SIX MORE MONTHS!!" but I stopped myself. I knew that was what he needed for closure. I convinced myself I'm not going to be 50 by the time I have kids, and that closure is important. Six more months on the Island wouldn't kill me. I committed myself to my acupuncturist and various herbs and supplements, and agreed to trying for our miracle the old fashioned way for six months. 

This month is the last shot. I'm trying not to put pressure on it. It is just another attempt at becoming parents. So is the embryo we have waiting for us. Either something is going to work, or it isn't, right? 

The most important thing is to be able to hear and listen to yourself and your partner. It's being able to compromise and figure out what each of you need in order to move on. It's never regretting or being angry at the other person for needing to take more time, or try another procedure. There are no guarantees on IF Island. There is no script, no clear road map, and definitely no solid itinerary. We are all just winging it, best we can. Anything can possibly work along the way, or nothing might work until the very last stop on the decision tree. Being able to come together and hold hands through this journey becomes one of the most important things. 

A Happy Ending

As part of the documentary Noah and I have been working on, we've interviewed several couples who have struggled with infertility and have found their happy ending. It has made me realize that there really are many ways a family can be made, and that there is a way off IF Island. It's a non-refundable ticket to Parenthood Park. But just because a person may enter this much more exciting and joy filled place, doesn't mean all the past hurt immediately goes away. I've heard it gets a lot better, but most of us who will go on to parent after years of infertility may still have some scars. 

But there are happy endings. Lots of them. One of the couples we have been following is Candace and Tomasso. After four plus years of surgeries and procedures and tests and IVF and IVF with donor eggs and multiple miscarriages, Candace and Tomasso finally have their baby boy Max through open adoption. 

Noah and I met the couple several months ago the day before they were flying out to meet their birth-mother for the first time. After only 12 days in the "matching process," they were matched with a young woman who was several months pregnant. On the day we met, Candace was excited. Nervous, but excited. There was a light in her eyes that can only be defined as the glimmer of hope and anticipation. Tomasso was quietly confident. Tomasso is her rock. Her number one cheerleader. He always reminded her that they would one day be parents. There is something to be said about the role of the husband/partner in all of this. Tomasso's unwavering strength and solid optimism seemed to ground Candace similarly to how I feel Noah grounds me. 

I was nervous when I first met them. Knowing all that they had gone through and hearing stories of adoptions not working out, I wanted so badly for this to all work out for them. And last month it did. Their son, Max, was born around the same Candace would have given birth had she not miscarried her last pregnancy.

You can watch a clip of the interview with the couple here:

The light in Candace's eyes was different this weekend. It was pure joy with perhaps a few tiny remnants of past hurt. She's in love, and Max is an incredible little man. He cooed and fussed and smiled at his daddy who simply said, "See. I told you we'd be parents. And now we are."

Creating Family History

My Mother-in-Law is really into genealogy. She's been researching her ancestry for a while and is planning a trip to the East Coast with one of her sisters to retrace some family roots. After speaking to her on the phone last night, I hung up and wondered, if our upcoming embryo donation works, would our child be part of this genealogy? How might our child feel having no genetic roots to anyone? Would he (I'll stick with he only because he/she becomes too confusing) feel different or excluded if he has cousins who do? Coming from an anonymous egg and anonymous sperm means tracing his own genealogy might never be possible, does a genetic link even matter? 

I'm not sure what the answers are, but these are the kinds of questions that often come up for couples dealing with third party reproduction. Perhaps there are some similar discussions to be had when considering adoption, though with open adoption, the child will often have more answers about where they came from. It's not really about coming up with answers, it's about being willing to engage in conversation about all the possibilities, and to prepare for ways to respond that fits for your child and your family.  I recently learned the term "birth other," coined by psychologist Diane Ehrensaft, to refer to an anonymous person who donates a part of themselves to help a child come to be. I'm not sure how I feel about this term. I think I prefer donor, than birth anything, but right now Noah and I are just learning the language and exploring what it all may mean. 

In my heart I feel that whatever child we end up with will be ours. 100%. We will love that child and help him navigate through any questions that arise, especially during the identity formation phase of development--those awesome teen years. We will make sure our child knows the story about how badly his mom and dad wanted him and how so many other kind people were willing to help us all come together. We aren't sure yet how our infertility saga is going to end. But it is already taking a village for us to find our child, and that will be a beautiful part of his family history. Our family history. Our child will be part of my Mother-in-Law's genealogy. If not by blood than by love. In the end that's all that matters. 

The Cycle of Disappointment Continues

My Aunt Flow came to town last night, making us zero for four in months trying naturally since our last frozen transfer. I know we have a plan and I feel good about the embryo donation this coming summer, but it's the process I dread. The seven weeks on Lupron, the progesterone shots, the travel, the 2ww, the possibility of yet another heartbreak. I know the anticipation of it all is worse than being in the actual process, but the process is pretty rough. A big part of me has just been hoping some miracle would happen that would spare us having to go through this.

Somehow, deep in my soul, I believe Noah and I can make a baby on our own. I want to believe it. I want so badly to just have this process end. To finally have a family. It's not about genetics of the baby at all--it's about being totally exhausted by the process. It's about my intense biological urge to procreate and my physical need to carry our child. Gathering up the strength to go through another ART cycle makes me so...sad. 

I can't believe people can just get pregnant. I just can't fathom what that must be like--the ease and excitement. Just as those people can't possibly fathom what it's like for us on IF Island to go month after month, year after year, with no luck. The desperation and devastation is unexplainable.

Acceptance of our situation almost feels like the easy part. It's the sad--sadness in its absolute purest form that sometimes feels intolerable. Like honey that runs thin and almost clear, transparent. There are no bits and pieces of anger or fuzzy spots of resentment (well, maybe there are some), but mainly it's uncontaminated sadness. I just don't want to feel sad anymore. I just don't want to have this brick of disappointment fall on us month after month. It's enough already.

So last night I cried, for the first time in a while. I cried and cried and watched an episode of House of Cards and cried some more. And Noah breathed heavier, slower, the way he does when he's sad and thinking about frustrating things he's thought about a thousand times in the past, and we fell asleep holding hands to the sound of my sobs and his breath.

And today I'll wipe my eye, which are already welling with water, and I'll put on a pair of pants, one leg at a time. I'll text my acupuncturist a sad face emoticon and will continue to take my herbs and vitamins. Then I'll go to work and do my job, because that's what we on IF Island do, right? We cry it out and keep on going. Day after day, month after month, year after year. And I remind myself that it won't be like this forever.  

Wishing anyone else out there stuck in the cycle of disappointment so much love.

Healing Wounds

Today I'm planning on hanging out with a friend who just had a baby. I like what someone recently commented about like attracting like, and making a point to surround herself with what she longed for--babies. Some times I can do that, and it feels great. Last week, another friend of mine came to visit with her new baby, and Noah and I had a fabulous time playing and giggling with him. But sometimes I just want to avoid it--all of it. Sometimes it brings up such strong feelings of...unfairness, it's hard to take a deep breath. This duality is why it is also so hard for other people to know where we're at, and it's what contributes to feeling left out and isolated. Many of us are in such a hard spot socially, and it's nobody's fault. It's just a crappy situation.

I was trying to think about how I can separate myself and our situation from others good fortune in a way that will allow me to not feel twinges of anger or resentment. Negativity doesn't serve anybody, and yet it's natural to have these thoughts and feelings. 

I started thinking that some of this comes down to the idea of being deserving. Not in the sense that others don't deserve to get pregnant and be parents (though I can name a few people that could easily fit into this category), but that we who have been suffering, who have been working SO hard and putting SO much time and effort and emotion and money into trying to make a baby, deserve one too. So when someone announces they got pregnant "again," or "by accident," it's sometimes hard for us on IF Island to share in the joy. It's not that only people who suffer deserve a baby, it just reminds us of how long and hard our journey has been, and brings up the fear of not knowing when and how it is going to end. We do deserve to have something work for us too. Life just doesn't always work that way.

Noah and I were talking about this yesterday as we rode bikes along the beach. We came up with the analogy that being on IF Island is sometimes like being a dog who has just gotten fixed and has to wear one of those sad white cones over his head so that he doesn't gnaw at his wound and break open his stitches. He needs that barrier to allow himself to heal. When Noah and I are in our little safety zone together, when we have tunnel vision and can just live our lives with a little bit of a boundary between us and the fertile world, I feel like we can heal a little faster. It gets harder when our cone barrier gets permeated and we are reminded of how long and terrible our struggle has been. But we can't live like that, in a cone. At least not all the time.

I find that if I can consciously protect myself and make a choice not to re-open a healing wound, then I have more power and I can participate more in feeling acceptance or joy with other people or for other people. If I can separate what we are going through from others, then I can remember that I love babies and do want to be a part of new ones coming into the world. If I can be more aware of all the things I have in my life that I can feel grateful for, then I can remember I am a very lucky person in a lot of ways. It can be hard, and is not always possible. Sometime we have to go out and buy a super sturdy steel cone with chains and locks and blinders. I understand. Sometimes protecting your heart is all that matters. But perhaps we can also try to focus on healing regardless of what triggers the outside world throws at us.  Perhaps we can learn to be more comfortable with the uncertainty of when this difficult process will end by constantly reminding ourselves that it will. Eventually. Perhaps we can fully accept that our path to parenthood is a bit more complicated than others, and that there will be lessons learned that will serve us in some way. 

Wishing everyone a happy, healing Sunday!

Making sense out of nonsense

Every day I try to make sense out of the situation we're in. If I sit and think about how I have spent my entire thirties trying to make a baby, it just doesn't make sense to me. I'm turning 34 in April.

Though I feel stronger and better than I have in a long time, I do have moments where I think, how have we gone through all this loss and disappointment? How have we gone through multiple rounds of fertility treatments with nothing but 10 lbs and a dwindling savings account to show for it? How is it possible that my beautiful, generous sister donated her eggs to us and it didn't work? How are we still standing, and how does Noah still look so damn handsome?

We just have. It just is. We just are. (And he just is so damn handsome!) We woke up each day and put our pants on one leg at a time. We kissed good morning and good night and reminded each other to focus on this things we do have rather than the things we don't. And we sat with the hurt and the sad, and we gave our hearts time to heal. And we mustered up the courage to try again. And we sat and healed and got back up, again. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Because that's what you do when you want something so bad you'll do anything to get it. 

When it's just Noah and me in the vortex we've created, everything feels fine. We aren't behind in terms of developmental milestones, we aren't crazy for trying all that science and technology has to offer, we aren't broken.  We're just two people who love each other a lot and want a family. It gets harder when the outside world starts to seep in and we are reminded of how much of our lives have been consumed by this. How much of our time and energy and emotional, physical and financial resources have been spent on this. And it's hard. The world exists and we have to live in it. And this is the hand we've been dealt. 

So instead of trying to make sense of a situation that makes no sense, I remind myself that no one said life was going to be fair. I accept that this journey makes no sense right now. Maybe it will one day, but until then it just doesn't. It's long and exhausting and ridiculous. But it's our journey. Each one of us on IF Island is navigating through some challenging terrain, but we will find the end of this excursion and the beginning of a new one. We will. We just have to keep on trekking. 

Wishing everyone out there so much love and strength to keep moving forward. There will be setbacks, there will be losses, but somewhere out there is the family you've always dreamed of. Keep on fighting!