Friday, November 17, 2006

Good news

Again, nothing but good news.

Heartbeat, check. 116 bpm, which is absolutely average (meaning, falling exactly in the middle of the 112-120 target range that the tech had verbalized to me). Growth looks on target as well, especially the yolk sac, which is 4.1 mm. Between 3mm-4mm is what they hope to see.

Okay, okay, I could freak out that this is on the high side, but she wasn't concerned and further, my RE wasn't concerned. In fact, when I pressed him during our consult about whether the yolk sac could grow more and spell doom, he said what's really important is what it is measuring right now. Yes, it may grow, but that would be normal and the size right now is fine.

Actually, the tech went back through my records with me to show me how the yolk sac had grown in the visits during my last pregnancy. I think the first visit it was 3 mm, then the next visit (with no heartbeat yet) it was 4.3, and when they saw a heartbeat it was 6.9mm. So, if (as I am wont to do) I compare fritters to lugnuts, my yolk sac is behaving this time.

When my RE sat down with me to go over the ultrasound, he was extremely thorough, which I appreciate, although the pace at which he spoke gave me ample time to prognosticate that he was getting ready to drop a huge "HOWEVER" into the conversation. It never materialzed. The growth rate over the last week is good. He is counting today as gestational day 30, and to see a heartbeat on day 30 is really good (better than just good, that is, because seeing a heartbeat is always good).

Am I gloating? Forgive me. I don't mean to; I am just, well, hugely, immensely, immeasurably (and probably temporarily) relieved.

I asked what odds he would give this pregnancy of succeeding, as when we lost the last one, he chalked our chances up to about 65-70% (of having another baby). He said they were much higher now. Eighty percent.

Can you believe I am going to balk at 80%? Truly, I was hoping for something in the A to A- range (90%-95%) I want so badly to be "out of the woods" on this one, but I realize that it is still much too early. And even in a pregnancy that is going to produce a healthy baby and a mom with no "history", what odds of success would any doctor be able to quote? Maybe 90%? Maybe a little higher. I don't know, so I'll just have to cling tight to my 80%. Oh, these numbers can be fickle, I know. Eighty percent it is.

As we parted, the doctor reiterated that with any patient who has had three losses, there is always a lingering concern, making it difficult to be too confident. But for the time being, he said, he had no complaints about this one.

That makes two of us.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Pants Afire

I am somewhat reluctant to admit this. Despite all of my optimistic proclamations of late, tonight as I packed for my Thanksgiving travels, I actually made a conscious effort to include dark underwear. Just in case. I feel sick, exposed, weak. How optimistic must I really be feeling?

Liar, liar.

I cannot believe that this is what I have been reduced to. Feeling like a grade-A risk taker because I packed more white cotton BVDs than black.

So, the nauseau which was my friend only a few days ago, has decided to become sporadic. At best. Fine, fine. No worries. Constapation still hangs his hat here, er, there, er wherever. Boobs tender? Check. Inappropriate anger at husband? Full throttle in less than the time it takes him to ask "Is the dishwasher clean or dirty?" (Hey, Columbo. Open it up and take a look-see.) Oh, would you look at that. He doesn't even have to be in the room and the old temper flares.

I'm also hungy and prone to crave whatever I see on T.V. Last night (watching a tivoed Gilmore Girls), it was Korean...translated by my mind into noodles and vegetable dumplings. Today (watching Oobi--and by the way, if you have been so lucky as to go this far without having seen Oobi, do not seek it out), it was pizza. These things give me great hope, if also a little indigestion. Tonight, we fulfilled my need for genericized Korean (read: Chinese) and I just. kept. eating. About an hour later, my stomach finally realized that it was uncomfortably full. I've become a proverbial horse. Take the food away from me, or I'll eat until my stomach explodes.

Plus, I feel like I could sleep in the chair from whence I type. I absolutely blame the sleepiness on the pregnancy. Just this week, while lying with my daughter to help her nap (part of our ritual) I stayed in bed with her for over two hours! Usually, I'm up in about 15 minutes, despite any and all willingness on my part to continue sleeping. So, I took that as a sign that my body is in full manufacturing mode.

Well, I'm going to satiate that pesky need for rest. Tomorrow is a big day.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Silver Lining Shantytown

In a few days, I will fly with my daughter to visit my family for Thanksgiving. Being that we don't go back for Christmas anymore, I have been spending a week out there for turkey day. My husband will fly on Wednesday night and we'll all return after the tryptophan has worn off.

On Friday, before we leave, I will have one more ultrasound. Well, let me not get ahead of myself. I will have one more ultrasound before Thanksgiving. Because we all know that none of us will ever live to see the day without just one more. Hell, they're giving ultrasounds for hemorrhoids these days. Sign me up!


I am looking forward to this ultrasound. I am not dreading it (not yet, being that it's only Tuesday). I am choosing to believe that this pregnancy is very healthy and will result in a live baby. (Collective intake of breath.) It's true, folks, I am optimistic. I'll do you one better: I am retiring from the "gloom and doom" club and firmly setting up camp in "Silver Lining Shantytown." I know what to do if bad news comes my way, but I have decided to close the door on dead baby thoughts (or at least dead baby posts) for the time being. I don't want to exploit the drama inherent in this forum and in these cyberfriendships to keep you all reading and on the edge of your seats, when in my heart I feel it is not warranted.

I feel good. In fact, I feel more and more lousy, tired, nauseated, hungry and whatnot everyday. For that I am so thankful. I feel good.

However, I am faced with a dilemma. I have not spoken of my five-week-old pregnancy with anyone in my family. Only my sister has had the interest or nerve to ask what's happening with me. If we had been characters in a Shakespeare play, her aside (to my response) would have been, "Me thinks thou doth protest too much." Thank god she's not a deep thinker. And by that I mean, her life and her kids keep her too busy to analyze further, although writing this it occurs to me that she probably knows I'm pregnant. She's my best friend. And besides sometimes sisters just know.

Now, as much as I feel good and healthy and spanklingly optimistic, I do have this certain unnameable anxiety when faced with the decision to tell or not to tell, while I am home.

Last year at Thanksgiving, I was pregnant. I told (despite my husband's reluctance). In a matter of weeks I was rescinding it all. That is really looming large for me right now.

Plus, somehow, it feels good not to tell. Could it be that I'm assuming a direct causal relationship between keeping a secret and the health of this pregnancy?

Go sell crazy somewhere else. We're all stocked up here.

I have my whole family in my immediate grasp only on rare occasions, if you call twice a year "rare." But, even rarer still will be my opportunities to tell them all in person of a healthy pregnancy (as opposed to, say, another loss). By the time I would be seeing them all again, I will actually be expected to be in labor (oh, yes, the technician gave me a due date! Thanks for that!)

I can hear some vague twittering in the peanut gallery, as some of you, or maybe the whole lot of you are thinking that these are grand assumptions to make as I have not even seen the heartbeat, yet. But, Silver Lining Shantytown being what it is, I am skipping all that. These have been my thoughts over the past week(s), so I'm sharing. I have no answer yet. I'm leaning toward not saying anything, because sometimes I find that my own need for instant gratification is actually best left unmet.

I suppose this whole post will end where my own thoughts on the matter end (though in very circuitous fashion), which is to say: let's see what happens Friday.

Sunday, November 12, 2006

Nora almost sounds like Moron

So, there I was. Sitting in the "Inner Sanctum" waiting room during my recent RE appointment. I was feeling somewhat smug, I now realize. The hubris of good news was taking hold of me.

Somewhere in my rose-colored brain, I vaguely conjured up my recent post about waiting room etiquette. Or perhaps I was prompted in this recollection by the bubbly woman sitting close by waiting to see the doctor as well. Let's call her "Nora." In a subtle, split-second decision, a decision borne of some kind of instinctual "read" or intuitive understanding of this woman, I struck up a conversation. It quickly became apparent that she was only too happy to share any and all information about herself with anyone who had ears.

Being where we were, doing what we were, the discussion inevitably focused on where we both were in the process. Another woman came to join us, and she, too, seemed comfortable revealing her situation. Nora philibustered most of the conversation. What I learned in a very short time: Nora is remarried and at age 41 wants to have another baby with the man whose eleven-year-old she adopted, in addition to her own 17- and 19-year-old children, but her "hallways" are blocked and her husband just got shipped to Korea (North? South? she didn't seem to recognize the need to differentiate. I know it's South, because they don't seem to like us too much in the North.) so they have his sperm frozen and she is just waiting and wondering what is taking so long and let's just get on with this already.

I was assuming IVF. But I dared not ask for fear of another truckload of information spilling onto my rose-colored highway.

The other woman was quieter, but explained that she was doing IUI, and so far no success, but still hopeful.

I, of course, had the pleasure of trying not to sound too cheerful when I stated that I had a gestational sac and a yolk sac.

If you can picture it, Nora was the type who kept talking and repeating her favorite phrases and interrupting her story to giggle at herself, making it somewhat hard to actually care what she was saying because she obviously didn't care if she was making herself understood or making a connection with us. But I humored her with a lot of smiles and nodding of my head, because I am very, very good at that. The second woman felt much more real to me, but with Nora droning on, and being in the Inner Sanctum, I just didn't press it. In fact, I started to regret reaching out in the first place.

At this point, the RE we were all waiting to see escorted another woman to the Inner Sanctum. I didn't get a good look at her, as she sat right next to me. However, Nora immediately began consoling her, and catching a quick glance, it was clear that this woman had gotten some very bad news.

So I sat there trying to decide what to do. With four of us in the room, I didn't want to invade this woman's privacy. Nora said some rote things like "We're all here for you," or something similar. I felt that Nora was being bold and maybe even courageous to break the silence to comfort this woman.

That's where I was wrong.

The room fell silent for a bit, but Nora kept talking about her own situation (frozen sperm, husband in Korea). I bargained with myself that when given the proper moment, alone with just this woman, I would reach out to her. After all, she was alone in receiving her news, whatever it was. But, again, I did not want to add to her discomfort by cornering her. The best I could think to do was to hunt down a pack of tissues from a nurse and bring them to her.

By the time I got back with the tissues, Nora had done the cornering for all of us. I never heard what was going on with the woman, but after a pause, Nora said (and I'm paraphrasing here, but I know you'll get the gist of it):

"What you need to do is just relax. I find that most people just stress out too much and if you just relax and don't worry about it..."

And my eyes started bulging and my head began shaking from side to side and I said, "Don't say that."

And Nora, without missing a beat, continued on. "No really, you can't stress out, you need to just relax and it will happen."

And that is where I failed myself and this woman. Instead of the myriad insightful and cutting remarks that I could have made, my defense of this woman (and all of us who are outraged when we hear that SHIT) boiled down to: "Yeah, but to say that to someone who's just gotten bad news? I mean, that's the worst thing you can say, because how is someone supposed to relax when they've just gotten bad news."

And Nora agreed and quieted down for a moment (after thinking about defending herself yet again) and then murmured, "that's why we all have to just relax."

Holy Christ. I can't tell you how disappointed I was in myself. I had really wanted to reach out to this woman and help her in her suffering. Instead, when face-to-face with the "You're just stressing yourself out" lecture, I panicked and mumbled incoherently and worried about a show-down because, let's face it, I'm just plain more experienced at nodding and smiling.

As if this wasn't all enough, Nora (which you may now realize is short for Ignoramus) started pulling out clips from her "Best of IVF" monologue, like a fertility-tourette's patient. "My sisters keep teasing me that I'm going to end up with four babies! Four babies!" Pause. Shift in her seat. "I say, I don't care if I have four babies! I'll give one to each of them!"


Finally, the RE showed up and escorted the grieving woman to the reception area, where I overheard him talking about her having a D&E and getting the results, etc. He also gave her a big hug goodbye.

It was my turn next, and when I went in to talk with him, he admitted to being shaken.

"I can't handle the miscarriages," he said. "The infertility stuff I can deal with (meaning, performing IUI and IVF), but not knowing why a woman just makes me crazy." He seemed so sincere, but I wasn't sure if it was the scientist in him or the humanist talking.

Then, as he walked me out of his office after our consult, he gave me a big hug, and it occurred to me then that he needed it more than he was offering it. I told him to have a better day.

I went home both pleased with myself (for the vigorous pregnancy) and also very disappointed (for my utter lack of courage). And it has been on my mind ever since.

Friday, November 10, 2006


Good news. Only good news. Today, for the first time, I have been given that precious gift of leaving my RE's office with only good news. No buts, no ifs, no howevers.

The ultrasound showed a gestational sac and a yolk sac. Which means I have avoided the blighted ovum possibility. It also showed an intrauterine pregnancy, which means I have avoided the ectopic thing.

The nurse just called with my numbers. After a day of not taking my progesterone pills, my own body seems to be doing just fine manufacturing the stuff. Twenty-two. They are still going to have me take it, and hey, what's a few more pills between friends?

My hcg blows my mind: 7658. On Halloween it was 112. Somebody do the math for me, because I just don't have the brain power right now. I think the formula is y + x to the square root of holy shit. The most I was hoping for was around 3600.

To use my RE's phrasing, the pregnancy is progressing "vigorously." I'll take that as a good thing. (He wasn't even sure that an ultrasound today would show anything. So, I'm jumping through these here hoops pretty nicely, as though I'm actually trained for it.)

I am currently exhausted, both emotionally and physically. As soon as I returned from my appointment, I picked up my daughter from the neighbor's house and took her three-year-old for the rest of the day (so she could visit her dad in the hospital). The three-year-old just got picked up. Meaning no nap for my little one, and more importanly, no nap for moi.

Plus, I am approaching my good news with optimistic caution. I am still not telling anyone (except for one dear friend). This is somewhat taxing for me. I have seen at least fourteen people today to whom I would have liked to shout my news. Not to mention that contraption the telephone. I could have done some real damage with that. I've said it before and I'll say it again:

Maturity. It's overrated.

The next time I post, I'll give you the story of my waiting room experience, which pretty much went in the toilet this time. Despite my efforts to reach out to those around me. It's not what you think. I just don't have the energy to do the story justice at the moment.

Go enjoy your weekends and have a glass of whatever for me. (Not Jim Beam, though. Never again Jim Beam.)

Thursday, November 09, 2006

Still Thursday night here

I am writing again before stepping foot in the stirrups. Why? Well, my daughter is in bed and my husband is away on business (who exactly decided to call dinners out and drinking until ungodly hours "business," anyway? It's the exact converse of harried stay-at-home moms who are described as having it easy because they don't have to work. Women really should rise up, take over and put an end to all this word play.)

But, my heart is in my throat for a couple of reasons. Many women out there this evening are going through rough times. A few months ago I was one of them. Tonight I am in a bit of a no-woman's land, not knowing which way my fate will turn.


I just deleted a paragraph of my dronings-on. I don't want to bore myself anymore with this. I can write ad nauseaum about my feelings and my thoughts.

Big fucking deal. So I'm mouthy. What has that gotten me lately?

I'll post tomorrow when I know more. In the meantime, let me regale you with a recent discovery.

I have started my own business; for the sake of clarity, let's just say it's a catering business (although it's not). Because I work with food a lot (and am licensed to do so), on top of having a three-year old who is potty-training, I wash my hands a lot.

About this time of year, when the air dries out and the heat comes on in the house, my hands really start to suffer. It is not unusual for the skin on my knuckles to spontaneously crack and bleed. (Calm down! We're not talking hemorrhage or anything, just tiny hairline cracks. Painful, but not unmanageable with a bandaid.)

As you can imagine, I have searched high and low (well, mostly high) for remedies. I have tried expensive lotions, applied thick moisturizers beforing donning cotton gloves while I sleep and (not often enough, really) gone for manicures.

A few nights ago, my hands were barking for attention. For lack of any other handy ointment, I reached for the Curel I keep on the bathroom counter (for use on the rest of my body). In a move resembling desperation, I squirted too much on my hands (good thing my husband wasn't in the room or he might have gotten his hopes up) and spent the better part of two minutes rubbing it in.

Imagine my utter surprise when not only did the lotion absorb completely, greaselessly, but I awoke the next morning to soft and supple extremities (still talking hands here, people). I was stunned! None of my other potions had even come close to giving my skin that feel. I seriously feel like that Curel took a couple of year's worth of aging off my hands. (Yeah, cause now my hands look twenty-two. Ha.)

In a related note, for anyone who hand-washes constantly (yes, Madame OCD, I'm talking to you) there is another wonderful product that I will recommend. I found it at Bath and Body Works (to which I am loathe to give credit for anything resembling responsible skin care). It's called C. O. Bigelow Soap-Free Chapped Hands Cleanser. It's a greasy, cold-cream type product in a tub. I use that for "light" hand washings when I'm working (you know, after I've used the phone or something, if I feel I need a little scrub) and it saves my hands from the harsh realities of soap, while doing a decent job of cleaning them.

That and the Curel are going to make me unstoppable this winter. I think it will become my super power: Never Cracking Hands!

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Wouldn't you like to be a psycho, too?

Yes, I am a psycho.

For all of my rambling on about not wanting to know good, bad, nor ugly in regard to this or other pregnancies, I have googled. Oh, how I have googled.

But! I have limited the googling! Which is more than I can say for my past experiences with the invention! However, when I'm not busy googling, I am inevitably playing "Divination Klondike," wherein I judge my future luck (fertility, fiscal, business, marital, intestinal) by the solitaire hand I am dealt and whether there is any money in my pot (Vegas style, baby, Vegas style) at the end of the hand. This is akin to turning on the radio and finding guidance in whatever song is playing. Who would do that? Ahem.

Psycho. Deluxe.

So, I'm a bit freaking out. Last night I had a very lucid dream about going to the RE's office and being told I was not pregnant. It wasn't a particularly sad dream, there was no mention of miscarriage. The pregnancy just wasn't, anymore. And in the dream I remember trying to verify with the nurse that I had been pregnant, vis-a-vis my initial beta. As if that would count for something. That's when I woke up. Leaving my dream no more conclusive than my waking hours.

Sure, I'm having some cramps here and there. Could be gas (what fun!) or just the old flesh peach beginning a slow stretch into watermelondom. Whatever it is, it is making my mind spin. Two nights ago (three by now?) I had the headache that I get just before...a period. That headache. So, I've been waiting for the other clot to drop, so to speak. I wish I were as good at taking the advice that I would give to all of you in my shoes--the advice that nobody wants anyway and can't follow if paid--as I am in thinking it when reading someone else's situation.

It is so simple. Either it is, or it isn't. It's just that the finality of the "is" or "isn't" could come at anytime.

And since I'm here, I'll tell you that I'll be going in for bloodwork and ultrasound on Friday. Which could be why all my anxieties are suddenly bottlenecking. So much perseverating to accomplish and so little of the week left!

Now, I've got four aces showing, so if you'll excuse me, I'm going to win me $208. And a future of guaranteed bliss.

Monday, November 06, 2006

The Waiting Room

Okay, DD ( and Erin ( have started something in which I feel compelled to join. The question is basically, what is your RE's waiting room like? Quiet and subdued or chaotic and chatty? Okay, chaotic and chatty may be pushing it, but do the women (and their partners) look each other in the eye, at least, or is it all shoe-staring and gum-chewing?

I think it's fair to say that most waiting rooms, whether RE, OB, pediatrician, dentist, etc., are quiet and subdued. Sometimes it's nerves that keep us quiet. Sometimes it's our sense of propriety. Sometimes it's the circumstances that have brought us there.

My RE's office (both offices, actually) have multiple waiting rooms. One for the general public--women who are still waiting to see anyone beyond the receptionist--and another (or two) for women who are in between bloodwork, ultrasound and consultation.

At my first visit back to the RE, after the three-month post D&E hiatus, I was in the general waiting room and another woman sat near me with her infant in tow. She and her six-month old daughter in a car seat were cooing at each other. I know it is frowned upon for patients to bring their children to these visits, but I wanted this woman to know that I wasn't offended, so I struck up a conversation with her. As a reward, I was flirted with by a sweet baby and offered some words of comfort by her mother when I told her why I was there (not in great detail, mind you). It was a nice moment, wedged between the tedium of waiting to see anyone beyond the receptionist and the nerves of being back in the ultrasound room where my last pregnancy was pronounced doomed.

However, as I was waiting in the inner sanctum waiting room, the woman and her now-hungry baby and I were again face-to-face. More chatting and flirting ensued, and it was nice enough, until another woman joined the mix. It was quickly apparent that each of us had children, so conversation about children flowed freely. In reflection of how quickly children grow, the third woman said something chirpy along the lines of "That's why I decided to have my children no more than 2 years apart..." blah, blah, blah. And, despite myself, I felt slapped in the face.

I had thought that everyone going to see the RE for reproductive issues (as opposed to excessive facial hair, acne or extreme menopause symptoms) had...reproductive issues! The third woman was so blithe in her remarks about timing her children (and having three children, no less), that I admit I suddenly felt that SHE was an outsider, and the first woman who had used the RE to have the flirting baby was my compadre.

I am confident that I am usually not so petty. Perhaps because the ability to space my children any way I wanted was a belief that was shattered for me, I am unusually sensitive to it.


Two other episodes stand out for me.

When I was told that the doctor was regarding my last pregnancy as a threatened miscarriage, I went in for a follow-up ultrasound to check the size of the yolk sac (and everything else). In the inner sanctum waiting room, along came that woman who actually wouldn't shut up or stop asking questions. She had a sad story, from what I remember, and at the time I thought "I don't want to become her (and lose this pregnancy)." Doesn't make me sound very nice, does it?

Anyway, out of the inability to tell her to mind her own business, I told her a little of why I was there. Mercifully, the interrogation was interrupted by my ultrasound. The tech told me that my yolk sac was still a "good size." (Just a small digression here: if you heard a tech say that your anything was a "good size," you'd take that as a positive, right? Well, it wasn't, it was "too big" and the jerk should expand her vocabulary.)

When I retreated from the ultrasound room, back to the inner sanctum, the woman was still there firing questions at me. "How was it? Is everything okay?" And all I could think to say (because the tech had finally explained what "good size" meant) was "We'll have to see what the doctor says." I really think I used the word "We" as if now this nosy woman was part of my tribe.


Lastly, when my husband and I went in for an ultrasound and discovered that the baby had no heartbeat, the staff led us to an unused office of one of the other doctors, so that we wouldn't have to sit with all the shoe-starers and gum chewers. It was nice, but also felt like some kind of punishment, if that's possible. My husband and I remarked on the news clippings of this doctor on the wall, and the gifts baskets that lined the filing cabinets. Then we got ourselves into fits of laughter imagining what would happen if we started partaking of the gift baskets, better yet, the files, or maybe turned on the computer and started looking up, oh I don't know, porn--only to be walked in on by our RE, coming to find us for the consult. Gallows humor, I guess. But, it wouldn't have been possible in the face of other IF hopefuls.


Sitting here, thinking about it, hoping that the pregnancy I'm in is the one that will work, I can't say I'm eager to open myself up to the women that might sit around me at the RE's office. For the same reason that I have stopped googling pregnancy symptoms: I have no room right now for borrowed trouble in my wee little mind. I don' t want to know the bad things that could happen and do happen, and maybe even knowing the happy things will make me just too damn wistful.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006


For those of you planning to play the Cash Five tonight, here are some numbers that seem lucky to me.

30—my progesterone level. Just fine.

112—my hcg beta. This is a great number, I think. I had been bargaining with myself about wanting a number around 120, so this puts my mind at ease. Why? If you’re looking for a logical reason, look elsewhere. However, my chemical pregnancy, which also started as a faint HPT positive, had a first beta of 49 and a second beta two days later of 120. So, if I am going to compare apples to lugnuts, it seems that I have already topped those numbers at a very early date.

3—number of days until my next appointment, as advised by the nurse. More on this later.

2—number of arms that had to be poked to find a cooperative vein. Yes, my friends, I have seemingly developed some scars on my veins that are making it difficult to have blood drawn. In addition to having veins the thickness of a straight pin.

45—number of minutes it took to complete a bloodwork-only appointment.

1,000,000 to infinite—the amount of gratitude I have in my heart for all of your support and well wishes. This pregnancy is, of course, big news to me, yet I am talking of it with no one except my husband (it’s only fair that he be included!). So to have you in my confidence, with your stories of hope or advice to breathe, or just to connect with a world of people who understand what it means to get pregnant after getting pregnant three times and not being able to hold on to any of them…it is, to say, priceless.


I spoke directly to my RE this morning and he said, "Boy, you are really a fertile little chicken."

B’Gock! (that was my chicken impression)

He also agreed with me that there is no reason to subject me to coming in on Friday, and again on Monday as the nurse had suggested, just to get another beta. Either the numbers are doing what they’re supposed to, or they’re not. Until an ultrasound is warranted, to rule out an ectopic, I do not want to be poked, nor do I want to scramble every three days to find someone to watch my daughter. (Again, yes, I have very generous friends and neighbors, but they have lives and kids who go to afternoon preschool and sometimes even the bloodwork takes hours.)

What else, what else…

Things actually seem pretty normal. It is a jolt to remember suddenly that I can’t (or shouldn’t) eat brie or a glass of wine (even though I was not prone to having a glass of wine, the jolt is there all the same, remembering that I cannot!)

As we were getting off the phone, my RE said "Congratulations", and somehow that seems to validate my status a little more. Well, that and being called a fertile chicken.

Because what woman doesn’t long for that?