Thursday, February 24, 2011


Despite what others may say, and the occasional down swing, I feel like I've grown a lot lately.

There is a place in my heart that is healing over, and the things that once would have ripped the scabs right off and sent me right back into that hole don't hold so much power anymore.

  • I can smile at other people's babies again.
  • I can look at my coworker's belly, and feel sad and wistful for all that I have lost, but I cannot change the past. I can feel happy for her (it helps that she is a real sweetheart) and sad for myself and none of it makes me want to hide and cry (well, most of the time).
  • I can think about the future, and know that while I am doing everything I can to tame the utesaurus, it might not be enough. I am starting to be okay with the unknown ahead of me.
  • I can listen to people say things that begin with "The worst thing about being pregnant....." and not throw up in my mouth. Or on their faces. (But sometimes I think about it.... I know, I know - I have a long way to go!)
  • I can think about going to baby showers again even if I can't quite bring myself to actually go to one.
  • I can pick out a gift for our new niece, and cry a little and smile at the same time.
  • I can run and go to the gym for hours at a time and watch my body change, not in the way it would have were Ocho still inside of me, and it makes me happy more often than not because I know that I am strong and healthy and if there ever is a ninth pregnancy, it'll have a better chance of surviving I'll have a better chance of surviving.
  • I can look at my husband and see the love we have for each other, how it has survived unimaginable horrors, and feel proud of the FAMILY we have become instead of like a failure for killing his children.
  • I can see a future without children and it doesn't make me want to stop breathing.

Fuck you, RPL. I'm taking my life back.

sad day

“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”
-Khalil Gibran

My computer has been on the fritz (and so has my digestive tract) and I haven't been on in a while, so I was totally surprised and heartbroken to learn that my friend Sugar Donor lost her twenty week baby yesterday.

I don't understand why the universe has to be so relentlessly fucking cruel.

It's just so unfair. So completely unfair.

My friend, you are one of the strongest souls I know. 

Monday, February 14, 2011

help, I need some

Hey ladies,

Quick question for you: for those who have had your blog redesigned, who have you used? Were you happy with the process/end results? This thing needs some shaking up, and I certainly do not have the skills to do it myself. If you don't want to leave your answer in the comments feel free to email me (

Also, I am ashamed to admit it but I am tweetarded. If you're on Twitter and you have a moment, can you give me the lowdown on how to get connected with the ALI crowd? And how the whole thing basically works? There might be a present in it for you........

Thanks a bunch! And Happy Valentine's Day! (isn't it nice to type a word that starts with "va" and doesn't end with "gina?" I sure think so.)

Friday, February 11, 2011


Right now, I am in a pretty decent mental place. I had an appointment with my therapist the another night, during which we discussed my birthday blues and the expiration date I had put on my life. And while I felt like a complete psycho for even having had the thought, and for the complete and utter relief it brought me, she made me feel not insane. "Well," she said, "sometimes I think the notion of suicide is what can keep people going through their darkest times. The knowledge that no matter how bad things get, we can endure them, because we know that if they get bad enough, we have an out, an option. And for many people it serves as a reality check."


We also talked about all of the positive things that I am doing: eating well, exercising, avoiding booze, following the Making Babies plan and how hopeful that has made me feel, my efforts to reach out to others who have walked this road. I am taking control of the things I can control, and apparently, that is a very good thing, and a sign that I am doing really well.

I went into the appointment scared that she'd want to commit me, and left feeling proud and strong, and almost happy.

Yesterday, despite my trepidation, I went to see a psychiatrist on my therapist's recommendation. I was so reluctant - I already have the stigma of infertility and loss, and I didn't want the stigma of "Psych patient" weighing me down too. It turned out to be a great appointment - he thinks my meds are doing their job, despite my down moments. He said "You've been through a lot of really shitty things, and no matter how medicated you are, you wouldn't be human if you didn't feel sad, anxious and depressed sometimes. The point is, your lows aren't as low, and they don't last as long, so you're doing really well." He even said that he wouldn't characterize what I'm dealing with as strictly depression,  since it stems from my shitty ass life. Instead, he called it an adjustment disorder and told me that he doesn't think I need to see him again.

I went into that appointment scared of being labeled "crazy," and left feeling saner than I have in months.

Straight from there, I went to my tattoo appointment. I have been wanting this tattoo for so long, to memorialize all that I have lost, my eight unknown, unseen but so deeply loved children. The physical pain (and the four hours in the chair!) was a mere drop in the bucket compared to the pain I felt losing each of them, mourning the lives they never had and the mother I've never gotten a chance to become. I think it's beautiful. This picture doesn't show all of it, since it wraps almost all of the way around my forearm and I am not agile or smart enough to figure out a way to get all of it, but you get the idea:

This tattoo represents the new chapter I am starting in my life. I am trying to strike the balance between being positive and being realistic, trying to keep pessimism at bay. And so I got this tattoo, with all of it's eights, in the hopes that either I will never have another miscarriage, or that I will be strong enough to endure whatever is ahead (even if it is another miscarriage) without falling too far into the darkness.

Hope springs eternal.

And yet, while all of this positivity swirls around me, there is part of me that is afraid. Hubby's SIL is ready to pop out baby #2, and my coworker's belly grows by the day. Other friends are ready to welcome their babies, and it seems that most of the bloggers I read are knocked up as well. I worry that I will disappoint myself, that I will fall into that abyss and lose all hope.

I feel as if I am on the cusp of something. I just don't know yet if it's something good or something bad. And I'm trying to be okay with the unknown.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Rally the Troops!

Hey ladies (well, I guess there could be gentlemen reading here too, so hey to you!) –

There is an excellent article about IF on The Huffington Post today. There are, however, some not so excellent comments. You know, about how those of us with IF aren’t meant to reproduce because it’s natural selection, among others. Please, head on over and tell these jerks what’s what, and please repost this so that more voices can be heard.

Thanks, y'all!

Sunday, February 6, 2011

a confession

I feel, these days, as if there are two distinct yet intertwined parts of my soul.

There is the part that believes in hope, despite the unlikelihood of it all working out. This is the part of me that follows my Making Babies plan to the letter, the part that drags me out of bed to work out, that convinces me that weekly acupuncture is a worthwhile investment. This part has convinced me that I should give up sugar, caffeine, and alcohol and not look back. I take all of my supplements and meds and drink the prescribed amounts of water and tea; I meditate and do self massage as directed. I have been molded by that belief in hope; I have made major, significant lifestyle changes.

The other part, I confess, is darker. This part haunts me constantly with sadness and grief over all that has been lost, and worry about what horrors of loss may still come. This part gives me anxiety attacks about going to work and dealing with pregnancies and births in any way, shape or form. This part mocks me, tells me hope is useless because things will never ever get better and at most, I can look forward to a lifetime of sadness and misery mitigated by pharmaceuticals.

I shut that dark part up though, for a few days at least, with a realization. It was my birthday morning. I was staring st the ceiling, feeling pretty hopeless, the dark part chiming in and making things seem even worse. I am 33. I was 27 when we started out on this road. So much anguish, so many tears shed.

And it hit me: it doesn't have to be this way forever. It's all under my control. And so, I made a decision: if things are not turned around by my 35th birthday - if I haven't figured out how to live a normal life with or without a baby, if I am still haunted by anxiety and sadness and grief and dependent on Big Pharma just to get through my days, I'll just end it all.

 I gave my life an expiration date.

As soon as I thought it, I knew that it was sick and twisted and crazy, and that I really need to talk to my therapist about it. At the same time, though, I felt as if an immense weight had fallen off of me. I had a surprisingly great birthday, and a pretty darned good long weekend. It was strange to feel so light. The dark part was quiet. I think it got what it wanted.

How fucking crazy am I?

I feel a bit weird sharing this with you all, but I try to be as honest as possible on this blog, so there you have it. I made a suicide pact with myself that set me free. Fucked up, I know.

((And please, please, to my family who reads this, understand that I am not suicidal right now, just desperate to feel normal. I know that I need to talk to my doctor about this, and in fact I have an appointment on Wednesday. OK?))

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Happy fucking birthday

Damn. Tomorrow is my birthday, and I'm totally dreading it.
Hubby and I are at odds right now. It always seems to happen when I'm on a down swing - he has empathy and compassion for a good long while, and then, he's had enough and all my sadness does is piss him off. I never feel quite right when we're at odds - it feels like I'm trying to make my way through the day with only one contact lens, or something like that. Eventually, we'll talk through it and be fine. In the meantime, though, I flounder, because......

I have no fucking friends. Seriously. The five years that I've been in hell have completely isolated me from any friends I had before (even the 20 year friendships that I thought could survive anything). And somehow, the person I used to be - the girl who could make friends with anyone, anytime - has disappeared. I don't even know how to make a new friend anymore, how to connect with someone over anything other than loss. Truthfully, I'm not even sure that I want to. I don't know how to explain my craziness to an outsider. All of our couple friends are really Hubby's friends and couldn't care less about me. All of it makes me kind of mad - when shit started to go wrong in my life, people stopped calling, stopped wanting to do things. My core group of friends from NY are all still pretty tight with each other, and wouldn't you know, these are all girls who have had good happy things in their lives over the last few years. I can't remember the last time I heard from one of them. They know of our trials and have cut us out of their lives as if my RPL is some kind of tumor that could spread to them. And so, the reality is, when Hubby and I are off, I have no one to go grab a bite to eat with, or to gab on the phone with, or whatever the fuck it is that girls do with their friends.

I did try to reach out to the new girl at work, who just moved here from another state. I sent her a message inviting her to brunch (I knew her husband was out of town). I felt all nervous while I was doing it, and I checked all day for a response that never came. REJECTED! Of course, I found out a few days later that she's knocked up so it's probably better off that way.

Speaking of New Girl, her belly has popped. I am back to having a sky high anxiety level at work despite my wonderful boss. I just don't think I can sit next to her, listen to her talk about her body changing and the stresses of pregnancy, see her growing belly, and not imagine that that should be my life.

I called off all birthday celebrations this year in an email to Hubby's parents:

Hi guys,
Hope you had a great trip!
I just wanted to let you know that we will not be celebrating my birthday this year. Let me explain: My first pregnancy happened at 27 years old. I will be turning 33 this year, and, obviously, we are still childless. Each year, I have stood by and watched as everyone around me has baby after baby, growing their families. Each year, I feel like I have failed, and this year my birthday is especially depressing. I have no desire to celebrate the passing of another year, and the fact that it is less and less likely that we will ever be parents to a live child.
I know you cannot imagine what this is like, but it breaks my heart that I cannot have the children your son deserves and desires to father.
Please understand that I love you all and while it means a lot to me that you want to make my birthday special, I just can't put on a happy face and pretend this year. I just can't.
I hope you can understand, or at the very least, respect, this.

I don't know what I expected from them, but a response - something - would have been nice. Instead, they called Hubby to talk about it. Every time I reach out, I get slapped down. My MIL talks about how she wants to feel close to me, but clearly that's not true. Oh well. Why should she care about me when her other daughter-in-law is about to give birth?
Another year. Another fucking year.I just want to wake up tomorrow and be someone else. Please, please, someone make that happen.