Thursday, August 31, 2006

On the Lighter Side

I have been wallowing, the past couple of days. I've had a week where a box of Kleenex kept migrating, only to be rediscovered at the last place I was sitting. Usually the computer, checking out other blogs and crying for fellow miscarriers and myself.

But I decided that today I'm feeling chipper. Or at least, chippier. My problems with moving will sort themselves out. And, who knows, my life could improve greatly if B actually luuuuuuuvs the new job so much that he suddenly wants to golf less. (Hey, a girl can dream.)

The thing that seems to make me happiest in the world right now is my daughter. She'll turn three next month. And she is a complete hoot. This morning we attended a party at her new school, arranged so that all the young 3's could meet their teachers and fellow students. My daughter was pissed that I was not dropping her off, that I had the chutzpah to actually attend the party with her. (Granted, B and I have been prepping her for the real thing, whereby I will drop her off and not attend.)

She got over it, and fell into playing pretty quickly. I tried to bond with some of the other mothers there (which, I'm sure, was also part of the plan) and ended up telling one mom a story that I can't believe came out of my mouth. I'll tell it in a minute, but first I have to say that I was not as eager to pal up with moms who had babies there. It's awful to say. Even the woman to whom I told the story revealed that she had a baby at home, and immediately my mind started doing the math. (For instance, "well, that makes her kids 20 months apart, and I wanted my kids to be 3 years apart, but now that's never going to happen and argh....") I can't really understand why I do this, other than maybe I have a little OCD and can't help but repeat some patterns in my head to ward off unwanted feelings of jealousy or sadness. (However, when I hear about, see or meet families where the kids are four years apart, I feel conversely calm and reassured. People do it. They have kids four years apart and everyone survives. Again, this is my own issue, one that falls under the categories of "control freak" and "having to let go of the dream.")

Anywho, the school thing went great, but I'm sure I felt my heart starting to break a little at the thought of my little girl doing such big things as going to school. All by herself. We'll see how next Thursday pans out (the first official day of school. If I send her.)

So the story that I laid on this mom (who was actually very cool, perhaps aiding and abetting my outburst) goes like this:

Last night I was tucking my daughter in. She sleeps in a double bed in her room and for many months now, she goes to sleep on her own. Or doesn't, which is the case most nights. So, sometimes there are multiple tuck-ins. But last night, I let her "read" a book in her bed before I came in and turned off the light. When it was finally time to turn off the light, as I was sneaking in the last of my smooches and "I love you's", my daughter said, "Mommy. Are you and Daddy going to have a baby tonight?"

Which made me catch a laugh in my throat, all the while supressing the panic that, "Holy shit, did she hear us last night?" which morphed into, "No, no, you tart, she didn't say 'Are you going to make a baby tonight,' followed by "She's too young to be asking that, isn't she" followed by "Those damn neighborhood kids" finally landing on "But still, this is a pretty advanced inquiry, if I am understanding her correctly. " When I finally stopped talking to myself and refocused on her, I managed to ask her who taught her that. (Okay, I was stalling, and trying to pry more information out of her on what exactly she was getting at.)

She said, "you did." There was some additional dialogue consisting of how she thought she needed a baby, and I told her that Daddy and I want one too, but then she insisted that she needed one immediately, and I explained that we would try, but that a baby still was a long way off, to which she replied "like four minutes?" and I said no, that she would probably forget about this whole conversation before the baby actually came, at which point she insisted on helping to pick it out (and really, in my head I'm thinking what you're thinking, that this almost-three-year-old doesn't need the kind of serious counsel that I'm giving her, so it was probably more for my benefit), when finally we agreed that when we woke up the next day (today) that we would pretend to have a baby, and feed it, dress it, burp it, etc.

My daughter is very verbal. Has been for over a year now, and endless people remark about it. However, she's still a baby in many ways, cries at the drop of a hat, is scared of the neighbor's dog, etc. So this whole thing, while adorable to her mother if no one else, sits uneasily with me nonetheless. I wonder, how much does she know? Is it just that there are babies all around us, and that I am constantly pointing them out to her to ready her for a future sibling and the kindnesses that she will be expected to bestow upon said sibling? Or is she in tune to the fact that I desperately want another baby and am having trouble with it? Can she understand my phone calls to friends and family about our situation. Could the appearance of not one, but three imaginary friends (hers, not mine) over the last six months have any connection to my miscarriages? (I realize this is way out there, but if she's a genius who knows what she knows?!)

To think that I told a perfect stranger about this exchange actually mortifies me. What could I have been thinking? To any of my friends, who know about my miscarriages, my daughter's comments mean something entirely different than to this woman, to whom I had uttered all of five sentences before launching "world's most awkward toddler story." She's probably on the phone to her husband right now, telling him about the first day at their son's school, and the crazy mom who doesn't apparently understand verbal self-censuring. (In all honesty, it probably didn't even phase the other woman...we'll just see, won't we?)

To temper my rantings, let me tell you just one more story which makes me delight in being a mother to my daughter. This is the one I should have opened with at preschool. Not the "we're a procreative mess and not afraid to let you know (although you don't really know me, so you have no idea what deeper meaning that story holds) story."

Before I begin this final story, if anyone out there thinks that my daughter is not a challenge on a daily basis, you are wrong. She's turning three for Christ's sake. I'm thinking of getting her a tattoo of a giant middle finger for her birthday. (Don't laugh, she asked for a tattoo for her birthday. Thanks, Daddy. [He has one]). But I try, on the days when my patience is in full supply, to realize that she is supposed to be testing my every last nerve. I admire competence in all forms, even if it is boundary-pushing.

Here goes. When my parents were in town for my D&E (I didn't just make that sound like a festive occasion, did I?), we all went out to dinner. The sight of me dressed up (casually so), with makeup on, my hair blown dry, etc. is a novelty around this house. So, my daughter took one look at me, sucked in her breath and said, "Oh, Mommy, you look so bew-ee-ful!" Which made my eyes water with pride and appreciation.

So I bent down to hug her and respond "Oh, sweetheart, that just makes me feel so good. Thank you!"

While still in my embrace, and no doubt wanting the love-fest to continue, my daughter took my face into her sweet hands and said, "Yeah, and you have a mustache!"

Oh, the sweet agony. Made even better by the fact that my husband was witness to the whole exchange. Perhaps I'll consider it for my epitaph: "She was beautiful. She had a mustache."

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

Moving and Shaking

I've been trying to find a way to launch this post, retain my composure and remain somewhat interesting all at the same time. I'll shoot for one out of three. (The first one, in case you were wondering.)

It's been a rough week. Hard to come back from vacation and face the ghosts in this house. I'm not a morbid person by nature, and I don't think I go around looking for drama*. So, for me, it surfaces in other places.

For instance, my husband (who actually has been a complete doll since we returned from vacation) and I have had two nights in a row of Deep Discussion. Talks lasting far too late into the night. Questioning our happiness, our future, our (lack of) intimacy and ultimately our marriage. They have been mostly quiet, calm discussions, which in a way is that much scarier than your run-of-the-mill, knock-down, drag-out. Sometimes I can't figure out if our marriage is stronger than ever (for having confronted these issues) or completely on the rocks. Maybe both? I guess if we are both invested in making it better, as well as afraid of losing one another, it can only get better. That's my hope anyway.

One of the big issues that is plaguing us is my husband's (I'll call him B for now) career. He has a job that is great in many ways. Or in the most important allows me to stay home. But it is a job which happens to exist on a continuum of jobs (erstwhile known as the corporate ladder), making it necessary for him to continually consider the next job on the continuum. In plainspeak, a position in his company has opened up, five hours away from here, which he feels obliged to apply for. As a friend of mine put it, it's a case of "If you're not moving up, you're just in the way."

For reasons that I do not want to get into, B feels that he must apply for this job. And he feels rather certain that he will get it, resulting in a move.

The first time he discussed the idea of moving with me, was back in May. I was in the midst of my second miscarriage. I told him I wasn't interested in moving. He said, "Well, let's talk about it more tonight." And I said, "What's to talk about? I just gave you my answer."

At the time, I was in a black hole. Sucker punched by failure and loss, again. I have wonderful friends here, among them some priceless neighbors who make life so much easier (with or without infertility). We have lived here three years, and it took me probably half of that time to connect with the people that are now dear to me. The thought of leaving all of this, right when I was going through another terrible loss was too much for me to bear.

Back then I told him to go for it, but that I would stay here with our daughter, and he could get an apartment there, and we would work it out. And I meant it.

Fast forward a few months. One more devastating miscarriage, the little one about to start school and the job is still open. He's been putting it off, I think, because of me (and for his own reasons) but I think he feels he has to make a decision for once and for all.

It is really eating me up. I cannot even fathom moving, but I see no other way out of it. Mind you, I understand that he is the breadwinner and under a great deal of stress because of that. I just don't like being out of control, I don't like not knowing the future.

Admittedly, I feel in a better place now to cope with a move like that, but no more interested in doing so. And (because I probably do like drama) I start to worry about my daughter and how lost she would feel without her little friends and neighbors that she has come to love. And that breaks my heart. Everyone tells me that she would be fine, that she would make new friends. But that means squat to me right now. I don't want to even have to put her through it. What I feel for myself, I feel ten times over for her.

I am not very good at taking one day at a time. As I explained to B, one of the reasons I am traumatized by the idea of a move is that I can't get a handle on all the details, and how it will play out. (Not to mention there is no guarantee that either of us will be happy, when all the dust settles.) I told him, "If I could go and google 'B's job search,' I would."

I guess all of it makes me feel very unsafe. Right now, I am craving safety, comfort, routine. Maybe even a little boredom. I think we have a couple more months before this would all go down, so I'll try to keep my chin up. But I'm probably not going to do it very quietly.

* Okay, this is not entirely true. But the drama I stoke, like the embers of a fire, is more of the mundane, everyday type. The kind of drama that keeps me from drowning in the tedium of making pancakes every morning for breakfast and pretending that grocery shopping is an adventure. For instance, the drama that I created recently at my new gym, when the "pleasant" girl at the front desk informed me that I am not allowed to wear a bandana to work out. Apparently wearing a bandana equates with being a powerlifter or some other type of zealot. The nerve! I made a fuss with her and the manager, then sent a pointed email to the owners and haven't been back since. But now I'm bored again, so I'll probably go back tomorrow. With my bandana. And my weight belt.

Monday, August 28, 2006

Dodging a Bullet

I think that's the phrase that my RE used when discussing my latest tests. Seems my numbers are all good:

FSH: 3.7
Estradiol: 68

I didn't dig further for the prolactin and TSH numbers, preferring to take RE's word for it that they are normal.

I felt like such an A student when the doctor actually praised my FSH as being "incredibly low" or "amazingly low" (okay he might have said, "on the low side," but what I heard was: "Jesus, Casey, the FSH test doesn't even register any lower than 3.7. Well done!")

He did tell me I could breathe a sigh of relief. Which, come to think of it, is a smidge dismissive, dontcha think? A sigh of relief? Really? It's no surprise, as this is a man who referred to the large yolk sac as a "silver lining" during my last miscarriage because at least it was indicative of a chromosomal problem, and not a recurring medical problem (such as an antibody or coagulation thing).

I'm making him sound a bit insensitive, and that's not fair. I believe he's a caring man and very invested in seeing his patients succeed at getting and staying pregnant. I guess I am just a bit more aware of the odd things people say to me, now.

But I do feel relieved. Or I did, until I mentioned my odd spotting after my period, which caused him to tell me to wait an extra cycle before trying again. Damn me and my big mouth. His reasoning is that the spotting tells him that my lining hasn't stabilized. Or was it my hormones? Either way, I'm supposed to monitor the next cycle and see what's doing before I rush into getting knocked up again.

I guess I'd rather know that I'm taking all the necessary precautions before trying again. His expert advice is why my insurance company is paying him so much money, after all. And, honestly, I feel that emotionally it may be best to wait.

It's just that I hate waiting. I'm the kind of person that when I decide I want to get my hair cut, I need to have it cut within 24 hours. So place the overwhelming desire to have a baby in place of getting my hair cut (not to mention the knowledge that I would already have another baby, if I hadn't miscarried last December) and I'm feeling a bit antsy.

Aren't we all?

Sunday, August 27, 2006


I have had some strange things going on with my nether regions while on vacation with my in-laws. First was my period. Not so strange, actually. Pretty run of the mill for a first period after a miscarriage, I guess. When I think about it, however, it is the first one I've had since April 10. (Two pregnancies in between, with no cycle between those. Talk about an eager beaver. But I digress.)

So, then I had some spotting. I am guessing that my new bodily ritual is to spot when I ovulate. Yippee! Hooray! Now I can analyze the Rorschach inkblot in my undies and know that in exactly two weeks I'll get my period again. From what I've read (on the Internet, of course) the spotting/ovulating connection is quite normal.

But how about when the spotting happens again the next day? Then subsides. Then happens again the next day and subsides. A little freaky for this girl with formerly zero inkblots during eggdrop.

I will mention it to my RE during my BIG CALL tomorrow, during which I will find out how my ovaries are doing. (Yes, I did, in fact, wait as instructed, to call about my FSH, et. al. test results.)*

I'm feeling nervous about this discussion. I haven't spent too much time thinking about it, and only googled FSH once while on vacation.** But from what I read, this could be a crushing blow in the whole fertility fight. I have to believe that I (and by association, my ovaries) are normal, fine, functioning as needed. But I also fervently believed that about the last pregnancy. So it is within the realm of possibility that I am wrong about this, also. Damn secondary infertility and it's kung-fu-like vice grip on my unflapability. (Is that even a word?)

What else can I tell you? (Plenty. I just spent a week with my in-laws for Pete's sake! I'll save it for another post, though.)

*(Okay, that's a lie. I called during vacation, but at exactly 4:03pm EST on a Wednesday, the phones were already on service. I took this as a sign that I should just give up until I got home.)

**There were no less than four laptop computers, complete with a wireless router, operating at any one time in the rental house during this sojourn. I have a little trouble with how my in-laws "vacation." Not enough to keep me from utilizing said laptops to check in on other's blogs and google FSH, mind you.

Thursday, August 17, 2006

A Tale of Two Aunties

I have an aunt, who is divorced and for the past 10 (or more?) years has lived with her best friend. This best friend is as much a part of the family as my aunt.

Recently, the best friend's son was killed by a train. He was in his late 30's, and alcohol or stupidity (or both) was probably involved. Needless to say, we were all shocked and saddened. The thought that kept coming back to me was, "We don't have children for this to happen to them."

When I went home to visit in the beginning of August, I had the chance to chat with my aunt and asked her how her BF was doing. As she answered, and the conversation moved on. However, being observant, my aunt noticed that I had gotten teary.

She kindly asked, "Now, what are you getting teary about?"

And I replied (fully weeping) that I was crying for her best friend. Then I paused before adding, "And me."

My aunt nodded her head in silent understanding, and the two of us proceeded to cry over my miscarriage(s), her best friend's son's death, her own primary infertility (diagnosed forty-odd years ago), and her oldest grandson's autism. In the middle of it all, my aunt joked, "Why don't we just move into the corner and cry together." So we laughed a little, too.

This aunt has always been one of my favorite people to laugh with, and now she is one of my favorite people to cry with.

Fast forward ten days, into a different conversation with my other aunt (I only have two). My daughter and I were saying our goodbyes to this aunt, who hadn't had a chance to offer me any condolences on my losses. So when the conversation headed that way, my eyes began to well up. Whereupon, this dear aunt said (as many people are prone to do), "Now, if you cry, I'm going to cry."

And I thought, "Isn't that the point?"

Which is why, though I love both aunts, I will probably always seek out the first aunt who so easily cried with me.

(A sour side-note to the second conversation. That aunt is married to my uncle (duh!), who is a radiologist. So, she also encouraged me to run any medical questions by him, that he would be sure to get answers from the specialists at his hospital for me. Nice enough. BUT THEN...she proceeded into foul territory with a comment about how he really wished that so many babies who are born severely prematurely were not resuscitated, etc. We've all heard these discussions, that medical advances have gone too far, saving babies weighing less than 1 pound, and so forth. I'm no born-again, right-wing anything, just the opposite, in fact. But when a person is born, they have the same right to medical treatment as anyone else. What would happen to a doctor who looked at a non-helmet wearing, motorcycle crash-victim and said "Why bother? Even if we could save this guy, the rest of his life will be filled with pain, disfigurement, and disability." Please, please, please stop thinking that babies are any different. Or at least stop sharing this heinous opinion with women who have had children or are trying to have children or failing at trying to have children. At the very least, stop sharing this opinion with me!)

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Hello darkness, my old friend

As ominous as that sounds, I'm really referring to my period. Which began what will probably be a five-day visit, yesterday. Of course, the very day I was traveling from Michigan back home to Philadelphia. Not that I was equipped with adequate, winged protection (not an airplane reference, folks) mind you. Except for some old, dusty pads crammed into a rarely opened pocket of my traveling purse. Whew.

But, in my case, a period is a good thing. Means I can start more testing (yay?), more needles and the whole cycle of conception all over again. Actually, it is very early for me in the whole realm of infertility. My doctor is convinced that I've just pulled a couple of bad eggs over the last year, and he feels very, very confident about my chances of having a normal pregnancy. Well, bully for him. What this all means to me is just the routine (for all of you SIF's out there) blood tests during the first part of my period. Which is why I went and got stuck today.

However, I worried (aloud, to the receptionist at my RE's office) that I will be out of town next week, when more testing might be in order (ultrasounds to check for follicles, or some such nonsense). A call back message from the receptionist gave these instructions. "Dr. says to call for results when you get back from your vacation. And of course, avoid pregnancy this cycle. Have a good trip."

Are you kidding? As I have said before, I am nothing if not a whore for test taking and I was thinking of calling them, um, tomorrow for my results. Do they really expect me to wait nearly two weeks? What do they think cell phones are for, anyway?

Okay, okay. It's not like I'm waiting for HCG betas. That would just be cruel (and maybe medically unsound) to ask anyone to wait for those. But still, what will I talk about on my trip if I don't know my FSH, TSH, prolactin and estradiol numbers? Especially with my PIF, egg-donor using SIL? I want them ASAP!

I'll probably call on Friday. This Friday. For kicks. Because I know it pays to get under the skin of the office staff at the local fertility clinic.

Monday, August 14, 2006


Sorry for the screw up on the last post. As much as I fancy myself an Internet mom, the blogging thing is still new to me. Plus, as I have mentioned, I am doing this from my parents' house. Perhaps while trying to publish my last post, their modem (which used to be powered by a hand-crank, but recently was upgraded to a hamster running on a wheel) seized. (Maybe the hamster seized.)

So, as for my two-week vacation here at home (or my childhood home, I should say) with my has done wonders for my bruised soul. First, I am 100% blessed with an awesome family. Nearly every member of my immediate (and come to think of it, extended) family is raunchy, funny, kind, perverted, loud and ready to laugh. It's not a Hallmark family. It's more of a Howard Stern family.

Add to that the locale...the shores of Lake Huron. Now, if you have never visited or seen the Great Lakes (and please don't confuse them with the Great Salt Lake of Utah as has been done by a former acquaintance--an Air Force Academy graduate, no less), these are no ordinary lakes. Most people say lake, but they really mean pond. Lake Huron is as vast as an ocean, for all practical purposes. What I mean to say is that you can't see across it and were you to find yourself far enough from shore, you might not be able to see land in any direction. The best news of all is that the water is warm, salt-free and NOT teeming with anything that might take a bite out of your arse if you swim while having your period. So, it's a menses friendly vacation destination. Not that I had my menses while visiting this time. That should be next week, knock wood.

I love coming back home, and it was especially important to me to get home for this trip, not only because I needed to time to heal and rest from my recent miscarriage, but because I had actually planned this trip for earlier in the summer, only to have to cancel it due to the precarious state of that pregnancy. We (daughter and I) spent most of our time with the g-'rents and my sister and her kids, while my brother and his family flashed in and out during the two weekends. Twelve people in a three-bedroom house (read: Aerobed Central). Cottage living, great weather, swimming, skiing, napping and strictly following my FAF plan*. Miraculously, very little miscarriage discussion after my first few days home**.

Now I have to go back to reality. I guess, being a few weeks past it, I'll be in a better frame of mind. (It also won't hurt that we turn around three days later for a week-long vacation with my husband and his family. I'm thinking of taking up vacationing as my new career.)

But still. I think there may be ghosts waiting back there for me. Not to mention my RE.

*After almost four years of scrupulous living, and with the knowlege that I wasn't trying to get pregnant during my travels, I devised a "Fat As Fuck" diet, alcohol and exercise (avoidance) regimen. I have been very faithful to it.

**Except this bizarre conversation that normally wouldn't have bothered me and really had nothing to do with my fertility (or lack thereof). My sister-in-law grew up on a small farm with cows and horses, etc. about ten miles north of my parents. Anyway, from time to time her parents turn one of the cows into, well, hamburger and distribute the end product among relatives and friends, including my parents. Somehow, she revealed that they typically choose mother cows who no longer bear offspring to send to the slaughterhouse. All I could think was, I'd be hamburger by now...

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Maybe D&E stands for Dead End

The weird thing is, I called my RE today to run some unusual symptoms by him. Namely, the uncomfortable, if not downright painful, feeling that my reproductive organs were going to fall into the toilet during my first pee of the day. Brewing a bladder infection, I figured. (Never had one, but preferred that self-diagnosis to a self-diagnosed hyperextended uterus.)

So I left a message with the RE's receptionist. But, the day wore on (okay I waited around for an hour) and I am on vacation at my parents', so I headed down to the beach.

Anywho, my mother followed behind a short while later and reported having spoken to the RE. (We compared notes on his lovely phone etiquette and honey-dipped voice.) She was impressed by the fact that the good doctor had deigned to call me back himself.

Turns out (and this is the weird part), he had been trying to get in touch with me, today, via my home phone to relay the results of the karyotyping of my latest miscarriage. So, we seem to be star-crossed, the RE and I. I mean, of all the days in the last three weeks, I choose to ovulate (RE's diagnosis) on the very same day that he calls me. (Is it inappropriate to apply such an overtly romantic connotation to this coincidence? After all, he has seen more of my privates lately than my husband.)

So the truly sucky part is that there is no conclusive result from the karyotyping. Why? Because the lab didn't have success growing any chromosomes, or whatever it is they do. So I will never know why this pregnancy failed. One of the reasons I chose to have a D & E was that it would give me closure, some answers, and even peace of mind that, in fact, the pregnancy was very compromised. Now I will never have that luxury, so to speak. It may sound crass, but I wanted to know. I wanted some finality. And goddamn it, if I have to take a test, I want to know how I did!

Of course, the other way of looking at it is that I won't torture myself with statistics and future failure rates or whatever. But Jesus, people! Who f***ed up? Is it my doctor? Did he somehow screw up the D&E and not get a sufficient amount of tissue? (He discouraged this line of thinking in our phone conversation.) Did the lab misplace said tissue or run a faulty test? ("It happens," apparently.)

Okay, I can't sit here and get myself worked up. (I'll do that privately, with some Kleenex and a bottle of...oh, who am I kidding. I have to get up at the crack of ass tomorrow morning to chase my three-year old. There will be no consolation drinking for me tonight.)

It was a milestone, and I guess in this infertility battle, every milestone can be seen as some kind of backward/forward/sideways progress.

And I wanted to know.

I think it was a girl.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006


The reason I decided to name my blog "Internet Mom" dates back almost three years ago to the time I was in labor with my daughter. There I was, (nearly) flat on my back, approaching what felt like 23 cm, in tremendous pain and apparently I asked one too many questions of my l&d nurse. ("Does pushing out a baby really feel like pushing out a poop? Should I be feeling this much pain, with an epidural and all? Why are you giving me pitocin? Do I need a catheter? Why does that alarm keep going off? Where did my husband go?")

At which point, she rolled her eyes and said, "Oh, you're an Internet mom, aren't you."

In the heat of the moment, it didn't occur to me to say, "What the hell does that mean?" I mean, I barely had it in me to curse at my husband (who actually was there) while remembering to breathe and keep my gaze away from the scary overhead mirror while wishing that my own OB was delivering instead of Dr. Hollywood who happened to be sharing call that weekend (after, apparently fitting in a quick stop at the tanning salon). So, instead I kicked said nurse in the head during a contraction. (Okay, I just fantasize about the last part.)

Three years (almost) later, it is clear to me that by her standards, I was too armed with information (in general) and took my (pregnancy) education too easily from the web.

In the years since then, I have proudly become an Internet information overload junkie. Most of the people who know this about me view this personality trait in a harsh light. I'm not sure why. Perhaps it is because most of my research lately has centered around my secondary infertility, and perhaps these friends share the viewpoint of Nurse Wretched. That no good can come of doing a Google search on "miscarriage" (or previously, "pregnancy"), that only bad news, false information or overwhelmingly technical medical jargon will be the result. Or worse...I will scare myself.

Well, folks, I'm here to tell you all that I am already scared. Three miscarriages in seven months have seen to that. And while I found experts to both reassure me that the last pregnancy would survive (it didn't) and to prepare me for the worst during the same pregnancy (they didn't; I was still devastated) I do not know how I would have gotten through it all without the knowledge that somewhere, someone had the same question or worry as me. Regardless of her outcome or the answer that she received, some other woman has gone through it, too.

So I decided that in lieu of a support group (because honestly, who has the time between chasing a toddler, keeping a house clean, being a fantastic wife/lover--ha!--well, you know...keeping those balls in the air), I would try to become part of the SIF blogging community and share my story, my questions--and hopefully some of my answers--with all of you. It will be good for me. Better than the l&d nurse or my well-meaning friends could ever know.

Thanks for reading. More (much more) to come.