Internet Mom

A funny thing happened on the way to the hospital

2007-02-22T14:23:00.000-05:00

I have been avoiding writing this post for a while, now. About two weeks. Everytime I come to the computer to check up on everyone else, I hear this nagging voice telling me that I need to write. So, here it is.

On the Monday evening that my husband and I took our daughter to the specialist to have her elbow looked at--the same evening that we were informed she would be needing surgery the following day--my blogging life took an interesting and unexpected turn. In my state of distress over my daughter's impending hospital visit, I logged on to the Internet and wrote the post explaining what we had just gone through. During the time that it took me to finish the post (no small feat, considering we have dial-up service, still), my daughter was hanging on me, getting into office supplies and generally adding to my distress. So I called out for some back-up (yo! husband!).

In the process, I got myself busted. Meaning that for the past six months I have been blogging without anyone from my "real" life knowing (except one friend), including my husband. But when he unexpectedly appeared to help me with the little one, I think I panicked and actually put my hand over the computer screen!! No, really, it wasn't quite that bad, but go ahead and imagine it that way if it makes you laugh. Because whatever my real reaction was, it must have been mighty awkward in that it provoked accusations of infidelity from him. (Understand that he still, at this point, didn't know that I actually write a blog.) Yes, my friends, my husband took my "caught-in-the-act" moves as indication that I am carrying on some sort of sordid Internet relationship with another man.

Now, there may be some association between having a blog that you don't tell your husband about and behaving unfaithfully, even if the blog in question is merely a therapeutic attempt to deal with one issue alone--recurrent miscarriage. But to me the very accusation was bruising. However, I made the painful decision that my privacy and peace of mind would have to be sacrificed in favor of full disclosure and marital harmony. My husband is a bit of a jerk for jumping to that conclusion (methinks he watches too much Dateline), but all things considered I believe that my marriage deserved my honesty at that moment, even if he was out of line. And there was just no way to keep my blog private and reassure him at the same time.

So when we finally crawled into bed at the end of the night, I handed him a print-out of the post I had been writing and somewhat tearfully confessed (everything that night, considering my daughter, was expressed somewhat tearfully) that for the better part of a year I had been keeping a secret from him. Not so much from him as to myself, but I'm not sure how much weight that argument had.

I'm sure he was a bit taken aback and maybe even a little angry. When I think about hiding something from him, I can understand those feelings. However, when I think about blogging as it manifests itself in my life, it seems much more on par with keeping a journal--albeit one others can read--which I have done for most of the time I've known him.

What bothers me most is that the dynamic of blogging has changed, irrevokably, for me. Now, much more than before, I feel I need to hide my time on the computer. While he always knew that I was reading other women's blogs, frequently regaling him with updates from some of the success stories out there, he never knew that I might be divulging my innermost musings to the world (wide web). Subsequently, when I am typing at the computer, he now says with a tone that may or may not suggest derision, "What are you up to, blogging?" Which is, in fact, one of the reasons I did not tell him in the first place. Whether real or imagined, I did not want my husband's views on my blogging to interfere with the healing I sought through it. And believe me, my interpretation of his views are very much that: mine. He has never said anything negative since that first discussion about it, when he was still digesting some very big and probably strange news.

Combined with other events in my life (growing business, growing belly, daughter on the injured reserve), it has become more and more clear to me that posting to this blog is falling woefully low on my list of priorities. While I am loathe to completely cut ties with the blogging world, I must admit that I just won't be posting as often. The hope and courage that I found here was not through my own writing, but through reading the stories of others. I would rather take my time to do that, still, than write. So, I will. And I will update about my own journey when I can find time, because I do know there is great healing in that for me.

In so many ways I feel (and know) that blogging and discovering blogs like Barefoot And... and Inhospitable (and many, many others) have pulled me through a very hard year. So it feels somewhat greedy to turn and run, now that my life is back on track and I am experiencing a success story of my own. I'm not ready to totally give it up for that reason as well. However, continuing to write when only out of a sense of duty and guilt...who wants to read that anyway?

So, if you don't see me as often, you'll know why. But, rest assured that I am still prowling around out there, reading your blogs and pulling for all of you. And when something--really anything--happens in my life, you can bet that I am formulating a post in my head about it, even if it never makes it to this site.

And if I haven't said it before, thank you all very, very much. I'm glad to read your stories and honored when you drop by to read mine.

Closed reduction vs. open reduction

2007-02-08T15:01:00.000-05:00

For those of you unfamiliar with orthopedic surgical lexicon, let me translate.

Closed reduction: externally manipulating the elbow to replace the radial head and align the bones of the arm.

Open reduction: failing success during a closed reduction, surgically opening the elbow and pinning the bones back in place.

Both under general anesthesia (open taking place immediately during the same visit to the OR if closed reduction fails).

*****

It was a long day at the hospital. We had to get up at 6:00 am to call the Day Surgery desk and find out when to be at the hospital. As the doctors were not even in, yet, along with my daughter's case being an "add-on," we were told to sit tight until we were called. Which allowed two more precious hours of sleep. Sorely needed, as both my husband and I agreed that our dreams had been vivid and draining during those few moments when we did nod off during the night.

A little after nine we got the call to head on in to the hospital. Within an hour we were on the road. By eleven we had begun the admission process.

Perhaps hospitals have devised their pre-surgery admission routine to include as much paperwork, question and answer, and moving from waiting room to waiting room with a larger purpose in mind. In the middle of all the tedium and attention to minutiae, one hardly has time to contemplate the enormity of the situation.

I'm not sure when in the process we met with the doctor, but I know we did, because I know he explained in great detail what he was expecting to have happen. Go in, pop the bone back in place, x-ray it, cast it and on to recovery. He also explained what might happen. Sometimes in cases like these, you find that the dislocation is the result of a congenital defect and would require a different approach. However, my daughter did not give any indication (via x-ray) of having the markings of a congenital case. Also, he talked about an intermediate step between a closed reduction and an open reduction, where, failing to get the bone to snap back by itself, he would make a small incision in the elbow and run a k-wire down into the arm bones to hold them in place. A percutaneous pinning, it is called, and the doctor said it's not his favorite thing to do. (I didn't ask him what his favorite thing to do is.) He also explained that because children's bones are what they are, there is a possibility of causing an additional fracture during the mainuplation.

Right after that, a nurse practitioner took us to an exam room to get my daughter's vitals and history. Suddenly, two new concerns arose. First, exactly how much Motrin had we given her since the injury took place? Secondly, how long ago did she have a cold?

The Motrin is an issue because it thins the blood. In some cases, the three doses that we had given her in four days would have been enough to call off surgery, but because hers was not going to be a procedure, even in its extreme, which would result in a lot of blood loss, we got a pass on that one.

Next, the anesthesiologist and nurse anesthetist had a listen to my daughter's lungs for themselves and were put at ease about possible complications with anesthesia due to respiratory congestion. (Prolonged intubation, lungs seizing during administration of anesthesia, the list goes on.)

While I felt very comfortable with the assessment of both of these professionals, it is a bit of torture to add any additional worry to a day that already felt interminable.

Finally, we were taken to a holding room, where my daughter (now dressed in hospital p.j.'s, playing happily in the waiting room full of toys and breaking my heart for all of her innocent unawareness of the extraordinary nature of that vision) was given "giggle juice" (some form of sedative) along with a shot of apple juice to wash it down. As she had had nothing to eat since the night before, and nothing to drink for hours, the apple juice (all one tablespoon of it) made her quite happy.

And then the hardest part. Watching the surgical team wheel her stretcher away from the two of us, her beautiful brown eyes locked on to us the whole time. She was small and brave and no amount of kisses and hugs could have made that separation bearable.

Rather than detail the remaining minutes and hours, which turned into an overnight stay, let me just say that the surgery went fine, as far as we are told. The closed reduction did not work, in that her little bones are so flexible, they wanted to pop right out of place, even after being held there by the doctor for thirty minutes or more. (This is where, perhaps, the local ER failed us, by not catching the dislocation and suggesting that we wait four days before approaching the children's hospital.) While in the OR, the doctor phoned us in the family waiting room (unsettling, again) to tell us that he would be performing the percutaneous pinning. It is, I gather, less than ideal. However, it is better than settling for an unstable closed reduction, possibly necessitating another visit to the OR for an open reduction down the road.

My daughter did great in the OR. Her vitals were strong and her recovery uneventful, aside from the tremendous exhaustion she experienced. That is why we made the decision to stay overnight. She was just zonked, and at nine thirty at night, it was no time to rouse her for a cold car ride home. Of course, I stayed overnight with her. I'm just glad she slept well. :)

By 6:30 the next morning she had me walk her down the hall from her hospital room to play in the toy room. It was easy to see that she was back to herself, giving me specific instructions for playing with her and enjoying all of the different toys.

Now we have three weeks with an ERNOMOUS pink cast, which is about three times thicker at the elbow than a normal cast. She is in great spirits and only took one dose of Tylenol last night around seven. Today was the first day since it happened that she said her elbow doesn't hurt. Hurray! In three weeks the doctor will x-ray and if all looks good, he will remove the k-wire under conscious sedation and replace the cast with a removable splint. That part (sedation) worries me, but at the children's hospital, the protocol seems to place the patients' comfort at the forefront of care. Hopefully there won't be much drama during that visit.

Not out of the woods, but glad to be where we are and no longer where we were.

Update

2007-02-05T21:25:00.000-05:00

Diagnosis: Dislocated elbow.

First solution: In-office manual manipulation followed by immediate casting while daughter cries her eyes out. (I promise you, it was 90% fear because the doctor was a prick. There was some pain, I know, but the screaming was provoked by his lack of bedside manner.)

This attempt did not yield positive results, so we are now scheduled for the OR at the nearby children's hospital for tomorrow sometime. Doesn't mean that there will be surgery--although there very well could be--it simply means that they will administer anesthesia and then try another external manipulation to get the arm bones aligned. If that effort fails, they will have to open her arm and use pins to secure it. God help me. Even if it doesn't come to that, the general anesthesia part is enough to make me lose it already a few times tonight.

I have a friend who is a nurse anesthetist at this children's hospital and she is doing everything she can to line up a great team for my daughter. She has already called in her favorite RNA to handle the case because she, herself, can't be there. She has given us names of doctors (only one actually) from whom we should run if slated to work on our daughter. And she has familiarized me somewhat with what to expect.

Still, I am frightened. General anesthesia. The risk. My baby. Sigh.

Charlie is Broken*

2007-02-05T14:33:00.000-05:00

The title of my post comes from a lovely children's show called "Charlie and Lola," which is one of the few shows my daughter enjoys that I can tolerate watching. It is set in England, so perhaps it's the quirky accents and dry wit.

In any event, I am tempted to post a long-winded story about napping and how I am on the fence about discontinuing my 3 1/2 year-old's nap regimen. Actually, I am not on the fence about it. I am very much for continuing it. And, each day she takes a nap that usually lasts around two hours. However, sometimes I become overly frustrated begging her to fall asleep ("Stop kicking me. No picking your nose. When you shake the bed you wake me up!"...oh, did I mention that I sleep with her, which is why, most likely, I'm still for it?) Add to this the fact that a nap seems to keep her up until at least eleven each night--which can become a bit draining--along with some opinionated neighbors who pester me to end it for once and for all, and, well, I wonder if the nap's days are numbered.

So, last Friday (why, yes, Groundhog Day), the neighborhood kids who go to public school had a half day, so I decided it would be a good day to forgo the nap and hang with the local mommies while my girl wore herself out digging in dirt piles so I could put her to bed early (which, as you can see, is anything before ten). The plan worked beautifully, dovetailing into a playdate with a little friend her age who was also digging in dirt piles , who then came to our house to continue the merriment.

Which lasted just until my daughter fell off her bed whilst dancing, breaking her arm in the process.

We think.

Of course, I rushed her to the local ER, where x-rays were ordered, but I couldn't go in with her because, well, I'd like my unborn child to have only two eyes.

"No problem," said the admitting nurse. "The tech will take her in and you can wait outside."

Um. No. We shall wait until her father gets here. (I was channeling my sister at this point, who is a tiger for her children when in these--or any--situations. Yes, the same sister I maligned so easily days ago.)

My husband called me on his way to the ER and I could hear sirens in the background. "Oh, thank goodness," I thought. "He's already at the hospital."

Um. No. That was the sound of three police cars cruising by him on the highway, which was now closed due to an accident caused by the severe weather.

And still we waited for him. I mean, seriously people. You know when you decide to go to the ER that you have just signed away at least four hours of your life. So what's a little more waiting so that my frightened, hurt baby didn't have to be manhandled without a familiar face to comfort her.

The x-rays were somewhat inconclusive in that there might be a break in the growth plate, which is hard to x-ray because it is soft tissue. She was fitted with a splint (which caused many tears prior to application because my daughter thought they were going to give her a splinter.) at which point she started to become more herself. Chatty and wide-eyed, as opposed to weepy and morose.

This afternoon we are going as a threesome to see a pediatric orthopedic surgeon (which was the plan implemented by the attending MD at the ER). We will know more once he sees the film of her elbow.

So that is my drama for now. I'm tempted to become heartsick at the thought of my baby having a broken bone, but she is really doing so well (slept about ten hours last night with only one awakening for water) and seems so happy that I guess even if it is broken, she will heal. I just pray we avoid surgery. That will really distress me.

*As you can guess, in the episode "Charlie is Broken," Charlie breaks his arm playing football with his friends, and his little sister Lola is beside herself trying to find some way to comfort him.

Fee tines a mady

2007-01-25T17:20:00.000-05:00

On Tuesday of last week, after picking my daughter up from school, I dragged her to the local Quest lab to get my requisite pregnancy bloodwork. I warned the tech that my veins have been far from cooperative in the last few months, going so far as to point out the exact spot where my RE's office had found the best luck poking me. She preferred the other arm, whose vein seemed to be plump and juicy.

And don't you know, she was right! Easy as pie, she took my blood with my daughter sitting in my lap all the while (there were no other chairs in the room).

So, I took the youngster home for lunch (my daughter, not the tech), proud of myself for being such a fine patient in front of her (thinking that one day she may have cause to remember my stoic nature when having her own blood drawn). We talked a bit about what had happened and why, which was tricky as she still does not know that she's in for a baby sister or brother. (We're waiting for the level two ultrasound to come out clean.)

Back at the lab, in the five minutes that it took us to drive home, the tech had the urge to actually read the paperwork from my OB and realized that she had missed an entire test, requiring far more hemoglobin than she had syphoned from me. Imagine my joy upon hearing her message that I would have to return to have more blood taken to complete the panel, because both tests had to be sent out together.

We ate lunch and decided (because yes, now the decision-making process is jointly entered by my three-year-old and myself) to go back before her nap rather than put it off until the next day.

Three more stabs, people. Three more needles in three different places to find a vein that would cooperate. And the winner? The original site that I had recommended. I am a little pissed at those people from Quest. Not to mention that all my groundwork with my daughter was blown to pieces, with her whining, "I don't want anyone to pinch me, mommy," all the way home. (Okay, I had told her that it didn't hurt, it just pinched. Except, if she saw my face during those first two ineffective pokes--where they started digging for a vein with the needle--she probably figured out it is no ordinary pinch.) Next time I'll go by myself. And read the order form to the tech.

Blood tests aside, by Thursday I was fighting a case of anxiety bad enough to send me to the OB's for a quick doppler. (Funny how mentrual cramp sensations can do that.) My husband was home sick (watching NFL highlights all day, so how bad could it be?), so I could sneak off by myself for a little guilty visit with that gel and that wand. Nurse Kelly, who I believe is the head nurse, took me back and assured me that I can always swing by for such a visit, sans appointment, as it takes no time at all.

And in no time she found it. 144 bpm. Sigh.

The past week has been spent alternately hopeful and anxious. Because there have been moments when I feel significant movement, I am wracked (racked?) with doubt if I go to bed without same. And most nights lately have seen me in a dry spell.

But...but! Today was my official appointment with the OB. I have been feeling crampy, slightly so, but crampy throughout the whole pregnancy which unsettles me. However, that compares not at all to the fiasco in the exam room when the nurse could not find a heartbeat (other than mine) and called for good old nurse Kelly. Who found it, again, in no time. 144 bpm. Hrmph.

(Note to OB's office: Don't let the new nurse learn the tricks of the trade on the recurrent miscarrier. It is just bad business.)

Which leads me to proclaim...ALL IS WELL. Again. Seven pounds under my belt. Literally. Hard-earned bloodwork stellar. Seriously people, my blood type is A+. I couldn't be more inappropriately proud of a blood type. Level two ultrasound scheduled for President's Day. My new favorite drink, Mango Juice something-something from Trader Joe's, has been given the thumbs up by the OB (his wife loves the stuff). With 100% or more of certain vitamins, I wanted to make sure I wasn't running any risks. Especially with that damn vitamin A. And, I finally convinced the guy that I am 16 weeks pregnant instead of 15 and change. It took a circular calendar and a whole lot of thumb-wrestling, but I did it. What is my midwestern upbringing for, if not thumb-wrestling proficiency? (Let's ignore that his thumbs were probably tired from the Mango Juice something-something approval minutes earlier.)

Only three weeks, six days and sixteen-and-a-half hours to go until I see him again.

I hate disclaimers

2007-01-17T21:17:00.000-05:00

One of the things that I have found frustrating in becoming pregnant in a successful fashion is the need to add disclaimers to the disclosure that I am pregnant.

"B and I are expecting. Again."

And everyone knows that "again" doesn't mean "Holy shit, we are having so much wanton sex that number four is on the way..we just don't know how we got ourselves into this familiar situation...and we're going to have to cram all our chitterlings in a double bed just like Charlie's grandparents in that book about his adventures in the Chocolate Factory.' Somebody give us some damn birth control already! Or a calendar."

Or, "I'm pregnant and hoping it sticks." Not that I've ever really said that, but I have thought it every single time.

And, to make my eyes roll clear to the back of my head, there are conversations like this one with my sister:

(In a nod to James Frey, I may be embellishing just a bit.)

Sister: How are you feeling?

Me: Fine?

Sister: Are you showing yet?

Me: No. My pants are still pretty comfortable.

Sister: Bitch (mockingly, of course)

Me: (Nothing. What on earth could I say?)

Sister: How many weeks are you?

Me: Twelve.

Sister: Well are you feeling the baby yet? Should be any day now.

Me: No.

Sister: Well I felt (my second) at, oh I think 11 or 12 weeks. Oh yeah, he was so active. I remember lying on my back and I could actually see his little kicks.

Me: (Pause.) Maybe it was gas.

At which point my sister launches into a long, earnest explanation of how it wasn't gas, it was her baby and he would just kick, kick, kick and flip, flip, flip.

You get the point.

I suffered through this conversation once and held my tongue as best I could. I know better than to correct my sister. She will not back down. And it will just make for future unpleasantness.

But, when, during our next conversation she tried the same road with me, I could not take it. I just could not. She is ridiculous. I found myself telling her that at 11 or 12 weeks your uterus is not even above your pubic bone, barely if so (which of course, she countered by saying that he was a big baby from the start), etc. The whole time I was having a private dialogue with myself about how I shouldn't have opened my mouth and what was I trying to prove? She wasn't going to budge. The most she offered was that her husband couldn't see the kicks that early (really? have you checked his vision?), but that was because she was feeling them and thus knew where to look. He didn't.

We are still speaking and friendly, because I backed off pretty quickly. (Although my husband was treated to quite a rant after that call.)

However, what I think my lovely sister (And I do love her. She is my best friend.) fails to understand is that for each of these milestone she throws out there (protruding belly, quickening), there is one more thing for me to fret over. Further, and most importantly for someone who has gone through several miscarriages, when she says something so inane as "I felt my baby kick at 11 or 12 weeks" not only is it infuriating, but it puts me in the awkward position of feeling that I have to discredit her to keep my own sanity. Usually she presents malarkey about having to chill red wine or how giving antibiotics to her kids as a preventive measure is smart medicine, and these nuggets I can endure. But when she starts with pregnancy related stuff, it's as if she's thrown down the gauntlet.

It's amazing that people (even those you love dearly) continue to say thoughtless things even when you're pregnant. Why am I surprised?

Cable sucks

2007-01-09T16:09:00.000-05:00

Okay, I am going to make this quick, but I'm looking for a little professional advice. Nothing to do with fertility.

I just got off the phone with Comcast, my lovely (note the sarcasm) cable provider. Back in October, my husband called up to order the NHL hockey package, a premium service that allows you to see all the NHL games that are being played across the country during the whole season. By calling during the preseason, Comcast offered him a $20 discount on the package (from $149 to $129) and told us we would be billed in four installments. This is the third year in a row we've signed up for this service (not counting the year of the hockey strike), with the discount every year because my husband is just that eager.

The first bill came with a $64.50 charge for the package. A little handiwork with a calculator suggests that this is actually a billing for 2 installments of the package ($129 divided by 4 = $32.25 X 2 = $64.50). No big deal. There was also a miscellaneous charge for $1.99 that I honestly didn't have the energy to inquire about.

The next month's bill comes and suddenly we are being charged $37.25 for the installment of the package, plus there's a "PPV ADJ" charge of $5.00. This I called to complain about. The cust. serv. rep told me that the PPV ADJ charge was for a Pay Per View on the Friday right before Thanksgiving. I assured him that I had ordered no Pay Per View on that day and together we decided that our account was being charged $5.00 retroactively for the discount we had received for the hockey package. Plus, the $37.25 was also back to the original price for the package ($149 divided by 4 = $37.25). He agreed to credit us. (Oh, and by the way...the $1.99 fee is a fee tacked on to upgrade your account to receive the hockey package. Never disclosed to my husband when he ordered. You have to pay $1.99 to pay $129.)

Now the next bill comes, no credit and still being charged $37.25 for the package. I get a supervisor on the phone who not only doesn't know what the price of the hockey package is (he asked me), but he also disputes that there are any discounts given to early orders of said package or any sports package for that matter. When I informed him that we have been ordering this package for years, with a discount, he said that someties prices change. Well, sure pal, but not after you've contracted to provide a service at a discount. Change the price next year if you like, but you can't go adding back charges for something mid-season.

Long story short, I chewed his ass and barely contained my four-letter vocabulary, whereupon he agreed to credit us the $20. Then, a regular customer service rep came on the line and explained in broken English, that she was following the supervisor's orders and putting in a request for a credit adjustment, but it still could be denied. Further, she rejected the supervisor's assurances (to me) that I would be given a tracking number for this call so that I would not have to make another call (and another, and another, and so on). At this point I asked for her home number and she told me Comcast does not allow employees to give out their home numbers.

No shit.

I feel that Comcast's billing procedures are at best unethical and at worst illegal . If they have a million customers in my area alone and slip a $5.00 miscellaneous charge in on every bill, that's an extra $60 million a year in their pockets. Do I have any further recourse? Can I legally challenge their charges? Should I send a letter to my State's Attorney General?

Does anyone out there know if it's worth calling attention to this practice? (It's not the first, nor the last time we'll be overcharged, mark my words. I'm sure many of you have similar stories.)

And lastly, does anyone have a good word about DirectTV?

Leap of Faith

2007-01-03T21:06:00.000-05:00

I realize that the two weeks spent between my first OB appointment, complete with pelvic "how dee do" and the next appointment which featured a visit with Senor Doppler, required something that I was not ready for, but will prove to serve me well. A giant leap of faith. I have not seen (via ultrasound) a heartbeat since the first day of December, and other than the doctor's digitally-inspired assurances, for exactly four weeks I have had little to go on that I am in fact still healthily pregnant.

I didn't mean for this post to become suspenseful. I am still healthily pregnant. As of last Friday, anyway, which frankly starts to feel like last year! (I couldn't resist. Blame it on the hormones.)

I'll get back to that, but what I've learned in the meantime is that there is a window of time between resting in the confident hands of the RE (and his magic wand) and starting to feel a baby inside you, where a woman must go on faith. I have not had inordinate amounts of morning sickness. Not even ordinate amounts of morning sickness. I'm tired, but who among us isn't after Joy to the World meets Auld Lang Syne? My pants still fit, goddamnit! I know it's a condition many women in their 11th week (12th?) long for. (I'm tall, what can I say.) But it is also extremely unsettling. I have nothing to go on. Just blind faith.

So, I sit in bed at night, palpitating my lower abdomen, trying to feel if anything is coming "over the hedge," like, I dunno, a rogue uterus with a rapidly growing alien life form. Or baby. Some nights I can feel it. Some nights I realize just how badly I need a bikini wax.

Enter the Doppler. The nurse found the heartbeat right away. It is simply amazing how the gentle, but rapid, whoosh-whoosh can stir your heart and melt away the anxiety. Until she tells you she's counting the heart rate. And your heart catches in your throat, because of course that's another number, and like any number, it could be grieviously low, and the whoosh-whoosh that moments ago caused a rush of warmth to your extremities, could now spell doom.

It was fine. My doctor came in and seemed even more relieved than I was, which sat awkwardly with me. Was he worried? I guess he was. Glad I didn't sense that two weeks earlier. He said something to the effect of "So, now you can go public." To which I replied "Too late." I think I hurt his feelings.

And now begin the four-week waits between visits. What I am hoping for, though, is that if I wash and dry my jeans on super high heat, they will no longer fit me, which should tide me over until I can start to feel something dramatic (and more pronounced than gas, which I always have, pregnant or not) in said lower abdomen region. This plan will not work if I continue to wear sweatpants. And so far, there is every indication that I will.

I'm not that good at faith. But, I'm learning.

********

At the end of November, a friend of mine revealed that she was six weeks pregnant. It was an internet disclosure, as we only infrequently speak on the phone and see each other even less (she living in Boston, and I not so much). She has one son who is just over a year old, and his was her first (and a very easy) pregnancy. I did not tell her of my current status, as my husband's family had not yet been told, so I wanted to wait.

I remember as I read her email, thinking what we all (on this side of loss) think. Something ominous, that I quickly pushed out of my head and have chastised myself for since.

Last week she wrote to say that they had lost the pregnancy. I was and am very sad for her and reached out as best I could (both by phone and email) to give her support and try to be someone that could understand what she was going through.

But I am ashamed to say that I had a moment of...what is it..."I told you so?"...even though I had never told her so. I'm wondering if any of you out there have found yourself playing host to similar unwelcome thoughts and feelings when hearing of another person's loss. I cannot even put it into words, and what I felt was not my overriding reaction, nor maybe even my first conscious thought. But it was there all the same. Maybe it was as simple as "welcome to the club," and though I would never mean that in a malicious way, perhaps it's just not a nice thought no matter what.

No News is Good News?

2006-12-21T22:13:00.000-05:00

I did not have any luck talking my new OB into giving me the ol' Doppler. He was adamant. He did, however, write a scrip, on the spot, for an ultrasound anytime I might need or want one between that first visit with him and my next visit two weeks later (when the Doppler will finally make an appearance). I didn't fight it because frankly, I just didn't have time. If they'd had ultrasound in their offices, I would have asked for that. But, to schlep to another unfamiliar part of the hospital in the middle of the week before Christmas...I am just too lazy. I'd rather sit around and worry.

He did give me the five-finger-feel and pronounced my uterus to be sizing right on schedule. He must be good at picking out produce at the market, too. That reassured me enough to drop the whole thing. It's really just that with an RE you get somewhat dependent upon those ultrasounds. But, absent any significant symptoms, I just have to believe that everything is fine.

The OB himself is great. Very attentive and sensitive (so far). I have heard good things about him through the grapevine. He, himself, told me that when he left the other practice at the hospital (due to personality conflicts) to join this current practice, all of the female nurses and doctors that were pregnant followed him to this new practice to have their babies. I mean, it was told in the spirit of assuring me that I had made the right choice in finding a compassionate practice. It didn't come across as self-aggrandizing. But, he is a doctor, afterall, so anything's possible.

I still have reservations about the birthing process that were not laid to rest during our visit. My daughter's delivery still haunts me. It was as bad as could be without being life-threatening. That said, I was this close to needing a transfusion, so maybe it was life-threatening. I had an epidural, then felt everything after the nurse dialed it down so I could go into more active labor. I was given Pitocin (which I strongly believe was the cause of my daughter's subsequent distsress during labor). My daughter's heartrate went low and stayed low during and after contractions, which necessitated the use of first the vacuum, then forceps. And my hey-nanny-nanny suffered a 4th-degree tear. Which isn't really a tear at all, is it? It's a blow-out. A 5th-degree tear means your spine falls out.

Okay, there are a lot of stories just like mine out there and I'm mostly over it. Except for the fact that I feel it was the medical team that failed me. I believe that the doctor who delivered (who was not from my practice, but rather from the covering practice) wanted to have his Saturday to himself, and therefore sped me up with Pitocin and that led to giving birth a mere 7 hours after my water broke, with only 45 minutes of pushing, further putting me in a position to need strong intervention (vacuum, forceps) because my baby was in distress but couldn't get out because she hadn't had time to mold her giant head to the contours of my birth canal.

This, my friends, is the short version. Were you to come over for lunch, I would bore you with much, much more. Like how, as the doctor stitched up my 4th degree tear, I said "I can feel that, and it really hurts. Could you please give me something to numb the pain?" and he replied, "I'm almost done." Twenty minutes later, I made the same request and got the same response. And then there was the next day when he came to see me and I asked, "Was that a really difficult delivery?" and his response was "Well, you made me work harder than I wanted to."

To him I say in all sincerity: Fuck you.

Misogyny aside, I want the next delivery to be different. Doula, maybe, as my husband, God love him, was absolutely useless to me during delivery. Granted, his number one fear was losing me, but now that we have a baby at home, do you think that fear is going anywhere? The OB was open to the idea of a doula, but warned that there are those who do a great job advocating for the patient and there are those who wish they were midwives and step over the line. So, I'll get a few names and run them by him as he was certain he would know who the good ones are if he just heard their names (having worked with several).

Yes, I am already thinking about the delivery. Honestly, it's just another thing to worry about, and I wanted to test out some ideas on the OB. When else do you have the chance but at that first sit down, when your pants are still on (and still fit). He suggested that I might be a candidate for a scheduled C-section, since a 4th degree tear can cause problems in subsequent deliveries as far as, er, continence problems. But, since I am not currently suffering from any of that, I could probably do another vaginal delivery just fine. If only my next child would have the decency to inherit his father's peanut sized noggin, which is why I married the man. Oh, and the next time let's make sure the drugs do their job. What's the point of risking paralysis otherwise?

I am not going to have time to write again before the holiday weekend settles in full force. I hope you all have the Merriest, Sparklingest, and Most Peaceful holiday that you choose to celebrate. I, personally, am looking foward to the weekend and sharing laughs with family and not hemorrhaging at the same time. As you can see, I have lofty goals.

Tired has Taken Over

2006-12-14T15:17:00.000-05:00

Can it really be almost two weeks since I last wrote? And not one freak out that I can remember (or at least not one to which I will admit).

Honestly, I am stealing time from myself here to give a little update and some thoughts on my process over the past two weeks. Christmas is a scant 10 days away; the shopping is not done, not to mention the decorating of our house (sorry, poor tree); and the holiday orders for my business pile up as you read.

I had an epiphany early last week. I was very mopey, inclined to think that I might be depressed. I didn't want to do anything except sit on the couch. My gym membership had gotten moldy. My daughter was left to watch inordinate amounts of TV (whilst I lounged on said couch). Nothing seemed to excite me, not even good food.

And then it occurred to me: I'm pregnant.

While the statement itself seems frought with, I don't know, forehead-slapping obviousness, it was really something that I had not considered in my quest to find a seat all day, every day. I have spent the better part of a year trying to reach the point in a pregnancy, any pregnancy, wherein my RE released me from his care with a fond farewell, a smack on the behind and a knowing wink. I thought, when that happened, that I had reached some sort of milestone this time. And while that is true, the milestone was really mental in nature and in no way changed the fact that at 8 weeks pregnant, I was actually only still entering that part of the pregnancy where one's bottom is naturally inclined to find repose.

I wasn't depressed, I was just damned tired.

It comes and goes, depending on how well I eat. What has remained as a steadfast souvenir of my past year is a certain inability on my part to relax. Yes, I rest and sleep and nap and so on. And I even maintain a certain calm about this pregnancy (I still have told no neighbors or friends, save the one). But I am in no way relaxed about it. I am ever vigilant for signs of doom and will go so far as to overanalyze my bathroom habits with my RE (it's true) to make sure that my own progesterone isn't plummeting when taken off the supplementary stuff.

And then there's this urge, when reading pregnancy literature (I cannot help myself) to turn to the chapters entitled "When There's a Problem." A year ago I wouldn't have dreamed of laying eyes on those pages; now it's as though I feel those are the only pages I'm entitled too.

So, you can see, I am not quite relaxed.

Tomorrow I will see my OB for the first time. I will demand the Doppler, though I can't say whether they'll put up much of a fight. I'm just imagining a nurse's resistance due to only being 10 weeks, but really, with my history, if I leave without hearing a heartbeat, you might as well send me home in a straightjacket. One way or the other I'll find out what's going on, so if they try the Doppler with no luck, of course I will suggest we go straight to an ultrasound. Because why make me guess for another two weeks.

At the moment, though, everything seems to be going as it should. Except the damn tree.

Now, where did my cap and gown go?

2006-12-01T16:13:00.000-05:00

So I have graduated. From RE to OB. I need a tassle to move ceremoniously three inches . Nipple tassles don't count.

I am happy. Things are good. My RE actually used the word "Terrific." You'd think there'd be an exclamation point on the end of that one (Elaine) but he is just a laid-back kind of guy. Moved me up to the 95% success-rate subgroup.

I feel a little lost, to be truthful. After my appointment this morning, I finally made the call to arrange an official OB appointment. I hear good things about the practice I'm going to (didn't I tell you? I decided to switch from my former OB when, after my second miscarriage, she told me that she hadn't thought to treat me with progesterone because it wasn't my issue, but didn't honestly have time to--and I quote here--"keep up with all the literature."). The new practice has something like 6 or 7 doctors; there's got to be somebody in there who has some compassion for a skittish miscarrier like me.

Anyway, my little one and I are fighting head colds, although I finally broke down and started her on antibiotics in the middle of the night last night when she screamed from ear pain. Nevermind it was not the ear that her doctor had tagged with a beginning infection, nor that her father let her float in the tub before bed (and after the doctor's appointment) with nothing but her nose and eyes above the high-water mark. So, only nine more days of that bullshit to go. I am currently praying that my cold does not decide to migrate to my ears because what to do then? Antibiotics? Really? I just can't picture it. But I'm sure that noone will think it's a good idea to let an infection go unchecked in a pregnant woman.

I just realized another reason I feel lost. I don't know how to begin to tell people that I'm pregnant. My family knows, but no one else except one friend. I'm not looking for a big "outting" of myself. I don't want hugs and happy congratulations. I just want people to know. But how. I'm considering not saying a thing until it becomes uncomfortable for my friends to ignore my rapidly expanding waistline, thus forcing them to confront me.

I have a feeling that situation is well on its way, regardless. A neighbor/friend had us over for lunch today and apologized after I picked all of the feta off my salad. I love feta, but I think it's on the list of no-no's. She'll put that together with my immediate neighbor/friend who most likely spied me leaving in my husband's car this morning, heading where? while my husband piled himself and my daughter in my small Saturn, heading where?

It's a small neighborhood. Maybe I won't have to say anything at all.

Good news

2006-11-17T14:51:00.000-05:00

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.

Pants Afire

2006-11-16T22:14:00.000-05:00

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.

Silver Lining Shantytown

2006-11-14T14:35:00.000-05:00

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!

So.

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.

Nora almost sounds like Moron

2006-11-12T21:57:00.000-05:00

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!"

SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP.

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 miscarries...it 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.

TGIF

2006-11-10T16:41:00.000-05:00

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.)

Still Thursday night here

2006-11-09T22:07:00.000-05:00

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!

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

2006-11-08T21:20:00.000-05:00

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.

The Waiting Room

2006-11-06T14:29:00.000-05:00

Okay, DD (www.tko.typepad.com) and Erin (www.pcosbaby.typepad.com) 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.

Numb3rs

2006-11-01T14:36:00.000-05:00

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?

Pregnant, Delicately So

2006-10-30T08:30:00.000-05:00

The home pregnancy test whispered to me this morning. Yes, it actually whispered. After collecting my sample, and having the willpower to not look at the test stick for the requisite three minutes, I returned to the bathroom, and from the door, saw only one big fat pink line. Clearly not pregnant.

My heart sank.

Until the stick whispered to me. "Take a closer look."

And there it was. A very faint second line. My husband confirmed, because that's what husbands do, I guess. (Well, that and suggest that maybe he send some more troops "in there" for reinforcement. Ah...no.)

A very faint positive. I am not well-versed enough to know how a HPT should look after ovulating maybe thirteen days ago, maybe eleven. Right there you see the problem: not really knowing when ovulation took place. How about this: I am at cycle day 24, I believe. That seems pretty early. But, with a consistently short cycle, do you go by ovulation or cycle day?

No, I believe what you do is get in the shower and turn on the radio and decide that whatever song comes on first is the predictor for this pregnancy.

"Hanging by a moment," by Lifehouse.

No shit.

I have been on speed dial/redial to my RE's office like I am trying to win a trip to Cabo from WHPT 102.1 FM. So far, I have not been caller 102. No answer/call service or busy signal.

The faintness of the second line has me worried, as that is how (chemical) pregnancy #3 started out. But, what will I do about it anyway (as if that method of thinking helps, at all)?

I hope it sticks. The problem with the last 11 months is that my experiences have robbed me of vision, of imagination. I now instinctively compare this result with a previous crappy result, rather than beginning the dream of another baby. It's not really self-preservation, as I am quite happy to build my hopes up when given the chance. It's just that now, I look back, instead of forward.

So, I'm going to try my hand at being the lucky caller, one (or a hundred) more time(s). They'll take blood. I'll wait. I'll worry. You'll ply me with positive stories that began this way. And life will march on.

Hey, at least I'm out of the vacuum. It was dark in there.

Tomorrow, we ride...

2006-10-29T14:57:00.000-05:00

...er, test, that is. My husband and I agreed that tomorrow would be better because although he'll have to go to work (as opposed to golf, today), he'll be available by phone should I need it. That was his suggestion, mind you, and who am I to argue with unexpected displays of thoughfulness?

Here's what has been on my mind for the past few days, as I have mulled over the upcoming test with mixed emotions:

Since I began trying to have a baby, back in 2002, I have only had two negative responses on a HPT. Maybe one, and I'm just multiplying it for dramatic effect. But, you have to admit, that is pretty low, what with four pregnancies and one actual baby to show for it. My deeper meaning here is that I have always had an intuition about being pregnant before it was borne out by modern medicine. Either I was five weeks past my last period (when that's how casual the timetable was), or the runny nose had started, or some mild bloating. Something always gave me up to myself.

But I have never before been on progesterone, and I can't quite say that I see a remarkable difference in myself since beginning the twice daily regimen. However, anything that might seem like a simple pregnancy symptom is crowded out of the spotlight by that gentle reminder that progesterone itself can give you pregnancy symptoms. And on top of that, from what I understand, even being two weeks past ovulation might not count for much if the progesterone is preventing the onset of a period.

So, for the first time in my life, I have absolutely no clue whether I am pregnant or being medicinally teased. It is a strange feeling. I will not be testing tomorrow because of my overwhelming certainty that I am, or even due to my inability to stop myself from finding out the harsh truth (hoping against hope that instead I have accomplished the near-impossible).

I will be testing tomorrow because it is time to test. So, I will be surprised no matter what the result, because I have no real instinct on this one. Yes, I believe I have accomplished the near-impossible (ie become pregnant), but that is just my hubris talking. Because I am making that assumption in a vacuum.

So this is what it looks like inside a vacuum...

No News Is…

2006-10-27T15:33:00.000-04:00

Well, in this case, no news is just that. No news.

I have not peed on a stick.

I was going to yesterday, but when I got up to go to the gym at half-past a monkey’s ass, I was so out of it that I actually forgot. So, it must not be the all-consuming thought that one might expect.

But, seriously, I had been planning to do it today. And then a funny thing happened. I grew up.

Let me explain, because the last thing I want is for anyone reading this to think that peeing on a stick at any point during one’s cycle is NOT a grown up thing to do. I just mean that, for reasons I shall heretofore elucidate, it was not the right thing for me to do. And I made a grown-up decision to protect my mental health, which is very, very, very (italics in case you didn’t get it) unlike me.

So, to back up a bit, my business has been taking some right turns lately (vs. wrong turns) and I found myself spending a good deal of free time (free time! What a concept! By this I mean time that my husband was home, or my daughter was napping or was at school.) preparing samples for a potential customer who’s opening up an independent meal-assembly store and another retailer who just placed a rather large order with me. Granted, a rather large order is (in this case) over $100 worth of product, but it still has me working feverishly, because my free time, as described above, yields about 2 hours a day if I’m lucky. (And, not to cry in my detergent but, I still tend to the laundry, make the meals, do the grocery shopping, etc. So, life can feel hectic, even if the anxiety is my own making.)

Now, the samples are done and going out my door this afternoon (phew), leaving me a whole week to complete the large order. And with a rainy weekend scheduled, I should be able to crank most of it out while my husband is not golfing (read: Saturday). However, I have found myself with a lot of anxiety about getting it done, along with living my life in a normal way and not forgetting the school fundraiser and the school book order that was due yesterday and…life marches on, right?

Well, when I thought about adding a possible BFP (or for that matter BFN, which might not even be the real answer yet) into the mix, I knew it was too much.

If I do get two lines, my RE will demand I rush in for a blood test and possible wanding (if I’m lucky right?). Consider, he has two offices. One is thirty minutes away. One is across the street. He is only in the office across the street on Mondays. So, I have decided to wait. At least until Sunday. (I know, I know, you were thinking Monday. But a girl’s got to have a little fun.) However, now that I think of it, my husband (let’s call him Tiger, since he likes to…) will be golfing on Sunday, most likely at half-past a monkey’s ass also, I probably won’t test then either. Which brings me back to Monday. About 11 or 12 days past ovulation. I think.

I just needed to take some time to clear my plate before adding another heap of anxiety. The simple fact that I’m not even going to test for a few days takes a weight off of my shoulders.

Because as we all know, that second line changes everything.

**The only concrete symptom I might claim as belonging to pregnancy and not progesterone is an unexplainable runny nose, which comes and goes. Common for me during early pregnancy, with all the fluid levels increasing. This is a shamefully weak symptom, but I’ve never been on progesterone before so I can’t really say there’s much else that would stand out. No migraine, yet (which would signal spot’s arrival in a day or two). However, maybe progesterone has chased away PMS for now, too. Any words of wisdom on what to expect with progesterone would be helpful. For instance, it does delay your period, right? So, I wouldn’t get it anyway, until I went off progesterone? Correct me, please. Also, any advice on the acute dizziness I felt the other night after taking the prog.? I was trying to prepare food in my kitchen and all the twisting and turning to get ingredients nearly flattened me.

Thanks for your help.

Inside the 2WW

2006-10-24T15:33:00.000-04:00

I try to write. I think of things to write, while I am lying in bed. I create witty and engaging phrasing in my head as I wait to pick my daughter up from school. And then, when faced with some time alone, I do not write.

It was easier, or maybe more interesting to me, or both, to write when I was consumed by grief and impatience, lo those short months ago. The drama was boiling at the surface of my being. Every thing I saw and heard hinted of my losses, from cleaning my closets and finding a maternity shirt given by a friend just before the last loss, to the premier epidose of Gilmore Girls, where Lane, newly married and returned from a Montezuma's Revenge all-inclusive honeymoon discovers it's not a Mexican parasite making her gag after all. It's an unplanned pregnancy! Diagnosed a week after she had sex! for the first and only time in her life! Et tu, Roray?

So, no surprise that I find lots of ironies in my waiting. This is the same time of year (perhaps, even, the same week) that I became pregnant with my first loss, last year. The three of us flew to my parents' for Thanksgiving and I let my then two-year-old try her hand at spilling the beans, but when no one could understand her, I blabbed the news. My brother got weepy. I got weepy.

This year, while making our reservations for the same trip, the airline offered flight insurance for $24 a ticket. I thought back ruefully to the trip I'd had to reschedule this past summer due to impending loss number three. I thought, wouldn't that have been nice, rather than spending $100 per ticket to re-book. In my haste, it never occured to me to buy the insurance for this trip. So, I've decided that come hell or high blood pressure, I'm getting on that goddamn plane and I'll miscarry all the way to Michigan if I have to. That'll show them!

Maturity. It's really overrated.

So, I'm taking my progesterone, when I remember. It's a bit tougher than I imagined when I demanded to have it prescribed. And I cannot get over how expensive prenatals are (chewable, anyway, because yes, Dr. Pepper, I am some kind of wuss) and that my insurance will not cover them. Give me a flaccid penis, though, and I could probably write a scrip myself on a swatch of orange construction paper that didn't require even a co-pay. Of course, if I had a flaccid penis, my RE would have a much trickier patient on his hands.

Lots of twinges in places that cause suspicion. Still working out, though I've relegated myself to the recumbent bike for the remainder of the week, so as not to jar an embryo, zygote or whatever from its delicate implantation maneuvres. Because, you know, my preferred form of exercise is nothing short of bare-handed street fighting. But that just wouldn't do during the two week wait.

Trying not to jinx myself, but bought the HPT nonetheless. Hey, I was in CVS, on a rare solo trip and figured it was better to get it all done in one fell swoop. Even if it does mean that I will not be getting pregnant this cycle. Making the most of my limited solo time is so much more important than provoking silly superstitions.

Last weekend at a bonzai (read: kick-ass, over the top) wedding reception , I was seated at a table with not one, but two extremely pregnant women. These kinds of things don't actually bother me, even less so for the following reasons:

1) The preggo seated immediately to my left (my husband's boss, so to speak) went to my RE to get pregnant. She ended up giving me some interesting dirt on him as well as insight on my upcoming (now passed) post-coital test, much to her husband's discomfort. Obviously the husband didn't read the RE/patient relationship disclosure which necessitates that all women who go through any form of IF fess up to one another in minute detail after sharing the proverbial handshake.

2) The preggo on the opposite side of the table (who revealed that she had recently accepted a somewhat innapropriate hug from Gene Simmons of KISS; she's somewhat crazy that way) is pregnant for the second time after losing a baby last year around this time. A four-week-old baby, to a rare lung disorder that had gone undiagnosed. I had wept for her as though I knew her when I heard that she lost her daughter, so to see her pregnant again, and hopefully healing, was nothing short of miraculous.

And that's the news from the Internet Mom front. I'll keep you posted on my 2ww, probably Friday when I pee on a stick, if I can deny myself that particular pleasure for that long.

And counting...

2006-10-20T15:22:00.000-04:00

If my uterus is to be trusted, I have already ovulated.

Fascinating, aren’t I?

I went in for my follow-up and had both arms stuck because apparently my veins are the size of embroidery floss. The RE (of whom I am growing ever more fond) again let me write in my diagnosis codes, causing me to wonder if I will be receiving a significant discount on his services.

The cold hard truth is, I am in the 2WW. When I first started blogging, 2WW appeared to mean Second World War. Oh, and the MTHFR mutation—or whatever the correct acronym is—always makes me think of "motherfucker." Which, as I understand it, might not be a bad way of looking at it.

How many minutes did I just waste with that digression? One? Two, tops? Okay, well, obviously inane typing is not going to do the trick. I’ll have to think of something else. How about a yard sale? Tomorrow morning? Great. I’m in.

Seriously, though, everything seems on the up and up, except for the "schmutz" in my uterus. Yes, that is what my RE called it today. Schmutz.

How to proceed?

Do I actually hope I’m pregnant, knowing that the schmutz will be hanging over my head? More correctly, in the way of implantation? Or do I hope that we lose out this cycle, so Dr. Pepper can have a look-see at my garden box. The thing that really pisses me off (today, that is) is that the schmutz has been there the whole time. So, if I’ve already been waiting, why couldn’t we have checked it out during that wait? If I go through with a hysteroscopy now, I may (or may not—hey, a bright side!) have to wait another cycle before trying. Again.

I know, there are those of you out there (my mother included) who will find this whole rant to smack of impatience. Some of you might even think it would be great to be in my shoes. But, I can’t help it. Time slipping away makes me feel desperate, despite my noble attempts to shrug it off. Maybe even more than that, I really can’t stand the ambivalence of not knowing whether I should be hoping for a pregnancy or not. To come all this way and not even be certain of that. That sucks.

On the bright side, the impatient babbling and finding petty (or not so petty) things over which to fret has already blown another…73 seconds. And counting.

More of the same

2006-10-18T14:44:00.000-04:00

I think I am the kind of person who can rejoice in the small things. A red cardinal flying by the window on a snowy day. An empty parking spot with an overfed meter. Really good lobster bisque.

My appointment with my RE was filled with small things in which I can rejoice.

My uterine lining is 8 mm (or a little more).

While no dominant follicle was detected, a few follicles in each ovary seemed to be milling around, getting the nerve up to rupture ("Me first!" "No, me first!" "Girls and boys, no pushing and shoving.").

I scored very well on the post-coital test (oooh, I just love acing tests) and even got the chance to see the slide of my husband's swimmers in action. (Frankly, that part was...incredible. Reassuring to say the least and made me smile like a dope.)

During the consult with my RE (after these diagnostics were completed) he let me write out my own diagnosis codes. That is to say, he has a broken right arm and I offered to take notes on our conversation as it was clear that he was struggling to do so. Yes, nerd that I am, I found this to be a small thing that was fun. Certainly a bonding moment with this guy, and (I believe) a nod to my intellect. (I'll take them any way they come, even if I have to imagine them.)

Would I be ungrateful to throw a tiny "but..." in the mix?

The ultrasound also showed a "white area" in my uterus, something that was there upon inital u/s during my last pregnancy. My RE explained that it is probably something left over from a previous pregnancy (take your pick, I guess), and it causes minor concern because it could interfere with implantation. Or not.

So there it is.

If I am not pregnant this cycle, he suggested a--say it with me now--hysteroscopy. Goddamnit. It would serve to determine if the "white area" is indeed scar tissue and if so, how close to the surface of my uterus it is. If it is on the surface (thus giving rise to worries about implantation) he would remove said "white area" during the procedure.

My RE did assure me that his feeling about any such "white area" is that it would cause infertility outright, rather than becoming a factor in miscarriage. And also, any connection to problems later in pregnancy due to poor implantation (growth problems) is tenuous (his word). So while he was giving due consideration to the possibilities inherent in what is (or isn't) in my uterus, he didn't really seem all that concerned by it. I guess that's nice.

Still and all, I feel like I am somewhat back where I was when I went to see him in June and was already on my way to a failed pregnancy. He saw the same area in the u/s back then, and I was already pg. I lost that pregnancy, and there was nothing to do about it. He did stress that the last loss was most likely chromosomal, due to the presence of an overlarge yolk sac, so that this "area" probably didn't play into the loss.

I know that I want to be healthy and going through a hysteroscopy is probably wise. The kind of thing you force yourself to do, even though being a gambling person might cause you to avoid it in the hopes that everything will be just fine. But, that gambling mindset runs contrary to why I'm seeing the RE in the first place. So, I will go through with it if I have to, but it just strikes me as awfully similar in nature to the D&E that I have spent the last three months trying to get over. I know it's different, but hey, even being back in the same u/s room where we first saw a heartbeat for the last one made me more than a little melancholy.

I will try to focus on the small, good things, because to do otherwise would be ungrateful. I would just like for once to come out of my RE's office and have nothing to worry about.

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. I just slay me.

Update: While consulting with my RE today, I asked him what I should expect this go-round, in terms of office visits. My concern was that with the last pregnancy, I was asked to come in for bloodwork, ultrasounds, etc...upwards of every five days. I explained that this was somewhat stressful with a baby at home to find a place for everytime I came in (for three hours at a stretch). He said that since my visits would be mostly for monitoring, not treatment, that I should bring it up with him again when the time came (during pregnancy) and we would arrange a more suitable schedule.

Fast forward to a message I received late this afternoon from the nurse who did my pc test. "Hi Casey, it's S at Dr. Pepper's office. I have your bloodwork and the doctor's not sure when you're going to ovulate or if you already did. So he doesn't want you to take any meds (ie progesterone) and he wants you to come in this Friday for another ultrasound and bloodwork."

Well. At least they respected my desire to not come in every five days, right?

So, are you trying?

2006-10-17T15:08:00.000-04:00

How many times have you been asked that question?

Really? That's all?

Because, think about it. I bet you've been asked that question without even knowing you've been asked that question.

Last week, I brought my daughter to the local pizza joint for the wrap-up meeting for our town's street festival. My daughter has attended every meeting I've been to because it's the only way I can go. So, the volunteers all know her. One of the women there was having a conversation with my kid while I was involved in another discussion.

(Let me preface all of this by saying, this woman, over the last seven months, has told me several times "You should have another one." Meaning baby, I assume, not miscarriage, because of course, SHE DOESN'T KNOW ABOUT THE MISCARRIAGES. She thinks my daughter is a trip, and presumably feels entitled to tell me whatever she wants about child bearing because she only has one daughter who is now a teenager and turning on her.

But I digress.)

This woman, at the meeting, looked across the table at me and said (in reference to my three-year-old's ramblings that I hadn't heard, but knew well enough) "Is she telling tales? Or does she know something?"

And there was that look on the woman's face...bemused...smug...I'm not sure. The "Oh-my-goodness-you-took-my-advice-and-are-knocked-up-and-I-wheedled-it-out-of-your-three-year-old" look.

Lately, it is my daughter's wildest dream that she become the proud owner of a baby sister named Mike. It's a long story involving good friends of ours who just had baby number three (the oldest is not yet three) and the husband's name is...you guessed it. Somehow all of these facts got jumbled in my daughter's head like numbered balls in a bingo cage, and now she wants a sister Mike. I think it's rather funny.

I had to disappoint the woman at the meeting by rolling my eyes and assuring her, "No, she's telling tales."

But in the meantime, another woman, who comports herself as God's gift to etiquette, asked in a sickly-sweet tone, "Oh, are you thinking of adding to your family?" Saying it as if the deceptive phrasing made an erstwhile "So, are you trying?" perfectly acceptable to ask.

I was so shocked by the question, I couldn't even think to answer, "Well, not here, but if you're that interested, why don't you come over tonight and watch while my husband bangs me?!"

Instead I stammered (and I do mean stammered), "Well, I guess so, I mean eventually."

Unless I have my pants at my ankles and am going at it on the checkered oilcloth at the pizza joint, my new response to these questions will be: WHO THE FUCK'S BUSINESS IS IT IF I AM TRYING TO HAVE ANOTHER BABY?

Because "So, are you trying?" is disguised in: "You should have another." and "Are you thinking of adding to your family?" and "Do you want more?" and "How old are you?" and "How's your husband's sperm count?" (okay, that last one hasn't been an issue...yet.) It is really everywhere, and so insidious that I find myself answering the question when really I don't know the answer and certainly don't want to share the answers I do have. Not when I have the answers shaken out of me. In my heart I want another baby, but what if I couldn't afford it, or couldn't biologically have another, or my husband decided he doesn't want anymore, or...

My procreative habits are not up for discussion or vote or comment. Except, of course, between me and my husband. And my RE. Oh, and of course, my daughter, who demands to help us go to the store and pick up her baby sister.

I have to remember that when I feel my life is no one else's business, I have the right to say so.

Wish me luck!

Looking for my Yang

2006-10-16T20:17:00.000-04:00

It has been nearly three months since my last miscarriage. When I was standing nearer to that time of my life, and I was told to wait two cycles before trying again, the wait seemed interminable.

Now I am on the other side of the wait, with an extra cycle's worth thrown in for good measure. My numbers look good (strange kind of lottery, isn't it?) and my attitude is even better (than the numbers or than it used to be, I can't say for sure). But reflecting on my behavior over the last three months,--hell, let's make it the whole year--I am realizing that I tend to lose myself very easily to whatever drama presents itself.

When I was pregnant with my daughter, I could barely get myself out of the house for all my Internet surfing. "due date." "morning sickness." "forceps." Anything and everything having to do with pregnancy, I googled. I googled so much my husband thought about enrolling me in googler's anonymous. I was obsessed. (In fact, I continued this pattern at the beginning of each of my subsequent pregnancies. Pulled out "Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy" or some other tome on pregnancy as soon as the stick had two lines, only to abashedly hide it away a few weeks later when things went to hell in a handbasket.) Perhaps a kind way of looking at these tendencies is to say that I jump in with both feet.

I realize that I have played out my SIF in much the same way. Lots of time on the Internet. Lots of time reading. Blogging or commenting or both at the same time. Lots of decisions made with the rationalization "I could be pregnant by then," or "I just had a D&E." After my third loss, I made a Fat as Fuck plan which required me to eat everything in sight--oh yes, including things I didn't really like--as though to stick it to the fertility gods who have taken so much from me. I let my business come to a standstill, telling myself that I would pick it up again in the fall, when my daughter was in school.

This fall I finally joined a gym--something I had avoided all spring, knowing that I would soon become pregnant and have to forfeit the joiner fee. However, now I am using exercise as the antedote to infertility. I have tried the not working out and my pregnancies failed. I figure, either exercise is going to be the magic bullet this time, or my RE is going to fall in love with me and my new hardbody (shut up).

And then there is that lingering possibility of a move to a new state. As of this post, we are no closer to moving than when I first wrote about this, but the thought of moving has taken up significant real estate in my brain. I have put off expanding my business and seeking out new clients because, horror, we might move. And I would have to disappoint my new clients!

I am the first to admit that my reluctance to move forward in many areas fits nicely with my desire to avoid rejection and discomfort, from both a business perspective and a lifestyle angle. But the truth is, when I put my daily living on hold, I become unhappy. It doesn't feel good to be stagnant.

So, on the other side of the waiting, I am looking out on an uncertain future. Yes, I believe I want another baby. Yes, the waiting has, in retrospect, been good for me. Calming. But it has also been an excuse to sit on my hands and, well, wait. What I want is to not lose myself to the journey of having another child, because it's only one of many journeys that I am on. I am a mother, a wife, a daughter, a friend, a sister, an entrepreneur, a writer. It seems that balance is crucial to wearing so many hats.

(But I do hear that all those squats will prepare me for the rigors of delivery.)

Tickets to the Gun Show

2006-10-11T21:57:00.000-04:00

I had a very busy weekend, from which I am still recovering. My town held a street festival with artisans and craftsmen, food booths, kids activities, a silent auction, live music and seminars throughout the day. I helped plan it. I also had a booth. Since my business is a food business, it was a lot of work to get my product ready to sell on Sunday, plus keep up with the volunteer aspect of it. Sunday turned out to be a gorgeous day, with huge crowds and I sold out. So I've got that going for me. I am totally proud to have been a part of the event on both sides of the coin.

Tonight there was a wrap up meeting to discuss all feedback on the event. Something came to my attention that has been bothering me since.

One of the seminars, I guess you'd call it, was a demonstration by these guys who re-enact battles from the Revolution. Full get-up, wig, muskets, the whole she-bang. Well, part of their demonstration was a children's musket drill. That's right, they had children handling guns. I believe they were working guns.

So, the organizers of the event got an email from a disappointed spectator, saying that the sight of children with guns in their hands, so soon after the violence in Lancaster County (close by our town) was appalling and ruined an otherwise enjoyable day for them.

I understand the sentiment, and frankly I wholeheartedly agree with it.

However, this email started a few discussions about the appropriateness of this particular demonstration at our event. Most of the people who aren't bothered by guns got very reactive. You know, the attitude that we spend too much of our time cow-towing to liberals who want everything to be so P.C. Screw them was their vote.

But, in the larger scheme of things, we are planning this event to bring the community together. Yes, some families have no problem with guns. However, I don't think those families will plan a day around how they can next get their child's hand around a pistol. On the flip side, though, families who are uncomfortable with guns will not attend an event that they believe will have a gun demonstration. If we are in the businesss of bringing the most people we can to this event, then why even consider staging something that is clearly controversial and alarming to some?

It is an interesting question, isn't it? Because the people who got riled up about the sentiment voiced in the email reacted blindly, instead of really considering what the ultimate goal was. Yes, it's a free country, but that doesn't mean we should let our emotions (or overreactions) about any situation outweigh the right decision.

Furthermore, visitors to the event had no choice about whether to see children firing guns or not. I think if it's remotely controversial, that shouldn't happen. It's not like the t.v., where the parents could turn the channel if something objectionable came on. There's too much is going on at an event like this, and the crowds are too great to just turn around. Let's put our political agendas, or our "don't fence me in" attitudes, away for the moment and focus on how the greater good can be served by children firing guns at a public event.

It can't. So let's skip it.

Ladies, call your bookies!

2006-10-09T17:23:00.000-04:00

I am back in the game.

As of Friday, when spot came begging at the side door (rather, front door), I am officially back on the baby-making trail.

Sigh.

What the hell does this mean? It means my period, the one I've been instructed to wait for, has arrived. Harkening the commencement of office visit after ultrasound after bloodwork.

I was freaked out on Friday when I spoke to my RE. He's a nice man, in possession of knowledge and scientific equipment that is very important to me. Yet, he makes jokes at which I cannot seem to laugh.

me: You told me to check in when my next period started...

RE: ...and it started today?

me: Well, I'm spotting, and last night I had the cramps as well as a migraine two nights ago...

RE: Ah, yes, all those lovely things. You know, I think I missed out not being born a woman. You really have all the fun.

(awkward pause)

me: Yeah, but you have to deal with the whole thinning hair and smaller brain thing.

So we talked, at length, again, about what has or has not gone wrong for me and what to expect. I pressed him on when, exactly, he would consider sending us for genetic testing. His response was that while the textbook answer is after three miscarriages, he rarely follows those guidelines. Reason? Well, there's no treatment for it and it doesn't change anything. So, I said, you just keep trying to overcome the chromosome problem, if there is one? Exactly, he said.

But, in thinking about it, I am somewhat incensed by his casualness. I mean, what if I don't want to keep trying? What if I want to avoid the pain of repeated losses by, say, using donor eggs or adopting? Neither of them simple solutions, nor a guarantee against pain or loss, but options for someone facing a huge genetic hurdle, nonetheless.

He said that if I bring it up again at my next appointment he would refer me for testing. Not that I want it. I just think his reasoning is faulty. The question is, will I be so bold as to say this to a man in the midst of a post-coital test sample collection? Oh, by the way, yes, he did tell me to have sex the night before my appointment next Wednesday. I was not sure how to take that particular directive. Except to say that now you can be pretty sure what I'll be doing next Tuesday evening.

So don't call.

When did schools become targets?

2006-10-06T09:53:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was the only day I took my daughter to school this week, as she was sick on Tuesday. I had to go back to school after dropping her off to deliver the show-and-tell item we had forgotten. The doors were locked.

Huh.

The secretary was right there to let me in, and I went to my daughter's class without thinking about it.

A few minutes later, in the foyer, I was handing in my tuition check and the UPS man came to the front door. He nearly threw out his shoulder trying to open the locked door.

The director of the school let him in and explained that having the front doors locked was now part of the school's policy. "It's the day," she said, meaning the age we live in.

I finally got it. We live about forty miles away from Lancaster, PA, where those five innocent girls were massacred. The director and I spoke of the tragedy and she said, "If those babies could be hurt..." and her voice trailed off. I didn't need her to finish the thought. I had spent the week thinking the same thing. If such devastation and evil could find the Amish community, we are all prey.

Speaking with the director had a profound effect on me, and I realized only later that is was her description of the girls as "babies." These girls are someone's babies. It highlighted the particular horror of the act. Who kills babies?

In the past few days there has been a fervor over the funerals for these children. Some hate group that affiliate themselves with God had planned to stage a protest during the services, to make a statement about our governor. This group doesn't really offer religion; more like sanctioned terrorism. No different than the Taliban or Al Qaeda or Neo-Naziism. It occurs to me as I think about these types of fanatics or zealots, whether they are Christian based, Muslim, Nazi, whatever, that they don't want the rest of us to worship their god and their laws. They want us to worship them. They want us to fear them. They want to pass judgement and rule our lives. They are playing at being God.

The "Christian" hate group never showed up, after much publicity, but you know who did? The Vietnam Veterans Motorcycle Club. They arrived to offer the families of the dead girls some protection, peace and dignity as they buried their daughters.

Thank god for the Vietnam Veterans Motorcycle Club.

What I have learned...

2006-10-04T15:01:00.000-04:00

...from washing my car with my daughter:

1) she will try to drink from the nozzle whether it is set to "Full," "Shower," "Center," etc.;

2) getting a face full from point blank range is not nearly as upsetting to her as feared by her mother;

3) do not busy her with the task of spraying one side of the car while working on the other. It will not go in my favor;

4) watching her maneuvre the business end of a hose/nozzle is invariably more entertaining than having a clean car;

5) washing my car makes absolutely no difference to its appearance;

6) letting her "accidentally" spray me with the hose is more fun than staying dry, especially when she instructs "come closer. No, closer!" and purposefully directs me with her hands as to where to stand.

If only every twenty-minute activity were as fulfilling as washing my car (or not, as the case may be) .

Knowing Right from Wrong

2006-10-04T07:37:00.000-04:00

After careful consideration, it seems that my last post about inappropriate thoughts as I head into babymaking round number five has at its root something more frightening than whether my schedule can handle another child.

I am worried about failing again.

As soon as the RE gives us the go ahead, I will be doing my very best to get pregnant. You don't want the sordid details (unless you pay $9.95 a month to subscribe to this blog, in which case you do) of how it's all going to go down (and believe me, there will be none of that), but I am confident that we will succeed. After all, we have in at least four other instances, become pregnant without any intervention and within a few months of trying. This go round will include a tidy window (courtesy of an u/s or two) into my uterus to make sure all is in tip-top shape, that my lining looks thick like Challah french toast and to predict when I will O. Ovulate, that is, because I don't think the RE really wants to see my "O face." (Bear in mind, he did not pay $9.95.)

Joking aside, it's the details that wear on my small mind. Yes, I believe I'll get pregnant somewhat easily; truth be told if it's not the first month, I'm one of those petulant women who will take it personally and kick a lot of trash cans. It's not that I'm stupid or ungrateful, I just can't stand the waiting. More to the point, I really don't handle not being in control very well.

Which leads me back to the small details. When we do, universe willing, concieve...what then? What if the ovum that receives the honor of being Casey's Next Lucky Break is the first egg that shoots down my fallopian tubes--because I am too eager to get started--but after a night of wild drinking on the egg's part, it's a bit the worse for wear, like the last three? What if it is really the second egg that I should be shooting for, no pun intended?

And, for Pete's sake, how am I supposed to know one from the other?

I have trusted my body to do what it is supposed to do (extremist thinking in these parts, I know) and each time in the last year, we have failed, my body and me. (Unless you count miscarriage as a success! because your body is doing what it is supposed to do! and all that insulting crap.) I used to be laid back about physical things and have confidence in my body. That attitude has netted me squat.

The anxiety in my head gets a little muddy and crazed from this point on (okay, more muddy and crazed), so I will spare you any further meanderings. Suffice it to say that I worry about doing this wrong again. I have no control over something that might end up devastating me, and yet I am so willing, nay eager, to go through with it. Again.

Perhaps I am not as hopeful a person as I would like to think. And so, to go into this with nothing but hope in my soul (soap in your hole and all that) seems unnatural and fraudulent to me. Perhaps, to appease some gods I don't admit to worshipping, I feel it would be unseemly to go into this without the fear and genuflecting.

Strange, though, that I would choose to fear something that is neither within my power to change nor absolutely destined to go badly. Despite the lessons of the last three failures, perhaps my memory of my body doing it the right way or the feeling of my daughter's sleepwarm breath on my cheek is enough to overcome the fear at least one more time.

Jackass 2; let's review

2006-10-03T15:50:00.000-04:00

Yes, I saw Jackass 2 this weekend. Yes, I laughed. But I paid $9.50 to get in (okay, my husband did) and I paid $6.00 an hour for a picked-from-the-crazy-tree babysitter (cheap, I know, but not if the kid is duct taped to the chair when I get home), so I was looking for the funny.

Here’s what to expect if you go:

Lots of testicles (some fake, many not)
A few penises (some human, some horse)
Much bathroom humor (very literal take on that)
A surplus of vomit
Adequate amounts of blood
Plenty of Dave England whimpering
Scant Johnny Knoxville (for my $9.50)

It was not the non-stop laughfest that I was expecting and could easily wait for home viewing.

*********************

Speaking of being a jackass (which I am about to do), last night while trying to fall asleep, I had a panic attack about—of all things—when my next baby will be born.

I went to sleep with a splitting headache. I use that term only because my husband claims to have seen part of my brain emerging from the lower part of my skull, from whence most of the pain was coming.

It is a surefire sign that my hormones are enjoying the downhill rush after a steady and slow climb click, click, click to the top of the rickety roller coaster wheeee!! So, trying to scramble out of their way and find some comfortable position to doze, my brain fell upon the notion that if I get pregnant right away did she just really say that? my summer will be ruined.

Okay, not ruined. Not while I’m awake and thinking about it. But when my head, even in a balanced and painfree state, hits the pillow, I start worrying about the most peculiar and inappropriate things. Is it a defect in me that I can simultaneously worry that I won’t get pregnant right away and also that when I do get pregnant right away it’s going to send my summer into upheaval?

Perhaps the larger question is, how can I use this, ahem, talent for the betterment of society?

Jackass

2006-10-02T15:03:00.000-04:00

For those of you keeping track, here is an example of why I am occasionally tempted to kick my wonderful husband to the curb.

Next weekend, our small town is putting on a street festival (artisans, craftsmen, moonbounce, food court, etc.) Not only have I been organizing the food vendors for the event, but I am also going to have my own booth, for my business. Which means I should be preparing as we speak.

Recently, my husband decided that he needed one more day of golf before the snow started to fall. (Yes, where we live it is also early October, in case you are as confused by his urgency as I.) He chose next weekend. The day before the festival, when I really need to be focusing on getting things together.

Not a big problem--other than the usual issue of his golf extending my work week by one day--as long as he helped me out this past weekend by giving me time to prepare without the little one tugging on my apron strings.

Sunday morning when I reminded him that I still needed time, he replied "What do you mean? I gave you all of yesterday (Saturday) morning."

That's right. Of the 30-34 hours that I am awake in a given weekend, my husband saw fit to allot a grand total of 3 1/2 hours to my absolute discretion.

Thanks. A lot.

And now for more hijinx...

...I can still count on one hand the number of times we have used a non-family babysitter in our daughter's three years with us. Saturday night I went to pick up a new babysitter, recommended to us by a friend of a friend (who is apparently very picky) so that we could go see a movie.

I brought my daughter, so as to make an adventure out of the whole "Daddy and Mommy are going somewhere without you, but we're hoping pizza and a 15-year-old girl will fill the emptiness in your heart" thing. I should have known I would pay for that.

My daughter insisted on going to the front door to get the babysitter with me. On the front porch of the babysitter's house, indoor furniture was arranged as though awaiting a yard sale. Not quite trashy looking, but definitely out of place and a bit piled up.

My first glimpse of the b.s. (babysitter) indicated that she was still in her soccer uniform. Turns out, she was expecting me an hour later. That made my teeth hurt, especially when I had spoken to her a few times about when we would be needing her. But, she was ready to go, so it didn't really hold us up.

As we chatted at her front door, her dog and her father came out to check us out. Her father offered a handshake. The dog just sniffed and barked. My daughter wanted to pet the pooch, and with the b.s.'s go-ahead, I put her down and we all pet the dog.

That's when Pop-Pop showed up. The b.s.'s grandfather. He came out of the house to check us out, too. So now, it's getting pretty crowded on a small front porch already littered with couches and kitchen tables. There was no where to move.

As the old man (and I say this with some hesitation, because he might have been all of sixty?) neared, I was thinking that he could be one of those sweet, old Italian grandfathers who doesn't speak a whole lot of English, hence the loud talking on the part of my b.s. He had about five days' worth of white stubble across his chin, a missing bicuspid or two, and, as I would soon learn, vacant blue eyes. But he seemed to want to join in all the fun, and the b.s. made an effort to include him, yelling "Pop Pop, this is the family I'm going to babysit for."

Turns out he wasn't deaf; he was just hard-of-thinking.

What transpired is hard to describe, because it was surreal to me. He kept trying to touch my daughter. As she stood nearly between my legs, with nowhere else to go, he chucked her under her chin. I quickly scooped her up in my arms, and bent backwards, without being obvious, over a kitchen table as he started to sing a song that uses her name. She and I were trying to play along, but then he'd go and try to touch her again. Tickle her belly or some such nonsense.

God bless the 15 -year-old b.s., as she made a great effort to grab his hands whenever he went for my girl. Then, he came closer still and started clapping his hands in my daughter's face, instructing her to do so as well. The babysitter said, "Oh, this is his game...Pop Pop I think she's shy. She's too shy."

I reiterated the comment, "Yeah, she's being shy."

Without taking his crazy, vacant eyes off of my daughter, he said in a tone that resembled a threat, "She's not going to be shy with me."

OKAY. THAT'S IT.

My daughter curled into me, probably at my prompting, and he kept trying to touch her (unbelievably, so did the father at some point during all this) and I said (with a smile on my face, no less). "No thank you. NOTHANKYOU!" I made a further excuse (now I'm making excuses?) of needing to get her into her car seat.

And that is when, finally, he moved on.

The b.s.'s father watched the whole fucking thing go down. And me, with an idiot smile plastered on my face.

Lest you think I was in the clear, it got a little bumpy before my daughter and I (and the b.s.) finally made our escape. The b.s. went inside to get shoes and I told the father (and the looming Paulie Walnuts) that we'd have her back by 9:30 or 10:00 as the movie was at 7:30.

And the father says, "What movie are you going to see?"

Um...

crickets...

"Jackass?"

No kidding, I answered in the form of a question.

He made offended and asked me what kind of movie was that? And the twelve year old in me started to explain about MTV and these guys who do stunts and it's all very funny and the father sat there and actually claimed to have never heard of it.

Bullshit.

I think I was still explaining my choice of movie as I was getting into my car and backing out.

And this is why I want to divorce myself, some days.

On the bright side, the b.s. got in and apologized about her Pop Pop and how much he likes to touch and he usually visits on Sundays but her parents were going to be gone on Sunday so he's visiting today because he lives in the next town over but tonight her mom was at church, do you know the one I'm talking about it's just down the road...

Seriously, I thought I had just picked up Kelly from "The Office."

And when I dropped her off at the end of the evening, she wished me a very happy "What's that Jewish holiday on Monday?"

"Uh, Yom Kippur?"

Big smile, "Oh yeah. That's it! Bye."

Not only am I not Jewish, but I really don't think that Yom Kippur is one of those holidays that is as festive as say, Passover. Or Bay of Pigs Day.

Oy.

Exodus

2006-09-29T09:11:00.000-04:00

Today is my birthday. Thirty-five.

My ovaries are in lockdown to prevent any eggs from trying to make a run for it, via my bellybutton. Because according to the literature, 35 is when they head for the hills.

I am not one of those people who trumpets news of her birthday to everyone in the village. Nor am I one who gets mopey and depressed (about birthdays anyway. Were this to fall during PMS, Al Roker's birthday could make me mopey and depressed).

I do have some thoughts, though. Some are birthday related, most are not.

My sister's and brother in law's best friend was killed on my husband's birthday. He is being laid to rest on mine. My sister was really saddened when we figured that out, but I just said to her, "He'll always be a part of our family."

I have a friend, a best friend, that I first met while doing prenatal water classes at the local Y. Six months after our babies were born, we began a friendship that was decidedly centered around the rigors of breastfeeding, the torture of sleep deprivation and the vehement objection to letting our babies cry. There were weeks that I would see her five days out of seven. We would meet at the mall just to get out of our houses when our eyelids had to be propped open. We shared encouragement when trying to teach our babies to eat solid food without losing our sanity. I cried with her as her baby went through some emotionally and physically painful testing to make sure she didn't have a swallowing disorder, when the solid foods took longer to master than expected. We took our toddlers on a train ride to a neighboring town, then laughed hysterically as she flashed her breast to an unsuspecting commuter while nursing. She has cried with me through my three miscarriages.

Last Saturday, on my husband's birthday, she had her second baby.

It has not been as hard as I would have thought. Recently, I had the chance to speak to her over the phone, and she admitted that when she came home from the birthing center (a mere twelve hours after delivering) she did nothing but cry. She was, and still is, overwhelmed. And I put myself in that situation, mentally, and think, maybe the universe knew that I wouldn't be ready to have another at this point. Small consolation.

I am excited to meet her new little one. But something saddened me when we got off the phone. My friend said, "Take care." Take care. As though...it is going to be a long time until we see each other again.

It's not such a bad comment, and maybe we won't see each other for a couple of weeks. Not only do I have to take into consideration her exhaustion factor, but on top of that she is typically a nervous wreck about babies, germs, infection, etc. So, she is probably not willing to let anyone near her new baby yet.

But in those two words, I guess I felt the wide chasm between where she is and and where I stand. There is an inexplicable gulf between us. It isn't anyone's fault. It just is.

I was pregnant before her last fall, and I wanted so desperately for her to get pregnant, so that we would have each other's support again. But, she and her husband weren't quite ready. Actually, she wasn't, considering the generous dose of morning sickness she gets when pregnant.

Then, all of a sudden I realized she was talking about folic acid. A lot. She was pregnant and hadn't said anything to me because of my loss. I was excited for her to be pregnant. But, I just had to grieve another unexpected loss...that dream of being pregnant at the same time and all it meant to me.

I know, it's a small thing. But that's what I find with miscarriage. It hits you at odd and often inappropriate moments. Like, going to the dentist and being able to get x-rays, when you thought you wouldn't be able to.

So turning 35 has the same effect. I'm happy. I'm okay with being 35 (although I still don't know who thought it was a good idea to put me in charge). But, I was supposed to have a baby by this time. Now, I'll be lucky if I have another child (at all!) by the time my next birthday rolls around.

Why do I distrust condoms?

2006-09-26T16:42:00.000-04:00

Seriously, I must have a problem with Durex or something. I am starting to convince myself for the second cycle in a row, that I have managed to circumvent the best latex that Proctor and Gamble has to offer and gone and gotten pregnant.

But this is really strange.

Okay, today is two weeks past the first day of my last period. I guess, in clinical terms, it's CD14, right? Yesterday I felt a little peevish around the midsection, like mild menstrual cramping, and beyond hoping that my period was actually going to arrive (which just wouldn't be a good sign for trying to procreate, I believe) I preferred to believe that I was ovulating (which would be sort of textbook).

Fast forward to middle of the night. I was sleeping, as I am wont to do while laying in my bed in the middle of the night, but maybe restlessly so. During a toss or a turn (I'm not sure which), I awakened enough to realize that I had the spins. That's right, bed spins. As if I had gone to bed drunk and had not yet slept it off (ironic, no, in light of my previous few posts?).

Now, who gets dizzy in the middle of the night? So badly, that it is actually noticeable?

I refused to get up and go to the gym at 6:00 because I was still reeling. When I did finally get up to use the potty, er, toilet (sorry, got a three-year-old informing my vocab at the moment), I truly, nearly fell over trying to sit down. Completely out of control. And sitting there, I could not get my eyes to focus on one spot on the floor, because the floor kept moving in a clockwise rotation.

Whew..I'm getting woozy again just thinking about it.

My hubby brought me a glass of oj, but that only served to anger my innards, a bit. Not enough to reject the thought of already-made-thus-reheatable chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast. But even one of those didn't rectify the situation. In fact, I had my husband go into work late so he could drive the little one to school with me because I just didn't trust my driving ability (no snarky remarks there, please. I am a very good driver.)

Now, after sitting and watching some recorded tv for a bit (I am such an Aaron Sorkin whore), I felt better. I managed to pick up my daugher from school and get her to her yearly well-child checkup, but sitting here, without a solid meal in my system, I am feeling it again.

So, I ask you, because dr. google apparently does not understand my symptoms all that well, can I be pregnant? Yes, we have had sex, but always with protection. In tact throughout each encounter. (Okay, okay, if you must know, there might have been a little fooling around before the actual barricade was put in place. But that only leads to pregnancy on the Lifetime channel, right?) I feel kind of crappy below the neck, too, but again, this all has to be way too early for me to have bonafide symptoms.

I have no other explanation, except that maybe my hormones are doing some kind of over-the-top welcome dance for the newly hatched ovum.

Or, that I have the flu. Which is so much less fun to write about.

Or, that I am crazy.

Soapbox removed and other stories

2006-09-25T10:11:00.000-04:00

And now for some perspective.

I grew up two houses away from my mom's parents. They were like a second mom and dad to my brother, sister and me. They had boats and old cars and a huge garden filled with green beans, cabbage, and tomatoes and one year they even built a chicken coop for a dozen fuzzy chicks that eventually turned into hens that wouldn't lay any eggs. They wintered in Florida and each Christmastime we would tearfully say our goodbyes and eagerly await spring break on sandy beaches, playing shuffleboard or driving their golf cart with them. My grandmother was my mother's best friend. My grandfather practically raised my brother (despite the fact that, yes, my dad was around). They were best friends. I can't remember a weekend passing without spending at least one night at their house, waking up to french toast or Sara Lee coffee cake.

One February night in 1985, my dad was at a conference in the same town where my sister was at college. I was 13 at the time, and whenever my dad was away, I got to sleep in my mom's big king size bed with her.

At one o'clock in the morning, the phone rang. Someone had been hurt.

My mom kept saying, "I want to see her, dad. Can I see her?" She was blind with grief and because she kept saying "Dad" I thought it was my dad calling about my sister.

It wasn't.

My grandmother had been killed by a drunk driver. It was her dad she was talking to, whom she was begging to see her own mother. She wouldn't ever see her mother again.

This event changed my family forever. My mother was probably suicidal for months (years?) after, although my father made a good effort to watch her and keep things normal for us. My grandfather lived with us for months after returning from Florida for my grandmother's funeral. It was not easy. He was not easy. Grief was thick in our house.

So when I wrote what I wrote yesterday, that old devastation surfaced in me again, as it always does when I hear of senseless, stupid deaths involving drinking and driving.

I stand by what I wrote yesterday. My views on drinking and driving have probably informed how I keep (or don't) my friendships and romantic involvements. I simply don't drink that much, although I have when I lived in cities where public transportation or the ability to walk everywhere has taken the driving part out of the decision.

I guess I was expecting the silence on some levels, but I also thought that there might be a couple of you that would say, "I, too, have lost someone in this senseless way."

I hope none of you have to go through it.

Before I spoke with my sister, I was working on a post about infertility, so I'll go ahead and put that up now. Thanks for the chance to vent.

****************

When I started reading blogs, I was recovering from my third miscarriage in seven months. And I started with just a handful of blogs. Less than that. I kept up with them from my parents' house where I went on a two week vacation. I started my own.

Now, I have so many blogs listed in my favorites that they can not all be displayed on my screen at the same time. (Really, I need to update my links on this site, but I'm illiterate when it comes to html and I just don't have the time.)

There are women I read about who are due any minute. There are women who are just digesting the news that is announced by two pink lines. There are women who are grieving their own losses, or impending losses. And there are those of us who are waiting, getting psyched up to try again.

I go back and forth between the hurt I feel for those who have been laid low and the thrill I feel when someone announces a doubling second beta. And I try to discern exactly where I fit in all of this.

Sometimes, I can channel the fear, anxiety and misgivings of the women who feel doomed to repeat their current or latest loss. I know that there is very little standing between me and miscarriage number 4. Just dumb luck. Yet, I haven't gotten to the point of utilizing ART. My pregnancies are destined to be old-fashioned in their beginnings, aside from the intense scrutiny the whole process will be subject to. For one, in all the testing, my doctors have not found anything untoward in my reproductive tendencies. For two, we simply cannot afford the massive expense of very much ART. (Or perhaps, we would not choose to afford it, and since our health care does not cover it, we'd be forced to really weigh how much we want another baby in light of the effect that decision would have on our bottom line.)

So, can I really relate to all that is going on out there in the world of infertility. Do I consider myself infertile? Or even secondarily so? No. I don't. But I do believe I'm in denial.

Where does that leave me? I love the stories of success that are about to happily wrap up, as I picture myself in that boat in about 10-12 months. Yet, the stories of loss resonate deeply with me. I have been surprised each time I miscarried, because when you lose one pregnancy it is called a fluke. I naively believed that if the first one was a fluke, the only way to fix that was with the next pregnancy. When the next two failed, I was at a loss to comprehend how to fix it anymore.

So I am proceeding a little naively, with much hope crumpled between my sweaty hands. I want the next one to work, as does everyone in this situation. But I feel like my hopes and wants are very simplistic. Like, I want to get pregnant the first month I can try again. And I want my lining to be amply thick and my progesterone in abundant supply. I don't have to worry with this next try about needles and follistim or Clomid. And because I feel like my journey might be pretty straightforward, I feel like a fraud even worrying or writing about it.

Of course, the last three started exactly the same way. Naively, hopefully, simply.

I gues what I'm wondering is: do I have to continue to suffer just to belong?

I am angry

2006-09-24T11:28:00.000-04:00

I am angry today, and I don't care who I take it out on.

My sister and brother-in-law's best friend was killed by a drunk driver last night. He leaves a wife and four children. One of them is my niece's best friend. A twelve year old girl. The rest of them are younger.

Look at your children right now. How would they survive if you were killed?

Last night, after working a college football game to make extra money, the best friend drove home. About a mile before he got there, he pulled off on a dark road to help a girl who had driven her car into a ditch. The drunk driver hit him and killed him, rendering him unrecognizable. His shoes stayed at the side of the road.

There is nothing I can do for him, his family or my sister's family, grieving as though they have lost a brother.

But this is what I want to say. If you drink and drive, you are a scourge on the human race. If you drink and drive, you should be thrown in jail for life. And I don't mean this in the third person objective such as "If one drinks and drives, one should be thrown in jail."

I mean YOU.

And if you think I'm not talking to you because you limit yourself to one beer or one glass of wine, and feel that you're okay to drive, you are wrong. Because that one drink could mean the difference between driving in a designated lane, and thinking that the tail lights in the breakdown lane indicate it's open to traffic.

With all we now know about the dangers of drinking and driving, shame on you if you drive with any alcohol in your system. And if that offends you, well I guess it says more about you than it does about me. Rationalizing your right to drink over everyone else's right to safety. Do you really need to defend drinking that much? Is it really necessary, for us to feel that we live in a free and tolerant society, that you be able to drink your one (or more) drinks without interference and still drive. Is it in the Constitution somewhere? Did I miss it? Are you too important or ignorant to call a fucking cab?

And don't for a moment think that I'm a hypocrite when it comes to this. I have approximately two drinks per year when I am out and that is only on the rare occasion that I can convince my husband not to have a drink. So that one of us can be stone cold sober to drive. But I would rather skip the drinking to know that I am in control. So that's what I do.

Don't you think you could do the same?

And remember my sister's best friend the next time you let your friends convince you that they are okay to drive when you know better. I know I will. Your children and parents and spouses and friends would probably appreciate someone stopping you from killing yourself behing the wheel. Why not have the courage to do the same for those you care about, no matter how uncomfortable it is.

Fuck.

2006-09-20T16:08:00.000-04:00

My thoughts have been with Julia all day. She's having a rough go of it and recently encouraged her readers to send along profanities or hopeful stories or something, dear lord, to cheer her (the fuck) up.

I volunteered the following story in a comment. Then I thought, maybe a few people who cruise by here would appreciate this as well.

This is a true story, filled with amusing profanity.

One day my niece, who was four at the time, came home in tears from preschool. My sister asked her what was wrong, and found out that my niece was extremely upset with the teacher for not writing any of her "words" up on the blackboard that day.

Being a protective lioness, my sister called the teacher immediately to find out exactly why her daughter had been wronged. This is what she found out.

Each week, the preschool class discussed a new letter of the alphabet. That day they had arrived at "F." The teacher was prompting the students to come up with words that started with F. One by one the students raised their hands, offered a word, and the teacher wrote it out on the blackboard for them.

"Family!"

"Friend!"

"Feather!"

My niece held up her hand (ooh, ooh, pick me!)

"Yes?" the teacher called on her.

"Fuck!"

The teacher paused--while the teaching assistant sniggered--then said, "I don't think we'll put that one up on the board."

The class continued to offer new f-words: "Fun" "Fancy" "Furry"

My niece raised her hand again and the teacher called on her.

"Fuck it?"

Now the teaching assistant had to leave the room and the teacher, after composing herself, said, "Okay. Are there any others?"

"Fat" "Fire" My niece raised her hand again. The only child left with her hand up. The teacher called on her.

"Fuck off?"

That is when the teacher decided that they had thought up enough f-words for one day.

I say, at least she got them in alphabetical order.

Near Misses

2006-09-17T21:10:00.000-04:00

We had a near miss in the bathtub tonight. That is, during my daughter's bath, we were almost visited by a floater. The brown kind.

I caught her leaning to the side, grunting ever so slightly, and turning, fascinated, to watch bubbles eminate from her bum. Let's face it...we're all mesmerized by our own flatulence, never more so than underwater, so this is no surprise. But when the grunting turned a little more serious, I quickly encouraged her to get out and sit on the pot whilst I dried her off, whereupon she, in turn, pooped.

But before she pooped, she asked me for "pry-uh-see." Privacy, dig?

I removed myself from her Jack and Jill bathroom and rocked peacefully in her glider, while she continued, sounding ever so much like Monica Seles returning backhands on Centre Court. (You'd think she was passing russet potatoes.)

All was well until she tried to wipe herself. Another bath was in order, if you know what I mean. Seriously, she was three knuckles deep into the...stuff.

All of this, of course, while her father is miles away interviewing. Scratch that. Today, he's flown on an airplane, played golf, attended his godson's Scouts meeting, eaten a steak dinner, had the results of the Giants-Eagles game spoiled for him (by me) and is probably enjoying a cold beer right about now. Tomorrow he'll interview. Let's not feel too badly for him tonight.

I miss him. It's a little strange to have so much going on, events which will decide our future, and not be near each other to sort through it all. Yes, they do have phones in CT, but it's not the same as the heartfelt conversations one has in one's own bed with one's own significant other (where he can't get away!). Not to mention that when he returns (tomorrow night) my parents will be in town for a week to celebrate my daughter's birthday. It's probably better that so much is taking up my time and attention right now, or I could do some serious obsessing.

My Computer Agrees

2006-09-16T13:27:00.000-04:00

Last night I was writing a really fascinating post about how boring I am, and how it's probably due to the fact that I only ever see other adults to discuss things like preschool, potty training, and how expensive Whole Foods has become. I made some allusion to my former life as a grad student and how conversations used to revolve around Tim O'Brien's "The Things They Carried" and its subtle condemnation of our warring society in the face of humanity's quest for morality. I spoke of the BIG words I used to use, although (as though to underscore my vacuousness) I couldn't remember any as I was writing and was forced to use "loin" as an example. A poor example, indeed. And right in the middle of this brilliant expose, my computer crashed.

Oh great. Now I've put my computer to sleep.

I've realized lately that I am a middle-of-the-road person. I'm not bold enough to use my husband's or daughter's names in my blog, but I will describe the vagaries of my bodily functions in painstaking detail. I will never include pictures on this site, but I'll tell all of you that I'm on the verge of divorce when I haven't even discussed that with my husband. Hell, he doesn't even know I write this blog. Unless he's much craftier or suspicious than I give him credit for.

I've got to break out of my shell.

It goes so far, that I can actually say that it is comfortable being in this no-man's-land of waiting for my next period before trying to get pregnant yet again. I mean, it's safe in here. Waiting is half the fun. There's no bad news right now, no worrying, no testing, no pricks (unless of course, we're talking about my husband again), no magic wand, no shuffling my kid to the neighbor's so that I can sit in the RE's office for three hours.

It is calm and at the same time, filled with hope and excitement for what might happen. None of the possibilities has played out yet, so it's a feeling of abundance, this waiting. Anything can happen. When we begin trying, not everything will happen. Some things will start to fall to the side of the road. Perhaps we won't get pregnant right away. (Imagine that!) Perhaps I'll have an anovulatory cycle or two. Perhaps my progesterone will be precipitously low. Or we will get pregnant and there will be spotting. Or a blighted ovum. Or twins!

So, the choices, the possibilties just keep narrowing, once the journey begins again in earnest. Right now, I'll admit that I like the wide-openess of waiting. It's like the night before the Spring Break Vacation. You know you're going. You're packed and the camera is loaded with film. The car is full of gas and you are having trouble sleeping. But...there is something delicious in still having the whole trip in front of you. Something not disappointing, anxious yet not stressful about the moment just before.

See Spot Run

2006-09-15T11:18:00.000-04:00

I have decided to call my period "Spot."

I know that standard terminology for a period is AF, which stands for "Aunt Flo." This is too passive for me. My period begins with a tenative, crumby appearance on toilet paper; some might call it spotting...get it? Yet, I have no way to know exactly when my period will start in force. None of my aunts would be so unpredictable in their arrival. Secondly, they certainly wouldn't forget the progesterone, even when showing up uninvited.

But the truth of it is that "Aunt Flo" sounds very warm and cozy, like someone who would crochet a soft blanket or make cocoa. My period is not like that. Let's review:

Spot makes me hormonally unbalanced and may yet be responsible for me divorcing an otherwise acceptable man.

Spot makes me bleed heavily on previously undetermined days (and has ruined many a pair of cotton underwear).

Spot makes me cramp.

Spot gives me headaches of the ilk that make me want to vomit for relief.

Spot makes me jealous of women who are pregnant.

Spot makes me jealous of women who are trying to get pregnant.

I've heard some women talk of getting their first period as though it were a tribal celebration. The elder women in the family would gather round, give the newly initiated woman a backrub and a steaming hot cup of tea. Then they would muse in hushed tones on the joys of being a woman.

There is but one joy associated with menstruation, that I can think of. The ability to get pregnant (although as we all know, that can and does happen to girls who have probably not yet menstruated, also). That is the only "benefit" to this monthly (or whatever) inconvenience.

The cruel twist is that getting your period assures no one of being able to get, stay or healthily remain pregnant. And now that I've experienced the crushing blow of getting periods when I wanted to be pregnant, or having my first period after losing a precious pregnancy, I don't think menstruating is such a good deal.

I've read about women who doubt themselves because of their infertility. They are, in their own words, bitchy, petty, angry, bitter, confused, you name it. They (and I) feel betrayed by their bodies and the bodies of those around them that seem to gestate effortlessly. It is treacherous to be a woman; Spot is at the center of this particular maelstrom.

Don't expect to hear me say "Good dog" any time soon.

Writer for hire: Now with addendum

2006-09-12T15:42:00.000-04:00

Of all the indignities heaped upon one woman, I can't believe that I have spent a significant amount of time today writing a cover letter for my husband. So he can get the job that will cause us to move.

And I've been enjoying it.

Oh, the shame. Yes, I have a background in writing. Getting caught up in the endless array of choices to describe one's professional life ("aggressive leadership" and "cultivate relationships" and so on) is somewhat of a thrill to me. As long as it's not my job search. Then I become a twit.

The move is seeming more and more to be our destiny. However, this could be coming from the side of me that has learned to prepare for bad news: take information that I feel must be crammed in and choke it down, because it just won't fit through the pipeline of my dreams, already overcrowded with cast-offs and erstwhiles.

(Picture me with my skull hinged and opened, revealing an overlarge puffy pink brain, into which I am pounding doo-dads, screws and twigs with the back of a spade, while most of it spills out.)

In other words, I am a bit of a gloom-and-doomer. I like to perserverate. I like to worry, literally: rub my brain over something until it softens and gleams in my mind's eye.

However, the flip side is, I just cannot imagine him not getting this job. I've tried, and circumstances just don't warrant such thinking. I can't explain without boring myself, but it seems that the whole thing has been his for the taking since the position opened. We've just been ignoring the call.

Plus, his cover letter is, like, totally excellent. It "seeks out challenge" and is "result-oriented".

Crap.

Addendum:
Upon reading this post, I realized that my certainty of B's getting the job and us moving may seem gratuitous or incomprehensible if you don't know this: he has an interview scheduled for next week, and it was set up well before the cover letter was even composed. So, the wheels are in motion, regardless of the niceties of the job search dog-and-pony show. I think the fact that he's being flown in to interview speaks volumes, also.

That said, I have been wrong before. It's true. I just can't ignore my gut on this one.

Moving Out, the Musical

2006-09-10T13:52:00.000-04:00

Because it is Sunday, and I have at my disposal a husband to chase the babe, I have been saddled to the vacuum cleaner most of the morning. I really do a great job of letting the pills of dust and floating pillow feathers and dried leaf bits build up to a tidy crust that is soooo much more satisfying to vacuum than a relatively clean carpet that was vacuumed only , say, last week. When you can actually see where the vacuum has been, not because of the wheel marks, but due to the variation in shade, that is brilliant.

I don't like to clean. Except for those rare times that I love to clean. I am bad at cleaning, because I get distracted by the millions of random pieces of paper, or toys, or missing socks, or DVD cases, or sunglasses, or dirty cups that call out to me on my loops through the house trying to clean. I can't focus on one task long enough to actually finish it. And, you know how "deep cleaning" can be. When you dig in, usually three or four other tasks need to be accomplished first. Before the vacuuming could commence, I actually had to reveal the floor, so to speak, by moving laundry baskets, slippers, more toys, a drying rack, rocking chair, hamper, new Sirius radio still in packaging, video camera, shoe box, et. al. from each object's perch on the floor to my bed.

Which means now my bed could use a good cleaning off.

All of this merriment is actually taking place at the expense of my heart. I look into cobwebbed corners (now stripped of their usual occupants by the hose attachment) and realize that soon these corners will belong to someone else. My comfortable untidiness will be playing itself out in a new house, far away. Yes, I am preparing for that eventuality.

And don't even get me started on having to pack.

The beginning of the end

2006-09-08T15:27:00.000-04:00

I think it's time to share a little of my infertility journey, because that's why I started blogging in the first place. And if I were going to therapy, I would eventually be prodded to work over these memories anyway.

What's true is that I am coming up on the first anniversary of the beginnings of my second pregnancy. I know the exact date that conception took place (or, technically speaking the main event which would lead to conception in the days following ) because, as with my first pregnancy, it was a one-time-deal. I had wanted to start trying again, so that our children could be about 3 years apart, so last fall was marked with a bullseye. However, things got tricky with hubby's job and he felt uncertain about his future and this led to us agreeing to temporarily shelve the humping-with-a-purpose.

But there was a random, randy night. Just one. And it was good. Apparently so good that we didn't even attempt it again for awhile. Ahem. For months. And after a few weeks, I had an intuition which turned out to be on the money, because the appropriate pattern of pink lines showed up on the HPT. Pregnant from a "Shot in the Dark." (There would be more of those to come.)

It was now Thanksgiving, involving a trip home to visit all of my family. I convince my conservatively-natured husband to join me in telling my whole family our good news. (I say "join me" because the reality was that I had no ability to stop myself from spilling the proverbial beans. At least he could decide if he wanted to be present.)

I let my daughter tell them "I goin' have bruddersisser." Which no one understood after repeated attempts, so I pushed her aside and shouted, "She's going to have a brother or a sister!" A great cry of triumph went up around the table, almost as though the procreating had been a group effort. My husband nudged me during the ensuing hub-bub to point out my brother wiping at tears. (Not even close to his MO. I felt special and loved, for sure.)

Fast forward two or so weeks. A Monday ("I don't know why I don't like Mondays."). The first prenatal visit. We brought our daughter, to include her and to let her hear the heartbeat, and because we are too cheap for babysitters (because God knows how long you'll be stuck at those appointments...hours, days?).

The appointment went reasonably well. The doctor was new to me, but very calm and sensitive to our worries, which stemmed from a terribly rough go of it when my daughter was born. (Imagine we were discussing doulas, for Christ's sake! Oh, the hubris.) My husband and daughter weren't present during the pelvic, due to my child's fascination with public potties and her need to go on them, ad nauseum, even when she has nothing to "contribute." She did tinkle, actually. But I digress.

I remember telling the doctor that I didn't feel pregnant, but that because I had such an easy first pregnancy, it wasn't particularly alarming to me. Isn't it strange, though, that I said "I don't feel pregnant," rather than "I feel good," or "No complaints." Maybe, as the words were spoken, I was already understanding.

The doctor obliged me with a Doppler, which found nothing. But, she assured me this happened often, usually due to it being too early, or the position of the baby. (Or...)

The next morning, B (my hubby) and I decided we had time for a quick romp in the hay. Actually, it was missionary position in our bed, trying not to wake the toddler in the next room. All fun and games, until...

...the bleeding started later that day. This was the Tuesday before Christmas weekend. A panicked converation with the dr. on call led me to schedule an u/s the next morning with the office. The earliest I could be seen was 4:30 that afternoon (Wednesday, now). The bleeding was intermittent, probably held at bay by my sheer will and the repeated clenching of my sphincter muscles. (Who says Kegels don't work?)

The ultrasound was not great, of course, as this is a story of miscarriage. There was a sac, and a fetal pole, but no heartbeat. Consistent with a 6-week pregnancy. This didn't exactly worry our doctors, until my husband reiterated that this was a "Shot in the Dark" pregnancy. Try as I might, I could find no wiggle room. No lusty encounters vaguely feathering in and out of my memory, to explain away the discrepancies.

It was doomed.

The miscarriage started in earnest the following evening (Thursday) as we were packing up to head to the in-laws for Christmas. Needless to say, we postponed traveling until the morning, and even then I was not up to the challenge. But, my MIL is a retired nurse who encouraged me to come and be taken care of and let my daughter be chased by everone else and what else could I do? Stay home and look at the walls and bleed and pass clots and wonder all by myself "Was that the products of conception? Was that?"

It was an unhappy holiday. I remember having to retrieve a package, for my husband, from the pile that we were taking to Christmas. A baby sling in his size (because the New Native Carrier comes in different sizes, don't you know.). I remember laying down on my bed, while trying to pack, because the physical exertion was just too much. I remember baking some homemade biscuits for Christmas dinner and my MIL making a horrible, twisted "something in the oven, no pun intended" comment to me. I remember being numb.

And the baby sling is still sitting in my closet. Wrapped in blue reindeer paper. Waiting. Waiting.

Waiting.

School rocks!

2006-09-07T14:35:00.000-04:00

Okay, okay. I made it through the first day of school, and I did just fine. I got along with the other kids, I colored inside the lines and I even used the potty. All by myself.

My daughter, in case you were wondering, also did fine. Better than fine. She woke up at 7:20, asked if it was "morning time," and when we responded in the affirmative, demanded to be taken to school. It was a Herculean effort to stall her for an hour and twenty minutes until it would be appropriate to leave. Put on the clothes...go to the bathroom...brush the teeth...eat the pancakes...oh, how 'bout some t.v. At one point, my husband and I took her to the front porch for photos with her new backpack, and she refused to come back in! She was ready damn it!

Then, when I did drop her off, (and take a few more pics), I bent down for a hug and kiss and I could almost see it in her eyes: "Oh. Are you still here?" Even the teacher, upon seeing my daughter jump into an activity when we walked in, said "Oh, she's ready."

I allowed myself to get a little emotional on the long walk back to my car, but I'll tell you, it really hit me as I was waiting in the car line to pick her up. All the little ones, gathered at the doors of the school as teachers walked them to their awaiting chariots. All the brightly colored backpacks and scrubbed, yet now sweaty, faces. So many dreams there. It hurt. I'm not sure why. Or maybe I am.

In other news, I have to confess that I am ridiculously drawn to the show on Bravo, it's a reality show...I'm stalling now because I can't remember the name...maybe it's called "Runway Challenge?" Oh, is it "Project Runway?" I don't watch it enough to know (sure, sure), but whenever I stumble upon it, I simply can't turn away. Designers and wanna-be's doing their best to be catty and awful to each other as they slice and sew fake plant leaves into a ball gown. Well, some of them. The rest are too busy dreaming up impossibly ugly outfits made entirely out of fuschia rosettes or silver gauze that will inevitably win that week's challenge.

If you saw my closet, you would know that I know nothing about haute-couture (although I can fashion a headband out of a bandana in thirty seconds flat). And that might be why I love the show. If you gave me a funnel, some rubber tubing and a rock, I couldn't make a slingshot, yet these people are crafting organza bustiers for dogs. And LOVING it.

Plus Heidi Klum is easy on the eyes.

P.S. No period yet. Hubby still lovable.

Notes from Suburbia: AKA Alanis Morrisette you don't know nothin'

2006-09-06T15:05:00.001-04:00

I think it is somewhat ironic that my period seems to have chosen this moment in time to straighten up and fly right. (I don't mean that AF was previously gay or has gone Republican on me.)

For a year I have had remarkably regular periods, coming exactly 21 days apart, except of course, when interrupted briefly by, I don't know, a pregnancy. Or three. But in 365 days I have had enough periods to know that, for instance, on every third Saturday between late January and April 10, my wisest choice of clothing accessory was a maxi-pad with wings, skillfully tucked into my briefs so as to painfully entangle the fewest pubic hairs.

Now that I want to have a period, have taken many tests to determine the efficacy of my period and its hormonal posse, not to mention the battery of tests gauging numerous other bodily functions, my period has decided to go into the Witness Protection Program.

I know this because it has been three weeks. Yesterday. Plus, my period suddenly demanded to be called Emily, when she was formerly known as Tina, and wouldn't leave me her phone number, insisting instead that she call me. From Idaho. And I still find my husband to be amusing. Okay, tolerable. Which means there is not a smidgeon of PMS mounting an attack at this time.

You might be tempted (as my mother often is) to cheer me with the bright side to this absence. Of course, it probably means that my luteal phase is lengthening, that my progesterone has awakened to its role as a team player, and that my uterine lining will be the beneficiary of such events. Plump up that lining.

Who cares? I don't think I'm going to get pregnant right out of the box (no pun intended) anyway, so why can't the fertility gods at least humor me with an ultra short cycle (or at the very least, my blackjack cycle), followed by another one, so that I can commence with the procreating! Or, the practicing thereof.

And besides, does anyone really think that I will not be taking progesterone from the earliest possible moment this time? I don't care if my lining looks like a buttercream layer on a wedding cake, I'll be taking the progesterone. Even my RE advised it during a recent talk. No tests, no biopsies, just the damn progesterone already.

So, who needs the regular cycles.

Is it strange that I have also had to discourage a tiny, demented voice in my head that keeps insisting I could be pregnant? If I were, I would have to be one of the women (and their partners) who outwit the statistics on the condom box. You know, the women who experience a 1-2% failure rate when using a condom for birth control. But, sheesh, what are the chances that I would fall into the 1-2% failure rate?

Ironic, isn't it?

Are you brave?

2006-09-05T10:56:00.000-04:00

Recently, I read a magazine article about a daughter who traveled to Mexico to visit her estranged--and dying--father. He was mostly aware of her presence and during a quiet moment asked her "Are you brave?"

It has given me pause, this question. He was asking it, ostensibly, to better understand the daughter whose life he shared only in a vague, shadowy way. But inside the question itself, I think there hides a certain kind of praise already. A certain amount of faith that he would receive confirmation of something he suspected all along. At the very least, the moment between question posed and question answered is rare space to ponder exactly what in one's life could allow for a nod of the head, a quiet "yes."

Am I brave?

I hope so. I think that if I were, my life might be more interesting and satisfying. That's not to say I will ever display the outward acts of courage that universally connote the image of bravery(rescuing my fellow man from a burning building or submerged car). But I think there is a different kind of bravery, an internal function of the word. Perhaps it's time to look deeper.

My husband told me that he was proud of me for going through my D&E with such strength. I think he called me brave. I told him, bitterly, that I didn't want anyone to be proud of me for enduring what I felt to be such a violation. It was a procedure that I decided to have done; how could following through with it be brave? Perhaps there is still too much shame and sense of failure involved in that situation for me to feel that I was being brave.

But, I will allow that maybe, just maybe, my husband was brave for accompanying me into the room, holding my hand and stroking my forehead while it was taking place. (And I am loathe to give him credit for anything in this process, so this speaks volumes). I don't think on that day, during those fifteen minutes, that my husband and I went through the same thing. I was numb, in every sense, I was purposely blocking everything out, which is also not a characteristic of bravery, in my view. My husband had to take it all in, not show his upset, and take care of me (all without passing out at the sight of what was probably a lot of blood). I am thankful for his courage on that day.

I have asked myself, are there smaller ways to be brave? Or does brave always have to be Brave.

My daughter goes to preschool on Thursday. I have looked forward to this day with mostly dread. I know I will feel empty for those few hours a few times a week, at first anyway. It was not an easy decision for me to send her, as she is not even three yet and I know this step begins a lifetime of schooling and all that entails.

When we first pondered the idea of sending her to preschool, it was under the delusion that I might have another baby to take care of, or at the very least, an advanced pregnancy wearing me out. So, we visited a few schools and found only one that was reassuring in their warmth and love for the kids at the school. I put her on the waitlist, and told myself that if she got in, it would be my sign that sending her to school was going to be okay.

In late July, the day that I returned home from the ultrasound showing no heartbeat in the last pregnancy, we got a call from the preschool. There was room for my daughter to attend.

It was a bittersweet moment, but one that I needed very much at that time for a few reasons.

That phone call at that moment taught me that it takes courage to let go of the big decisions, giving them to the universe to hand back when the time is right. And accepting the answer when it appears.

More than that, I know that sending my daughter to school requires courage. Her life is bigger than me, unknowable in many ways, despite my deep desire to protect her and guide her well, despite my need to be her everything. For me to acknowledge that her path is both beyond and separate from mine is difficult indeed. And, well, it's about all the bravery I can muster right now. As Dori said to Marlin, "If you don't let anything happen to (Nemo), then nothing would ever happen to him!"

I'm still searching for ways to be brave, in an everyday kind of way. I don't want to look back on my life and see nothing but an overwhelming mediocrity that has outlasted the meaningless fear that inspired it.

How about you? Are you brave?

On the Lighter Side

2006-08-31T16:16:00.000-04:00

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."

Moving and Shaking

2006-08-30T15:32:00.000-04:00

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 way...it 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.

Dodging a Bullet

2006-08-28T16:47:00.000-04:00

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?

Tomorrow

2006-08-27T18:47:00.000-04:00

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.

A Tale of Two Aunties

2006-08-17T17:41:00.000-04:00

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!)

Hello darkness, my old friend

2006-08-16T16:10:00.000-04:00

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.

Vacationmonger

2006-08-14T23:02:00.000-04:00

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 daughter...it 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...

Maybe D&E stands for Dead End

2006-08-09T21:06:00.000-04:00

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.

IN THE BEGINNING...

2006-08-08T15:55:00.000-04:00

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.