semi-fertile....

bliss

2011-12-20T13:45:00.002-06:00

Helloooooooooo out there!

(Is anyone still out there?!)

I just wanted to pop on, say hi, wish you all a very joyous holiday, and give you a quick update on my crazy life.

I’m still here, but not really. I don’t have a computer at home anymore (ya know, since I left my husband, moved into a craphole apartment on my own, started dating his friend, put my house on the shitty market, got my divorce finalized, and have started to prepare to move in with said boyfriend) so blogging and reading blogs has been tough. I’m hoping to get one soon though so I can share this crazy life with you… I miss this. I miss you.

Anyway, it’s been a crazy year for me. I got smacked in the face by bliss, and it dared me to ignore it and settle back into my comfortable misery. I didn’t, and here I am.

Divorced. Dating an incredible guy with a crazy ex-wife and custody of his two kids. Oh, and a vasectomy. Trying to figure out how we can maybe add another to our lives……
HAPPY.
(I’d be thrilled if you left me a comment and said hi!)

what doesn't kill us.....

2011-07-08T19:36:00.000-05:00

... I truly hope makes us stronger.

I am sorry to have left you all in the dark for so long, but there have been major happenings in my life lately..... and no, I'm not pregnant. I probably never will be again.

You see, on Thursday I will be moving into my own place.

I no longer love my husband, and realized that I've been staying for the sole purpose of trying to conceive. That isn't fair to anyone. There is more to the story - way more - that I will be sharing in the coming days. I just haven't figured out how to write about it yet.

Perhaps my utesaurus has been a blessing in disguise because as difficult as this situation has been, a child would make it infinitely more complicated.

Bear with me, internetz. I don't know if this is the right place to write about my new life. I'm thinking of leaving this blog up for the semi-fertile masses and starting a new one, but I'm not sure. The only thing I am sure of is that leaving is the right move, for both of us.

Love to you all.

wonderment

2011-04-25T22:30:00.000-05:00

I am filled with wonder when I feel light, airy, alive these days. How, I wonder, could I have spent so long in the dark?

I know that we are at a crossroads. The doctor we will see next month may have answers; he may not. But truthfully, the fact that we have taken IVF - and all of its physical, emotional, and financial tolls - off the table is freeing. I have chosen my path; I wonder why it took so long.

I wonder at the gift of adoption; I don't think I can ever truly understand how strong a woman must be to place her baby in someone else's arms.

And yet, although I KNOW we are on the right path, I wonder if I'll ever truly be able to celebrate someone else's pregnancy. I wonder if the sight of a pregnant belly will always leave me breathless, fighting back tears. I wonder if I will ever finish mourning my babies, and the experiences I never got to have with them: the kicks, the flutter of a heartbeat on an ultrasound screen, that moment after birth of finding my husband's face in theirs.

I wonder.

TGIMFF #3

2011-04-22T11:02:00.000-05:00

This week’s list of the GOOD:

1. See previous post – I feel like the weight of the world has been lifted off of my chest. I can breathe again. That desperate feeling is gone. I know that, even if my appointment next month is an Epic Fail, I have an option. An excellent option, which we had always planned to pursue even before the utesaurus reared her ugly head. To be honest, I sort of hope this doctor tells me my case is hopeless, because I am very close to ready to put this horrible chapter of my life behind me. (However, I have not rushed out to pursue any birth control options just yet. I’m not THAT ready. Even though work is still sucky, and I have a bit of anxiety/teariness while here, it’s not as bad as it was earlier in the week.

2. Acupuncture. I had my weekly session, and I think that has helped tremendously with my anxiety. It was like all of those tiny needles hit my reset button; I felt fabulously relaxed when I left. Oh, and my acupuncturist is just awesome. I told her about pregnant chick #2 in my office and she said, “Oh honey, you need to go find an office with all men. Gay men, if possible!” And then we laughed our asses off. I love her.

3. Two Kisses For Maddy by Matt Logelin – I’ve been reading his blog since Maddy was about 6 months old, and I was so excited to get the book. It did not disappoint: I laughed, I cried (sad and happy tears) and plowed through it in a couple of hours. Go Matt!

4. A productive day off – I went to acupuncture and then grocery shopping, I cleaned the house, got all of the laundry done, read a book, and had dinner waiting for Hubby when he got home. Productivity rocks!

5. Water for Elephants was one of my favorite books ever, and Sara Gruen ranks high on the list of authors whose books I devour, so I am SUPER excited to go see the movie tomorrow. Hubby and I are going to have a date night (after working on some long neglected projects around the house), which we rarely do, and have dinner at a nice recent first. Yay for date night!

And there you have it, folks. A rollercoaster of a week for sure, but it’s definitely ending on a high note. I hope you all have a wonderful weekend, and for those of you celebrating religious holidays, Happy Holidays!

quick change

2011-04-20T22:07:00.000-05:00

I swear, if you read this blog regularly you probably think I'm bipolar. This rollercoaster is so damned ridiculous.

After my last post , you might have thought that I had a really shitty day today (pun intended). It certainly started out that way. But then Hubby and I had a text conversation that put a smile on my face all day long.

To make a long story short: we've been having issues with our car for a while now, but since it is paid off we haven't really sought a replacement. Recently we made the decision to take out a 401k loan so that we can trade in our car, get something better, do some home renovations, etc. We got the check yesterday.

But then a strange thing happened - the thought of having that much scratch in our bank account left my mind on only one thing, and it wasn't a car: baby. It seems that my incredible Hubby was on the same wavelength too.

So here's the deal: the money is going to stay put until after our appointment with the NY doctor next month. If all seems hopeless, we're going to start the adoption process. For real this time, since we actually have a large chunk (though not all) of what we'll need. We figure we can save the rest and somehow make it happen. Regardless of how that appointment goes, we'll be on our way to parenthood shortly after.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I am so excited to have something to hope for, to look forward to. Of course, it would be wonderful if we could conceive on our own and then use that money for a new car, a nursery, yadda yadda. But I'll drive that thing until it's a rusted hunk of tin powered Flintstone style if it means I get to be a mommy.

Me, a mommy. Him, a daddy. A family. It almost seems within reach.

Of course, now that I've put this out there, the universe will find some kind of way to fuck everything up, some ridiculous catastrophe that I cannot even begin to imagine. Oh well - at least I've got some of my fight back, along with my smile.

Hope lives.

and so it begins

2011-04-20T07:59:00.001-05:00

I started crying 3 blocks from the office, and haven't managed to stop much since.
Oh, and in my no sleep having haze this morning, I grabbed my normal breakfast of greek yogurt. And yep, my intestines revolted, which makes me even more sad.
Am I crying because I can't have babies? Or dairy? I'm not so sure right now.
Sigh. Just gotta make it till 4pm, and then I have tomorrow off. Send me all of your dry eyed strength vibes, if you can.

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sometimes.....

2011-04-20T01:35:00.000-05:00

I just really hate my life.

I have to work tomorrow (actually, in 5 hours) and I can't sleep. My anxiety level is off the charts right now.

Worse yet, I think I might have become lactose intolerant. (Is it possible to become lactose intolerant after a lifetime love affair with dairy? I'll have to consult Dr. Google...) Today I reached for my favorite foods in an effort to eat my feelings, my favorite foods being cheese and ice cream (not together - that would be weird. Or maybe delicious). And my stomach has been royally fucked up all day. When I tucked into my bowl of Peanut Butter Panic <3 I could literally feel my whole digestive tract protest the first bite, and I've been becoming very well acquainted with my bathroom since.

Of course, I finished the whole bowl in between dashes to the crapper. I don't waste ice cream. That would be silly.

And I have to ask the universe, are you fucking serious?

Please don't take ice cream from me too. And cheese. You've already taken my babies, my dog, bread, pasta, my self esteem, running (for the moment, anyway), my sanity, hope.

Let me keep the fucking ice cream, ya bastard.

no writer could come up with this stuff.... (and post 200!)

2011-04-19T08:52:00.000-05:00

In honor of my 200th post, I wanted to let you all know about a project I am participating in.

Kerri at Uncommon Nonsense is putting together an anthology of sorts, a collection of our stories. A collection of our heartbreaks and horrors and triumphs and survival. The ALI blogosphere has been such a wonderful source of sanity and support for me, and I'm sure for some of you too, but not all infertiles or BLM know we're here.

Kerri says "The goal of all this: I want to gather together a variety of personal stories from the blogosphere, and hopefully publish them - making them available to couples outside of our Blogger community. I want to make your stories heard, and to give other infertile families a chance to learn from our community and to find support in it. Each of our stories has the ability to connect with at least one person, somewhere out there, and to make them feel just a little less alone as they journey through this difficult time in their lives."

You can participate anonymously, or not. Your story can be long or short. But I urge you to check out Kerri's post and let your voice reach someone who might really need to hear it. One of the few things that has kept me sane is this blog, and the people who comment or email to let me know that my writing makes them feel less alone. It makes this whole craptastic journey seem like less of a waste, you know?

it's a 3 post kind of day

2011-04-18T20:34:00.000-05:00

I need to write to process what I am feeling right now. It's the only way I know how.

Discouraged. Fearful. Wounded. Disappointed in myself.

How can I literally go from feeling good and optimistic about life to..... this horrible low in just a few hours, triggered by just a few words?

This familiar place, with all the scabs ripped off of my oozing soul and all hope drained away - I don't want to be here anymore. I don't want the journey to this place to happen in a flash.

I've climbed the walls out of this dark place so many times, inching my way back into the light. So arduous, every time. I thought the situation with the Belly was a real breakthrough for me. And then a few words from my coworker - "I'm pregnant. About four weeks."

That's all it took to erase weeks of hard work, of willing myself to live life, to love life no matter what.

Why does SHE get to have this, when she never wanted kids? How can she even think of telling people this early, as if it's guaranteed that nothing will go wrong? (But of course it won't, because I've been taking the statistical bullet for everyone I know since 2006). Whose cruel joke am I the butt of? Why can't I just be fucking happy for her?

The truth of it is that I am tired of clawing my way back from here. I am scared that my whole life will be a series of horrible downs followed by a long fight back to a brief reprieve in the light. That I will hide from pregnancies and babies forever, the reminders of what I cannot have, and become some sort of reclusive freak.

I'm just tired. I'm running out of fight. I hate that my soul is so easily shattered. I hate crying in the bathroom at work, and watching my funny, gregarious, friendly and loving parts die a slow death.

I don't know what to do.

the universe can suck it

2011-04-18T18:10:00.001-05:00

Ok, so you can scratch work going well off of my list.

Another coworker is pregnant. One who doesn't like kids, never wanted any.

FML.

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The belated TGIMFF #2 post

2011-04-18T10:45:00.002-05:00

Last week's list of the GOOD:

1. I just finished reading The Hunger Games trilogy. Oh my – it’s been a long time since I’ve been so transported by a book. It reminded me of when I was a kid, and things weren’t so great at home, and how I’d walk to the library (by myself! At 8 years old! In NYC!), grab a great big armful of books, haul them home and lose myself in the surety that there was a world outside of my own private misery. These books had the same effect, and I pretty much wore out the battery in my Kindle light laying in bed, listening to my husband’s soft snores and losing my own sadness in the story. It kind of makes me want to start working on the fiction project that I’ve been up and down about over the years.

2. I injured my foot last weekend, and we were all pretty sure that it was a stress fracture, and that I’d be out of the running for the 20k I signed up for. Thankfully, with rest and a styling special shoe, it feels much better and I should be back to training in a week or so. I cannot wait – I am so antsy to go for a run! I guess I’m addicted to that runner’s high.

3. Work is going okay – I think my boss is so scared that I’ll leave because of the growing, pulsating Belly he’ll pretty much give me anything I want. New fax machine (that we’ve been asking for for YEARS!) – done. Laminating machine to make my life easier – done. A new radio because the one we had sucked and could barely get anything but static – done. I need to figure out what else I want before my review 

4. The Belly. I think, as painful as working with her is, as much as her fullness illuminates my flatness, as much as her talk of her growing boy makes me long for my lost Ocho, and all that came before him – I think this will be good for me, in the long run. I have contact with a pregnant woman, due just weeks after my Ocho should have been, and yes I cry in the bathroom sometimes, but it hasn’t killed me. If I can live through this, and all that is to come with the birth and baby talk and all of it, I can survive anything. I’m proud of myself for being able to like her, to smile at her and chat with her like I am just a normal person (even if I sometimes have to cover up the swell in my eyes with a well timed sneeze). I am a survivor.

Side note: So, since I haven’t been able to work out as hard core as I’d like, I let my super healthy lifestyle slide for a bit…… and got a bit stinking drunk on Saturday. We had some friends over, and were having a good time acting like morons, until I slipped on the straps to my aforementioned styling shoe, and took a header into the wall. I think I knocked myself out for a moment, and now I have a giant fat bruised lip, a swollen bruised nose, and a giant painful bruise on my back from hitting something when I landed. Hubby’s been calling me Rocky since then.
Lesson learned. Alcohol is bad. Alcohol when you are gimpy and acting like a fool and there are walls everywhere is really bad. I’m on hiatus again. At least until the next miscarriage 

the weight of it all

2011-04-13T18:34:00.000-05:00

So, as I mentioned in my inaugural TGIMFF post, I have an appointment in May with a specialist in NY. This doctor was the first to perform IVF in New York, and now mostly encourages more conservative fertility treatments. He believes that IVF is necessary for some, but way over recommended, and that there are other methods to bring a woman's body into balance. His specialty is - get this - RPL! At worst, his methods could prepare me to be in the best physical condition possible for IVF, if it comes to that.

For a few weeks now, I've been collecting my medical records from the various doctors I've seen since this whole nightmare began just over 5 years ago. I had all of the records sent to me so that I could keep a copy for myself, because I like the self abuse involved in reading through all of them. Anyway, after 8 failed pregnancies I have quite the stack of records. Several trees died to make that happen. (Great. Now I feel guilty for killing trees and babies).

And you know, it's all been weighing on me a bit. This doctor is kind of my last hope for a successful pregnancy. I don't think I have much more trying left in me, unless we can find something else to fix. I'm starting to feel Einsteinially insane, in the whole "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results" kind of way. I want to hope, but I'm afraid to all at the same time.

Anyway, I mailed out the packet at the post office substation in the grocery store across the street from my office. I'm in there a lot, and the workers can be VERY nosy. "Oh, an avocado? I like them but I can't get my husband to eat them..... Oh, a pregnancy test! Which outcome do you want?" And so on.

So of course today, the clerk asked "What the heck is in here? It's so heavy!" My heart trembled because I wanted to tell her off, to let her know that she was holding the weight of eight dead babies in her hands, the weight of a million shattered dreams and more tears than can be counted, but instead I gave her a warning look. She persisted, so I answered "Medical records." "Oh," she said. "Why are you sending your medical records to New York?"

(She read the label, which clearly indicated a fertility clinic, but wanted to grill me anyway.)

So I answered "None of your fucking business" and gave her a sweet smile as I paid.

Fuck nosy people. If you can't help me shoulder this load, you don't deserve a peephole into my heart and all of the weight it's been crushed by. (Present company excluded, of course!)

TGIMFF

2011-04-08T01:13:00.000-05:00

Thanks so much to all who commented, emailed or fb'd me after my last couple of posts. Your kindness, love and concern mean the world to me. Seriously.

I know that this shit I'm going through right now isn't going to get much better anytime soon. I have been able, ever since my first miscarriage, to generally avoid or limit contact/interaction with preggos. This coworker situation is really tough for me to deal with, and she's not due for 3 more months (and I really cannot imagine how big she'll be at that point, since she's pretty much a belly with arms, legs and a head right now). Between now and then, I anticipate getting rocked by: Mother's Day, Father's Day, our anniversary, Ocho's due date, other missed due dates, family events with our new niece, etc. And every day, I'll be looking at her and picturing an alternate universe, where my baby didn't die and we could be preggo friends. Every time she mentions getting the baby's room ready, or ultrasounds, or childbirth class, I'll be wishing..... well, you all know what I'll be wishing for. I wish I could hate her but she's too frakking sweet. Sigh.

Anywho, in an effort to keep myself from succumbing to the madness - and to keep this blog from becoming too fucking morose, I plan to post each Friday about the GOOD. You all know the bad and the ugly, better than I would like.

And so, without further ado, here is my first Thank God it's Motherfucking Friday (TGIMFF) list of the good.

1. You know that book I'm so wild about? Well, I managed to score an appointment with the doctor who wrote it during my trip to visit family in NY in May. It'll cost a fortune, and I'm totally afraid to hope that anything good, any answers will come of it. I've been so convinced lately that there is no chance for us that I've pushed the appointment out of my mind, but it has the potential to be life changing.

2. Speaking of that book, I am still - for the most part - following the program. I go to acupuncture weekly. I have severely limited my intake of sugar, flour, caffeine and alcohol, and increased the amount and variety of produce I eat. I take royal jelly, fish oil, folic acid, aspirin, a multivitamin and vitex daily, and chug red raspberry leaf tea. I exercise regularly. I meditate and practice self massage. I have noticed changes in my period (no cramps! none! they used to cripple me) and hope this means good things are happening inside.

3. My regimen has helped me lose around 20 pounds in less than two months. I'd like to lose about 10 more, but I've been called "tiny" twice in the last week so I'm pretty happy. Also, today I wore jeans that I couldn't even pull up over my fat ass two months ago, and they were falling off of me. Literally. WINNING!

4. Ahhh, acupuncture. I fucking love it, and my acupuncturist. I'd go three times a week if I could afford it, but I do have all of those vegetables and shit to pay for now.

5. I am running a 20k in June (right around when Ocho would have been due) and Hubby has agreed to run it with me! The race itself will be a hella good time (I know the non-runners reading this think that's a damn lie, but it's true) plus I get to go all drill sergeant and train my man for the next two months. I like making him puke :)

6. I still love my tattoo, so much. I think it's beautiful, and I've noticed that when I am having a rough moment, looking at it, touching it, and remembering my lost babes is soothing. Surprisingly, I have not gotten any negative feedback for having such a large piece on my arm - people either love it or don't say anything, which is cool by me. I don't really give a fuck if anyone thinks it's distasteful, though - soon, the whole arm will be covered and I'll be a happy little freak.

7. A coworker (and NOT the one I would have expected it from - this girl is unmarried and doesn't have/want kids, or even particularly like them) pulled me aside on Tuesday. "Hey," she said. "I have to ask you a sensitive question and I hope it doesn't upset you." Ummm, okay. "We want to throw a baby shower for The Belly and I thought you might prefer if we did it while you're out of town." I definitely teared up at her thoughtfulness, because hell no I won't go to a baby shower. She saved me from some serious awkwardness.

8. We had dinner with Hubby's grandpa and step-grandma. They are such a cute couple, and it was really nice to spend time with them.

Okay, so I think that's it for this week. I hope next week's list is just as long, and that you all have a wonderful weekend. I will be doing battle with my backyard without the benefit of cocktails. One of us will emerge victorious. I hope it's me.

dreams

2011-04-06T08:39:00.000-05:00

I used to have dreams, big dreams.

I thought I would do great things, have a great career, be a wondermom to a gaggle of kids.

As I got older, I consciously made life choices to make that wondermom fantasy a reality: I chose not to go to medical school or veterinary school because I wanted to be able to stay home with my kids and not have loads of student loan debt. I chose to give up my teaching career and move halfway across the country because I wanted Hubby and I to be able to afford a house on one income. I left my family, my friends behind to chase a dream. It seemed so within reach, so inevitable.

I was so fucking naive.

Now, my biggest dream is to learn how to live like a normal person, in a world with real live babies and pregnant coworkers with huge bellies that seem to have their own gravitational pull (seriously - she bumps into me with that thing every. single. day). I dream of not crying in the bathroom at work, of not putting up these walls that close me off into my own little world of pain and sadness. I dream of learning to live childless.

I dream of not wanting to beat the fuck out of people who still think it's okay to make fun of, stigmatize and marginalize the infertile. Oh yeah, fuck you, PETA.

It seems so hopeless. I don't mean the actually getting pregnant and staying that way long enough to have a baby. That dream is dead. The living part, that's what I'm struggling with. I don't think I can do it.

familiar

2011-04-05T08:54:00.001-05:00

In the bathroom at work, crying because my period is about to arrive and so is my coworker with her huge belly. I should have that. Fuck. I hate my life.

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wasted

2011-03-29T17:07:00.004-05:00

No, I'm not wasted right now (though I'd like to be. If any of y'all want to come over for a drink let me know!)

For the last few months I've been on an upswing, figuring things out, trying to figure ME out. I've been too busy to let the siren song of the dark reach me (or, more likely, ignoring the fact that a foray into the dark is inevitable by sticking my fingers in my ears and shouting "Nananananananana I can't hear you!"). Of course, I've had some bad moments, some minor down ticks in the upswing, but they were brief, usually tied to the post-ovulation/pre-menstrual phase of my cycle, predictable. A small crevasse, if you will, easily scaled.

But right now, I'm in the motherfucking Grand Canyon.

I don't know how I got here. I think it started with the advent of the birthing season. Like cats all over, my friends - both on the internets and IRL - are having babies. Or getting ready to pop. Or celebrating 1st birthday parties. And all of these things bring events that highlight how different, how damaged I am: baby showers, hospital visits, welcoming parties, 1st birthday parties. I want to be ok enough to do these things, to socialize, but instead I either don't go or don't get invited.

I am so isolated, and I know it's mostly my own doing.

I was thinking about what I want the outcome of my story to be: adoption? miraculous natural pregnancy? ART? living childfree? I can't answer that because what I want can't be.

I want none of this to ever have happened. I want to be normal, and happy. I want to still have friends.

I want the last five years to never have happened.

I hate my life.

PS - just logged on to FB to find this gem of a status update: "There comes a point in your life when FUN no longer means bar hopping, clubbing, being out til 4am or drinking too much. It means movies, family dinners, kid activities, bedtime stories, and 8pm bedtimes. Becoming a parent doesn't change you, it makes you realize that the little people you created deserve the best of your free time! I am PROUD to be a parent and LOVE my "Boring" life"

I wish people like that would STFU. I would LOVE LOVE LOVE that life too, but since it's not going to happen for me, sometimes I do drink too much, stay out really late, bar hop and club hop, trying to forget that I have an empty house and empty arms.

growth

2011-02-24T22:10:00.000-06:00

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

2011-02-24T09:32:00.000-06:00

“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.

help, I need some

2011-02-14T21:13:00.000-06:00

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 (wifey.to.hubby@gmail.com).

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.)

cusp

2011-02-11T21:18:00.000-06:00

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."

Hmmm.

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.

Rally the Troops!

2011-02-09T12:44:00.000-06:00

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!

a confession

2011-02-06T23:56:00.001-06:00

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?))

Happy fucking birthday

2011-02-02T09:23:00.000-06:00

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.

unexpected kindness

2011-01-26T23:39:00.001-06:00

I have been surprised so many times by the kindness of others. When I am deep in the darkness, it seems to me that others must loathe me as much as I sometimes do.

I've been proven wrong, again.

When I discovered my coworker's pregnancy, I had a meltdown. That meltdown paled in comparison to the one I had when I learned that her due date is very close to what mine would have been. You know, if that raging beast of a utesaurus didn't eat my baby - which I discovered, you might recall, hours after I had to make the most horrible decision of my life and put my sweet otherwise healthy dog to sleep. The worst fucking day of my life, also known as DDDBD (Dead Dog Dead Baby Day).

I just couldn't make sense of how I was going to face her every day - her belly growing, mine shrinking, she aglow with life, me casting the pallor of death. I was having panic attacks walking into the building, and at this point no one else (except the boss) knew.

I knew that I had been acting oddly for a few days, so I pulled aside the girl I work most closely with (a wonderful, wonderful girl whose friendship in the office means so much to me) and explained that she shouldn't take anything I say/do personally, and that I'd be acting weird for a while, because New Girl is pregnant (I didn't even mention the due date thing). And this girl - we'll call her Runway (she used to model) - this girl who isn't close to wanting babies yet and certainly hasn't lost any, her eyes welled up. I told her that I might have to look for another job because I just didn't think I could do it, and she got even more sad, but said she'd understand if it came to that.

That night, I emailed Runway to thank her for her kindness and empathy, since I know that my particular craziness is off her radar. She responded with, among other things, "Don't worry - I've got your back." And with that, the icy loneliness and fear in me started to melt.

I had also emailed another coworker, my friend A, to warn her. Her response was full of empathy and kindness, and so the ice melted just a bit more.

My final email was to my boss. I let him know exactly what was going on and how I didn't know if I would be able to continue working there, even though I am loving my job right now. I told him that I am just not willing to risk completely losing my mind for it.

He responded that he thinks I am a very valuable employee, and doesn't want to lose me. We are in the middle of some scheduling changes and he mentioned that he would try to work things out so, basically, preggo and I aren't around each other too much. He also suggested possibly moving my workstation into the office the doctors share.

And then he wrote "Let me know if you need anything else. I am willing to put up with a lot if you are willing to give it a go." And with that, the rest of the ice was gone.

I forget it sometimes, but I am a lucky lady to be valued so much by the people with whom I spend the bulk of my waking hours.

((And of course, the feel-good vibe is taking a hit from the bad voice in my head, which says "Wow, I am a seriously fucked up person if my whole office has to be rearranged to accommodate my craziness. I mean, the girl is pregnant! It should be a happy time in the office, not one of walking on eggshells because I can't cope with life." That stupid mother fucker never completely goes away.))

Oooh, and I've won a blog award! Hopefully tomorrow I'll post about that and my Making Babies beginnings.

a shout out to local ladies

2011-01-25T22:08:00.001-06:00

I have volunteered to be the Des Moines area group leader for the new Face2Face Friendship Group program started by Faces of Loss. If you're local, and interested in hanging out with like minded super fun ladies who have also survived loss - and you're not offended by tattoos and salty language - join our Facebook group. I've made it super easy too - there's a box on this page that says "Find us on Facebook!" and all you need to do is click "like." Or you can search on Facebook for the "Face2Face Des Moines" page. It's pretty lame right now but I'll be working on it tomorrow.

We will definitely be having our first get together soon, and likely in a bar/restaurant. Well, it might just be me unless some of you join up!

I know I have local readers - I do occasionally look at my stats. Delurk, delurk I beg of you! I so don't want my group to be the FAIL of the program. That would just suck monkey balls.

hope, and an offer for you!

2011-01-24T10:55:00.000-06:00

I’m not off to a great start with ICLW this month ((flogs self)) but I swear to the gods that I will be caught up on my commenting tonight. It’s hard to comment from work since I’m really not supposed to be on the internet….. posting is easier since I just type away in Word and it looks like I’m being a good employee :)

Anyway, this post is not going to be about my shitty work situation (btw, the knocked up coworker just walked in! Yay!) or how much I hate my life or how sad I am.

No, this post is going to be about hope (shocking! I know!). Specifically, the hope I have found in Making Babies: A Proven Three Month Program for Maximum Fertility. These people – a top fertility doctor and an acupuncturist/herbalist – are the real deal, and they know their shit.

I’ve been saying for a long time that I need to get my body in the best possible shape to conceive because if I can get pregnant – and clearly, I can – then there must be something I can do to stay pregnant. I’ve just been going about it piecemeal, trying to blend Western medicine and Chinese medicine without a guide. I’ve just about finished the book, and it will become my bible for the next three months (our “premester”).

I was hooked when I read the Western doctor’s take on ART – he believes it has it’s place but that it is overused and most women, when given the appropriate guidance, can help their own bodies conceive naturally. If the program itself doesn’t work and ART is still necessary, the body will be in the best possible shape for treatment to work. It’s so empowering, and I really believe it can work for me. I plan to use this blog to document my premester in the hopes that it might be able to help someone else.

Anyway, I have an offer: If someone out there wants to walk this walk with me, I’ll send you a copy of the book (for free, y’all!). Just be the first to let me know in the comments and I’ll send it off.

And then we can skip hand in hand off into the sunset. Just kidding. Sort of.

and the universe continues to fuck with me....

2011-01-21T06:08:00.001-06:00

Yay. Just found out that through the evil of FB that the new girl we hired - the girl who shares a workspace with me - is pregnant. I'm expecting the work announcement soon since she seems to be 16-17 weeks along.
Our clients are a bunch of friendly nose folk who like to comment on everything: "Oh your hair is so long!" "I really like your makeup today," etc. Oh, and this is the first time someone in our office has been pregnant for realz. It's going to be torturous.
It's just my luck too - I was starting to resolve the whole love/hate my job thing (it was shifting mostly to love) and now I have to quit.
I have to say, I didn't handle this discovery well. The ugly cry made an appearance, as did self pity and self loathing. I have got to learn to handle this shit like a grown up. Sigh.

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by the numbers

2011-01-20T08:53:00.000-06:00

This week marks 5 years since our first loss, since the last time I remember being truly happy and hopeful. I think somewhere my brain knew that milestone was looming, which would explain my recent funk.

Anyway, the numbers:

4 - how old that first doomed baby would now be

7 - how many times (at least) I've been pregnant since that loss
40 - number of times I've been poked for beta testing

50+ - number of babies born to people I know in that time (not including all of my blogging buddies, who seem to be getting knocked up regularly these days)
56 - approximate number of weeks I've been pregnant

680 - approximate number of sticks I've peed on (opk and hpt)
$1040 - how much I've spent on sticks to pee on (approximately)
$3500 - how much we've spent on copays for visits and meds and surgery

10950 - number of folic acid pills I've swallowed

1,257,333,123 - number of times my heart has been broken (approximate)

I can't believe I'm still here.

worn out oars

2011-01-17T10:40:00.000-06:00

There’s this girl I know, K. We went to the same high school, and although we’ve never been close friends we’ve always run with the same social crowd.

Truth be told, although many of my (formerly) close friends love her, I’ve always found her to be more than a little annoying. She’s a bit of a control freak, and has always expected that things would go as she planned them. She married her 1st husband in a ceremony that was beyond extravagant.

Anyway, shortly after her 1st wedding, Hubby and I started trying to conceive. And then we had that first mind shattering miscarriage, followed closely by the devastation of the second.

This slice of time was hideous for me – I was starting to wonder if it would ever happen, what I could have done to deserve a double dose of failure, and if all I had ahead of me was heartbreak (guess I know the answer to that question now!). I spent days pouring over books on conception and pregnancy and miscarriage. K and I were at some party together during this time, and the conversation turned to having babies.

“Well,” she said, with a haughty shake of her head, “I know that when I want to have a baby I’ll have one right away.”

“And how do you know that?” I asked.

“I can feel when I ovulate every month. The rest is simple,” she said, looking at me.

I wanted to scream and shout that she didn’t have a fucking clue, and then I committed the cardinal sin of the infertile: I wished IF on her. I did, and I’m ashamed of it, but at that moment I wished that she would know just a slice of the pain I was experiencing.

Anyway, she went on to divorce first husband, marry second husband, and start trying to conceive.

Nothing happened.

She tried for years, and then because she lives in a state that mandates coverage for infertility, she tried IVF. It worked. Yesterday, she gave birth to a baby girl.

And again, I am slapped hard with the realization that my life is stuck – we’ve decided to become parents, we’ve changed our whole lives so that we could be good parents. We’ve left behind the life of the DINKS (dual income no kids) that we were, and yet we can’t get to where we want.

We’re in limbo. I’ve been here long enough for K to have gotten divorced, remarried, try for a baby long enough to get diagnosed as infertile, try fertility treatments, get pregnant and have a healthy baby girl.

I feel like we’re in a rowboat, stuck in the middle of a lake so big we can barely see the shore. We’re rowing and rowing and rowing, as hard as we can, sweating and panting and getting desperate to get to shore, where it seems the happiness is. We can hear the party, and all around us boats are moving. Some are moving more slowly than others, some so slowly they hardly appear to be moving. Some boats find a current and drift in to shore with no effort at all. But us – we’re stuck, we’re stranded, our oars are falling apart from all that damned rowing, and I feel like we’re going to die here. (I may have read this somewhere – not sure – but it feels like such an apt description).

funk

2011-01-14T10:46:00.001-06:00

I'm in a funk. It scares the shit out of me - I've come so far in the last few months thanks to Big Pharma and therapy and hubby. The creeping constant tears, the overwhelming sadness and hopelessness - I am reminded not only of what I long for and can't have, but also of the years I ~~lived~~ existed so far down in the darkness.

And when I feel like this, the world just seems too sad to bear: the Tucson tragedy and Christina Green, the rough time my brother is having right now, my older cat who has taken a sudden and likely very not good turn for the worse, the floods in Australia (and that brave boy who sacrificed himself so that his brother could be saved). It is just too much.

(My rational brain says "Duh! It's PMS! Happens every month! You'll be fine." Despite her assurances I feel like I'm on a precipice, on the edge of another major depressive episode.)

Of course, while I'm writing this, this song came on. I know he's not writing about my life, but man do his words hit close to home:

I'm not surprised, not everything lasts

I've broken my heart so many times, I stopped keeping track
Talk myself in, I talk myself out
I get all worked up, then I let myself down

I tried so very hard not to lose it

I came up with a million excuses

I thought, I thought of every possibility

And I know someday that it'll all turn out

You'll make me work, so we can work to work it out
And I promise you, kid, that I give so much more than I get

I just haven't met you yet

I might have to wait, I'll never give up
I guess it's half timing, and the other half's luck
Wherever you are, whenever it's right
You'll come out of nowhere and into my life

And I know that we can be so amazing
And, baby, your love is gonna change me
And now I can see every possibility

And somehow I know that it'll all turn out
You'll make me work, so we can work to work it out
And I promise you, kid, I give so much more than I get
I just haven't met you yet

They say all's fair
In love and war
But I won't need to fight it
We'll get it right and we'll be united

And I know that we can be so amazing
And being in your life is gonna change me
And now I can see every single possibility

And someday I know it'll all turn out
And I'll work to work it out
Promise you, kid, I'll give more than I get
Than I get, than I get, than I get

Oh, you know it'll all turn out
And you'll make me work so we can work to work it out
And I promise you kid to give so much more than I get
Yeah, I just haven't met you yet

I just haven't met you yet
Oh, promise you, kid
To give so much more than I get

I said love, love, love, love

Love, love, love, love
(I just haven't met you yet)
Love, love, love, love
Love, love

I just haven't met you yet

This mood I'm in, this day, calls for two hours of sweating my ass off in the gym tonight, followed by a bottle of wine and a good hard ugly cry. Maybe I can all of these tears out all at once.

In which a new word is invented.....

2010-12-28T11:49:00.001-06:00

I survived Christmas Eve (after, you know, various parental guilt trips, other minor family drama, cajoling, and of course, a tide-turning bribe).

The huge gift was money. It was nice, and took care of a lot of debt that was weighing us down, which will allow us to save for treatment/adoption/whatever much more quickly. Yay. We were also blessed to receive many other nice gifts from our families (including the juicer I’ve been wanting so that I can kick off my health nut streak). Our gifts to everyone were generally well received, as well (a nice bonus).

I won’t lie – there were several moments of “That was awkward,” and several moments, involving some combination of pregnant mother/big sister to be/expectant dad, of “I think my soul is tearing in two,” and a few unnoticed tears shed. All in all, though, I thought I handled the evening with grace.

We spent the next day at home, paying off debt (yay for online banking!), eating and enjoying each other’s company. Later that night we had some folks over to the house to hang out/drink whiskey. All in all, I thought I might have made it through the holiday unscathed without permanent damage. Hubby said he was proud of me. I was proud of me.

That is, until last night. Quick backstory: Hubby’s SIL is pregnant and in danger of ~~losing the baby~~ (my MIL’s exaggeration) getting put on bedrest. She is, I think, around 32-33 weeks. They have a not-quite-two year old and three dogs, and he is a new medical school graduate/slave doctor. Hubby’s mom has been going to stay with them (they live 2 hours away) during the week, and since my FIL travels for work, we get their own dog dumped on us.

Anyway, the MIL came over last night while I was at work to drop off the dog and subject Hubby to a lecture. Among other things, she told him – get this - that B (his SIL) and M (his brother), were upset on Christmas Eve because they felt like “no one was making a big deal about the new baby” because of me. (To his credit, he didn’t want to hurt my feelings by telling me this but it came out in unrelated conversation). Later, she called to tell him that B and M didn't necessarily actually say anything like that to her. She had simply inferred it. And felt the need to lecture us about it.

Nothing she says surprises me anymore, not really, but that was really hurtful and a pretty terrible thing to say. I mean, I never asked anyone to treat B and M differently because I just lost a pregnancy 2 months ago. I would never do that. In fact, I didn’t want to go to Christmas celebrations because I didn’t want anyone – myself, Hubby, M and B, or anyone else – to feel awkward because of my presence. They coerced us into going to serve their own purposes and then try to make me feel bad about it. I didn’t run screaming at the sight of the creepy pregnant belly. I didn’t break down crying when Hubby’s grandma gave me a present – wrapped and with my name clearly on the tag – that, when opened, turned out to be a maternity and nursing shirt, clearly meant for B instead (FML).

I know, my life sucks. It is depressing. It makes me sad to see myself contrasted with someone who can have babies, to see my pathetic “family” of two next to a growing family of nearly four, to think of how I would have fit into that maternity shirt if only the last pregnancy had been different. I’m sorry if it makes other people feel sad or awkward too.

That’s why I wanted to stay the fuck home.

There were other things said, but really I am just too ~~livid and sad~~ (can I say “sivid” instead? Did I just invent a word? Awesome!) sivid to begin the process of unraveling what it all means.

But let’s end this on a positive note, shall we? The hubs got me a GORGEOUS set of emerald earrings with a matching pendant. I am not really a sparkly kind of girl (I actually asked for a Dyson) but green is my favorite color, and these are truly beautiful. I am so thankful that he knows me well enough to know what I would like even though I didn’t even know I wanted them! I’ll try to get a picture of them up later…..

I hope you all had a very blessed holiday, a Merry Christmas, or simply a good weekend.

motoring

2010-12-06T11:35:00.001-06:00

Things are just trucking along in my life. We’re still assuming that the “really huge” Christmas gift is cash (although I’m hoping that I’m not going to be whoring myself out for, say, another hideous china set) and while there are things that bother me about the whole situation I’ve got the lube all ready to go. I will suck it up and deal with it, because if it is money, well I’m going to go out and buy myself a whole diaper load of happiness, conflicted ideology or no.

I feel steady, solid, like my two feet are planted firmly just where they need to be. Aunt Flow and Thanksgiving came and went, without so much as a tear from me, which felt weird and good and sort of like I was living someone else’s life. I’ve been taking my fucking pills as prescribed like a good little mental patient and (family gatherings aside) drinking less.

Sometimes it surprises me, how functional I’ve become. I’ve been paying bills. Working out. Cleaning the house. Working on crafts (don’t laugh!). Cooking. Most importantly though, I seem to have found perspective. No, I don’t want to be around creepy pregnant bellies that stare me down. They make me feel sad and less-than, and I will tell people why I don’t want to do seven Christmases even if it makes them uncomfortable to hear that I should be wrapping gifts for my own kids by now, baking cookies for Santa and playing all the crazy parental mind games that Christmas inspires. My oldest would be four. I can’t even imagine what that life would have been like, who that me would have been.

But I do know that, even if it shreds me to do it, I can survive one night pretending to be happy for the perfect little soon-to-be-added-to family. I can go home afterwards and cry my eyes out with a nice fat check to dry my tears, and even if the whole experience knocks me down, I know that I’ll catch my breath and get back up and keep living.

Cash Rules Everything Around Me

2010-12-02T08:13:00.000-06:00

'tis the season.....

..... to self medicate!

Thank you all for your support on my last post. Your comments really made it easier to deal with the crappiness (and gave me something to chuckle at while discreetly checking my email under the table!). It warms the cockles of my little heart to know that you all see the manipulation at play.

I survived our two Thanksgivings, better than I thought I would, but man. Those little arrows of hurt were flying through the air everywhere! I had a sizeable alcohol shield (my patronus is patron) but there were a few times I thought I might cry anyway. Have you ever noticed that a giant pregnant belly can be like the eyes in one of those creepy pictures, eyes that seem to follow you around the room? Yep, that's how Thanksgiving was. Everywhere I looked, that thing was staring me in the face, teasing and taunting me. Lest I end up kicking the belly to shut up the taunts (and in prison with the headlines screaming "Crazy barren infertile kicks pregnant belly 'to shut it up.'") , I spent both gatherings stealthily avoiding my SIL

And of course, Christmas is becoming an issue again already. And I am a whore.

(I guess that last line deserves a bit of explanation, no?)

Recap: we weren't going to Christmas. We stood our ground despite all of the guilt trips and everything else, and got hoodwinked into Thanksgiving. Now, my FIL is joining in the manipulation. He has told hubby that this Christmas will be different, and that we will be getting a very large gift, as will his brother, and he wants all of us there to open he gifts at the same time.

It MUST be money, and probably a sizeable amount. BIL (the favorite child, the doctor who married a wife who gets pregnant and actually has grandbabies, not some clotty blobs destined for the toilet, and beyond, a waste treatment facility) recently graduated from medical school, is not making very much at the moment and has a wife who isn't working because she has a baby and another one on the way. I've been told about their money issues several times, in my MIL's weird attempts to get me to appreciate my own life. Of course, that only pisses me off more - they know we're certainly not wealthy, especially since we asked for a loan to pursue adoption and they turned us down. We need money too - not to support our family (we'll be fine there) but to create our family.

Anyway, I suspect that now that BIL is having money problems the parents want to help him out but don't want to seem unfair to us. Uggh. It anoys the piss out of me. They wouldn't help us when we asked for a LOAN, and because BIL is in trouble they're just going to give it away.

And I am a dirty, dirty whore, because if it is money I want it at all costs, even if that means enduring another holiday with the pregnant belly staring at me and the rude comments other people make and the pregnancy and childbirth stories....... I'll deal with all of it because right now, our biggest stumbling block to further pursuing parenthood is money.

Therefore, I am a whore :)

drama drama, call your mama

2010-11-25T16:39:00.000-06:00

We've been hoodwinked. I suppose you need a bit of backstory, so read on.

After my latest pregnancy FAIL, which occurred a few weeks after we learned that Hubby's SIL is expecting again (timing is everything, huh?) we told his parents that they shouldn't expect us around for Christmas. I knew that she would be a huge fat preggo at that point, and that, combined with all of my other loss and IF related holiday anxiety, multiplied by the in-laws' giddiness at having the whole family together - even the new grandchild to be - was just too much to bear. We told them several times that Christmas is hard for us, that our family will never feel whole and that this year we needed to spend it alone.

At first, they accepted it. But then, slowly, as the weeks began to pass, my MIL started laying on the subtle hints, and the guilt.

"We're going to get those gluten free crackers you love for Christmas," she says.

"Christmas is going to be so wonderful this year!" she says.

"This could be my last Christmas," she says (even though her health is pretty darned good).

"This could be Grandma's last Christmas," she says.

"This could be Grandpa's last Christmas," she says.

"It's been so long since we had the whole family together for Christmas," she says.

And then she cries.

Hubby cannot stand when his mother cries, because she uses tears as manipulation, and so her tears inevitably start us toward an argument of some sort. Divide and conquer; it's what she does best.

Despite our internal commotion, we have presented a united front to them and repeatedly said no, we're not coming this year, it's just going to be too hard.

So for Thanksgiving, MIL and FIL decided that they were going to go see BIL, SIL and grandchild (and grandchild to be), who live a few hours away. They left their dog with us earlier this week, and took off, but not before making Hubby promise that, no matter what, we'd make it to both family Thanksgiving dinners (one at Grandma's, one at his cool aunt and uncle's). I thought it'd be fine because there would be no babies/preggos in sight at either affair.

And then, last night Hubby got a text from his dad that said "Great news! We're bringing BIL, SIL and grandchild back with us for Thanksgiving!"

Yay.

We had already committed to going to both dinners, and couldn't back out last minute. His family loves the drama, you know? After the demise of the Ocho, which occurred on a Tuesday, I didn't feel like leaving the house for about a week. That weekend I bowed out of lunch with his Grandma, who knew about Dead Dog Dead Baby Day and yet still insisted that the only reason I didn't show up was because I hate her. Drama drama.

Anyway, we both feel like the whole thing was a set up to get us to both events despite the presence of BIL and huge preggo SIL. They know that we (well, I, at least) would never have gone had we known in advance that they would be there.

We had Part 1, at Grandma's, already. Predictably, it sucked. The only thing anyone wanted to talk about was the grandchild and the soon to be grandchild. We exited as soon as was polite.

Part 2 will be upon us soon. I am trying to avoid an anxiety attack by repeating "Serenity now. Serenity now. Serenity now."

I feel really disrespected by all of this. I don't expect anyone who hasn't walked this road to understand one ounce of what we've gone through, but I do expect people to respect our wishes and feelings when we make them clear. And we sure did make it clear that we didn't want to spend any of this holiday season around a huge fat preggo.

We love BIL and SIL, we really do. Things are just too raw right now, you know? Plus, I don't feel comfortable enough around any of his family to cry or scream or run out of the room if I feel like I need to. Right now, home is the safest place for me.

And I must get ready to leave it and face the evil in-laws over the carcass of yet another dead bird.

Fuck serenity. I need lorazepam now!

I am the face of RPL (and Happy ICLW!)

2010-11-23T09:37:00.000-06:00

This was also posted on Faces of Loss, Faces of Hope on Sunday. I thought it would be appropriate as an ICLW welcome post.

Michelle

Mama to eight stars: January 2006, April 2006, October 2006, December 2006, December 2008, June 2009, October 2009, October 2010.

There are many things I was prepared to fail at in my life, but somehow, becoming a mother never made it onto that list. I had expectations; children were inevitable. Motherhood loomed in my future, a sure thing, something I could reach out and grab when the time was right.

I have always been one to follow my gut. Eight years ago – after a broken heart and the tragedy of 9/11 brought me to my knees – I followed my gut and moved from New York, where I had lived most of my life and where my very large, very loud Italian family and most of my friends were centered - to Arizona, where I knew no one. Not a soul. I was idealistic; I just knew that I could change my life, even if I had no prospects for income other than an AmeriCorps position. I looked forward to the challenge of making my own way.

Of course, when I least expected it, love smacked me hard in the face. I met my husband on an internet dating site; two dates later he moved into my tiny apartment (so much for making my own way!). Two weeks after that we were engaged. It was a true whirlwind romance – I trusted my gut. I knew he was the one. We had so much in common, and we both agreed that we wanted a large family. Oh, and he gave (and still gives) me butterflies whenever he walked into the room. Of course, my family and friends thought that I was supremely CRAZY and that the Arizona heat had fried my brain. When my mom told my brother I was engaged, he asked “To who?” I’m sure they all thought divorce loomed in our future; I don’t think anyone could have imagined the tragedies our marriage would survive.

We had the Las Vegas Elvis wedding of my dreams (it was seriously awesome) and moved to New York, where I became a high school teacher and graduate student.

So of course when, two years into our marriage, we decided we were ready for a baby, I trusted my gut. We threw out the birth control pills and let nature run its course. I got pregnant rather quickly.

That morning, staring at the word “Pregnant” on the little digital test screen, was the best day of my life; it was the last time I remember feeling really, truly happy. My husband was still snoring away but I couldn’t help myself – I had to wake him up. We were both so overwhelmed, so happy. He kept whispering “We’re going to be somebody’s parents!” as we snuggled in the darkness and pictured the life ahead of us. It was pure bliss.

And it was over all too quickly. I remember seeing the blood in the dingy faculty bathroom at my school and feeling absolutely, utterly crushed. The bell rang and I had to pretend to be normal (something I’ve done a lot of since then) as I passed pregnant teenagers with huge swollen bellies in the hallway.

Another pregnancy and another miscarriage soon followed. Still, I believed the doctors who told me that we were young (we had both just turned 28) and it was just bad, bad luck. I trusted my gut and believed that if we could conceive so quickly, we were bound to have a successful pregnancy soon.

I quit my job and my graduate program, and again we moved across the country (this time to the Midwest) to a place where we could buy a house and live on one income (you know, so I could stay home with that baby who was just around the corner). That image of me as a mother loomed just ahead; I could almost touch her. I took a part time job that was meant to be temporary - just until that baby arrived. We changed everything about our lives to prepare for our mythical babe.

Over the years, my utesaurus has eaten eight babies. Eight. (Well, that does include Cletus, our ectopic babe and the only one to have given us an ultrasound picture. I guess I have a tubeasaurus, too.) She’s one cannibalistic bitch, that utesaurus of mine. She’s also eaten my self confidence, my ability to relate to people of proven fertility, my friendships, the happiness of a positive pregnancy test, most of my sanity, my belief in a higher power, and my trust in my gut. I’ve had a few diagnoses and a few treatments, but nothing can tame the utesaurus, or my desire to drop elbows to the skulls of people who give me advice about how to get pregnant. I’ve done it eight times, people; I’m pretty much an expert on how to get knocked up.

Slowly, the image of the mother I thought I’d become has shifted from something tangible, something to be grasped, into a nebulous being who slips through my fingers like a ghost whenever I reach out to her.

There have been days throughout these years that I thought the grief and sadness would swallow me, that I’d never feel joy again. I’ve been punched in the gut by too many pregnancy announcements to count. I dread weddings because I know that, inevitably, the happy couple will conceive and have a healthy pregnancy and a real live baby and I’ll feel like shit for feeling like shit about it. Of course their pregnancies will go smoothly because, as a fellow RPL mama says, I’ve taken the statistical bullet for everyone I know. Some days, I hate my (mostly wonderful, and now full time) job and my house (with its guest room that should have been a nursery) because they are constant reminders of the life I don’t have. I have been wounded a million times by the pointy arrows of cruel, insensitive words and friends who don’t call or visit. Some days I am rocked by the minefield of the calendar, and all of it’s reminders of what could have been. The irony of the fact that we got the big family we always wanted, except that they’re all dead, haunts me.

But every time I get knocked down, I get up again. I have found an inner strength and a bond with my husband that I could never have imagined on my wedding day. RPL has permanently changed me, like wood warped by water, but it hasn’t destroyed me. I still laugh, and make other people laugh, even if my sense of humor is tinged with darkness. I find a reason to smile even on my worst days; I find beauty in things others wouldn’t look at twice. I have found that all human beings don’t suck, and that even if people in my real life abandon me in my sadness, those that I have never met in person can lift me up with their love. Mostly, I still have hope that someday, someway, I’ll be able to grasp that ghost-like vision of myself as a mother and hold onto her, make her real.

And through it all, I AM NOT ASHAMED.

:(

2010-11-17T21:30:00.000-06:00

is it strange to read your own archives, and cry as you relive your own heartbreak, and realize that despite all of your proclamations and efforts and all of those goddamned drugs you are still in the same. fucking. place you were when you started your blog almost two years ago?

I sure hope not.

Things to think about

2010-11-17T15:59:00.000-06:00

Today I had my annual "WTF do we do now" appointment with my RE.

It went, I'd say, pretty well. Any appointment during which both patient and doctor laugh several times and doctor tells patient "I love you" (not in a molesty way, more in a "Oh my gosh you are so funny. I love you and your jokes" kind of way) and the speculum is warm is a decent one. Hell, any appointment that doesn't end with the two of us in tears and him saying "I'm so sorry" is a decent appointment.

I'd say you've probably been seeing too much of your RE when the fact that he is feeling your naked boobs and sticking fingers and other things into your va-jay-jay doesn't make you feel the slightest bit uncomfortable.

I digress. Once I was fully clothed again we discussed options. There are, it seems, several, when we're ready:

Try with no intervention (save folic acid and aspirin, and upon confirmation of pregnancy, lovenox and prednisone). We have not tried pred with any other pregnancies, but I have recently been diagnosed with another autoimmune condition. It could possibly increase the odds of success, but it could do nothing. Pros: cheap, easy, and involves lots of monkey loving. Not invasive (unless I, um, let Hubby invade...... never mind. TMI). Cons: Could lead to another miscarriage.

IUI. Pros: Increases the odds of pregnancy, and is relatively inexpensive (around $400). Minimally invasive. Cons: Does nothing to decrease the odds of miscarriage.

IVF. Pros: has been shown to increase the odds of success in women with RPL. Cons: Expensive (upwards of $18k with my clinic's shared risk program). Time consuming. Highly invasive.

Embryo adoption. Pros: Increased odds of success (around 40% for women with RPL). Somewhat inexpensive (around $4500). Less invasive than IVF. Cons: A year long waiting list (which I am now on, just in case). No biological link to the (prospective) child.

Surrogacy with donor eggs and hubby's sperm. My cousin, who has had two easy pregnancies resulting in two healthy babies, has offered many times to be a surrogate for us. Pros: Genetic link to child for both of us. 70-80% success rate. Cons: Missing out on the pregnancy (she lives in NY; we're in the midwest). Logistics. Cost (at least $12-13k; could be significantly higher) - we'd have to go through the adoption process and pay for either IUI or IVF (which would add significantly to the cost), depending on her comfort level. Could be highly invasive for her.

Surrogacy with my own eggs and hubby's sperm. Pros: Increased odds of success, but not as high as with donor eggs. Genetic link to child. Cons: Cost - would be at least as expensive as an IVF cycle, possibly more. Logistics. Missing out on the pregnancy.

The fact that we have so many options - not even including the adoption option - is both great and overwhelming. They all seem so out of reach, and yet so close. My head is swimming. And I don't even have the hubs to run it all by. He is out of town until tomorrow, and regardless, he has made it clear that for him, being on a break means not even discussing options. I am trying really really hard to respect that.

In the absence of Hubby's opinion, I totally welcome any thoughts you might have.

it ain't good, but it ain't all bad

2010-11-16T00:51:00.003-06:00

"Grief and sadness knits two hearts in closer bonds than happiness ever can; and common sufferings are far stronger than common joys."

- Alphonse de Lamartine

Faces of Loss has a monthly writing challenge. I like a challenge.

November’s topic: It’s easy to focus on all the negative things that come from losing a baby, but have you discovered any ‘blessings in disguise’ throughout your journey? What can you find to be thankful for related to your loss?

First and foremost, I am thankful for you all. When I have felt abandoned, lower than low, you have lifted me up and showered me with love and kindness. My heart, each time it has shattered, has also grown more than I ever thought possible; love can only be answered with love, and though we may never have met (but I'm working on that!) and though I may not say it often enough, I really do love all of you.

(Any diabetics out there? I know there's one who'll read this, and I'm sorry if all that sugar causes you trouble. But it applies to you too. You know who you are.)

I'm thankful for the love my family has shown me. They may not be near, but the ones who count have always lent an ear when the sadness has threatened to swallow me up unless I let it out. They may not always know the right words to say, but they listen to my verbal diarrhea, and they say something, and cry with me.

I'm thankful for my pets, and how they seem to know when I need them. Nothing can end a crying jag more quickly than my dog kissing away my tears (ass breath or not) or the motor of a purring kitty. I'm also thankful for the love I feel for them; sometimes, it's the only thing that gets me out of bed. They depend on me, and when I think I can't go on, they still need to be walked and fed and loved on. They have rescued me, just as I have rescued them.

I am thankful for the sting of the winter air in my lungs, because it reminds me that I am alive.

I am thankful that I have my legs and that I can run and walk for miles, because they remind me that I am not broken.

I am thankful for the love of my husband, my incredible husband, who can never fail to make me feel beautiful and sexy and loved, even when I'm at my worst. His commitment to our marriage - despite the fact that I keep killing his babies - leaves me breathless.

I am thankful for music and that I can sing at the top of my lungs and shake my booty until I sweat without my neighbors breaking down the door with a muzzle and a tranquilizer gun; it reminds me that I can still feel joy and that I do have gifts, even if I can't birth a baby.

And I'm thankful for (prescription) drugs and alcohol, because sometimes when I don't want to be reminded of anything, they let me escape.

follow up - good times before end times

2010-11-13T23:44:00.006-06:00

I'm totally serious about organizing a bloggy vacation get together in 2012. I've been working two jobs and 14 hour days and my brain is shot, so I haven't had much wherewithal to respond to anyone.

But y'all, let's do it! Feel free to pass the word along.

(See how brain fried I am? I just typed "y'all"!)

~~Anyways, if you're interested, you can fill out this form to let me know.~~

~~That's how serious I am - I figured out how to make a Google form!~~ Well, I tried to figure it out, but I won 3 bottles of wine tonight, and since it'll be a while before I ttc again....... I'll have to figure it out when I'm sober.

Cheers!

Ed: Maybe I'm smarter than I thought..... I think this link will take you to the form. If it doesn't work, feel free to email me at wifey.to.hubby@gmail.com

my so-called life

2010-11-09T22:01:00.000-06:00

I keep being told that I need to find a way to cope with the fact people in my life will continue to get pregnant and have babies.

My therapist tells me. So does my husband. My mother-in-law. Even my inner voice contributes to the litany.

I shouldn't constantly avoid people, I've been told. I shouldn't lock myself away in the safety of my own home because, dammit, that's life, and I have to live it.

I know how to cope: I just need to get knocked up - just once -with a baby that my stupid defective body won't kill. After all, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em, right?

Apparently, this is not an acceptable response to anyone. I've been told that I need to accept that it just might not happen, because, really, an eight time loser can't really expect to break the streak with a win.

And I say FUCK 'EM. (Remember that scene in Legends of the Fall when the Hopkins character - recovering from a stroke - says "Fuck em" in his slurred speech, after - or maybe before, I can't quite remember - heroically defending his family? That's how I say it, anytime I have occasion to. I don't know why, or why I felt the need to share that particular craziness here. But, for authenticity's sake, imagine me saying it just like him, only I'm not holding a shotgun.)

I have come too far down this road to turn around now. I need to follow it to the end, wherever that may be. There are things we haven't tried; there is hope for me, even if I'm the only one to see it. I'm too damned stubborn for my own good, perhaps. But isn't that what we are all taught as children? We are told to follow our dreams, to fight for what we want, to try try again in the face of failure, that we all have the potential to be whatever it is that we want to be in life.

It's the American way.

Unless, of course, you happen to be semi-fertile, and what you want is to carry a pregnancy to term and look into your baby's eyes for the first time and fall in love. To feel his kicks in your belly and to push him out when the time comes; to smell his sweet smell and finally have him here to fill your empty arms after all of this waiting and heartbreak .

Then, you are told that you need to find a new dream. You are told that really, you should spend Christmas with the family and your very pregnant sister-in-law and you shouldn't have a panic attack, watching her and her fat belly care for a toddler; it shouldn't bother you to watch the family fawn over her - the giver of life - knowing that no one even gives a flying rat's ass about the fact that you - the giver of death - just lost another one. You shouldn't think about how she will have conceived and given birth to two children in less than half the time it has taken you to give death to eight. And really, you shouldn't cry about it at all because, dammit, that's life, and you have to live it.

FUCK 'EM.

shattered

2010-11-08T19:44:00.000-06:00

My heart goes out to Lily Allen, who recently lost her son in the sixth month of pregnancy and is dealing with medical complications (and is very much in the public eye, to boot).

Lily, I know you will never read this, but please know that if I could, I would hug you and tell you that I love you, because although our experiences have been different our hearts have both been shattered in a way that only someone who has walked this path can understand. I am thinking of you and your sweet boy today.

a feeler

2010-11-04T11:46:00.000-05:00

I hope this doesn't reek too much of desperation, especially considering my last post...... oh hell, I don't care if it does.

Hubby and I are planning an early 2012 vacation. We're going somewhere tropical and all inclusive - possibly the Dominican Republic because we loved it there and it's relatively inexpensive. We think it might be fun to have some friends along as well. So far, another couple and my cousin are likely to be joining us.

Anyway, would any of you dear readers be interested in an infertility stress free getaway? It might be fun to get together somewhere and cut loose for a few days or a week.

I realize that I could be pregnant or possibly have a child by then, but the chances are slim, and I'm done planning my life around a maybe. I also realize that saving for a vacation while we're trying to get out of debt and save for treatment/adoption is irresponsible, but hell, I'm alive. And I damn well should enjoy it.

So, if by chance anyone might be interested (I'm not creepy, I swear!) feel free to leave a comment or email me at wifey.to.hubby@gmail.com.

The thought of beaches and meals I don't have to prepare and adventures of all sorts has me feeling a bit better about life already.

And the winner is...

2010-11-04T08:29:00.002-05:00

Aunt Flo!

I have never been so happy to see that red headed bitch show up. Alas, I had to reschedule my appointment because we were going to do a pap. I'm a little bummed - I had lots of things I wanted to discuss, and now I've got to wait two more weeks. Another 2ww - I've had enough of those for a bit, I think.

____________________________________________________________

In other (non) news, the up and down cycle of my mood persists. The high of our anonymous donor still makes me smile, but I'm definitely on a down swing of the pendulum. It makes it hard to enjoy the high moments - I know the down is just around the corner. I'm hoping this down is just my usual period-related depression, and that it'll lift soon.

I don't know. I feel very alone these days. Hubby and I had a serious fight Friday night - bad enough that I thought the neighbors might call the cops (oops) - and I seriously thought about getting in the car with my dog and driving 18 hours to be with my family. I have no one here - no one - to whom I could go in a situation like that. I have no one I could even call at that hour to talk it out with. I sat in the car in the driveway, my pooch licking my ear from the backseat to get the tears, and then we went back inside, since I had had a few tequilas, and upon further reflection, driving seemed like a very bad idea.

I've realized that alcohol, under any circumstances, is a bad idea for me right now. It just complicates things, and I need to get my head straight before I complicate things any more.

Anyway, since then I've felt so alone. I rely too much on Hubby to be my everything - best friend, confidante, lover, soul mate. But when we hit a rough patch, and things between us feel disjointed, I am faced with overwhelming loneliness. Right now, he doesn't get me at all (and our therapist warned us that this could happen - working on issues causes other issues and emotions to bubble up). He's accused me of causing us to lose friends, and while there may be some truth in that, it's also true that my "friends" know what we've been through (for the most part) and do not reach out to me. When they have babies, they are flooded with love and calls and well wishes; their ability to procreate is a bonding experience for them. It seems like I am shunned because of my dead babies and my sadness; I want to scream at them that miscarriage is not contagious, that I can still be witty and fun to be around, when people want to be around me. I get no phone calls, emails, cards or even fb messages.

I know that I need to make new friends. I have no idea how, though. It's always been so easy for me to connect with other people, to find things to bond over. Now, I feel as if I am a piece of warped wood in a pile of straight boards. I just don't fit.

oops, I did it again

2010-11-02T11:46:00.000-05:00

Maybe.

Brief update: AF never showed up after DDDBD (dead dog dead baby day). Hubby and I, um, did the deed as soon as we were able. Several times.

The next day, I experienced many of my "I've ovulated!" signs. Weird thing is, I never experienced any of my "Ovulation is imminent" signs, so I figured we were safe.

Now, ten days later, I am experiencing minuscule amounts of pink spotting - perfect timing for that infamous implantation bleeding.

I'm freaking out a bit because, well, fuck. I can't do this again right now. I'm really really hoping I'm misinterpreting things and everything is a-ok.

Luckily, I have my annual "What the fuck do we do now" appointment with my RE, and I can discuss all of this with him. And maybe get some labs run.

Well, aren't I a wonderful contradiction - the infertile praying that she's not pregnant.

(And, BTW, as soon as I can get my hubby to get a computer up and running for me, I'll be back to reading/commenting regularly. He uses his computer constantly to either work or play WoW. He's an IT guy, and we have half-broken computers all over the house, like the cobbler with no shoes.)

strange days

2010-10-24T22:06:00.000-05:00

I was lost in the darkness for so long, the light itself was painful; I turned my face away. It was easier to hide in the dark than to try to live in the light.

Sometimes, though, the light is just too strong to ignore forever.

The last week or so has been filled with strange days. I was feeling the weight of the future, the disappointments of the present, the grief of the past. Things didn't seem like they could get better. Sometimes, though, it just takes one thing, one act or accident, to change everything.

It seems that some kind soul - or a fortuitous accounting error - has wiped out most of my dead dog debt. I was stressing hard about paying it off, since I have a professional relationship with the specialty clinic that treated her. I spoke with the administrator last week, and he insisted that my balance was much lower than I knew it to be. He looked up my history, and showed a check that took care of most of it. I asked him if it were possible that it was an error, and he said that it was unlikely and that I shouldn't worry about it. So, the most probable explanation is that an anonymous person walked in and wrote a check for nearly a thousand dollars.

I am completely flummoxed by the situation. It warms my heart and soul to know that someone loves me enough to lift that burden off of my shoulders. No one has confessed, and I really have no idea who would have done it, but I am so incredibly grateful.

I am grateful not just for the financial assistance, but for the light I have been forced to face and for how loved I feel. Good things can happen to me. I have been smiling more, laughing and really meaning it. I didn't think that I could ever feel this hopeful about life. I am growing more confident that I can survive whatever lies ahead in our journey to parenthood, even if we fail.

So, although you likely don't read this blog, I am sending a million thank yous to our unknown benefactor. Your kindness has pulled me out of the dark.

Pendulum

2010-10-21T08:02:00.000-05:00

My soul, these days, isn’t sure what path to take. I swing, wildly, from high to low. Moments of incredible despair and thoughts that torment me, that tell me that NOTHING will ever be ok and all I will ever have is a life of pain and grief so what’s the point swing to moments of, perhaps not happiness, but enjoyment: Beautiful weather and sun on my face, amazing blue sky and leaves turning; songs that make me sing as loud as I can and shake my booty and wish that I were in a band; my super-duper hubby – these good moments startle me sometimes and shock me into smiling despite myself. Sometimes, I think, life is decent. Maybe I can do this, maybe I can live.

And then the pendulum all too quickly swings back the other way and reminds me of all that I have lost: those babies, all of them precious, all of them gone, leaving behind nothing but holes in my heart and pictures of positive pregnancy tests; the life I wanted, filled with family and babies and joy; the weight of my dog as she wormed her way onto my lap, the silky soft touch of her fur and the way it wrinkled around her neck and the fact that I will never be able to touch her again. As quickly as it came, the joy is ripped out of me.

I find hope in those high moments, before the pendulum swings back around, and yet hope is dangerous for me because it makes the low times seem that much worse. I wonder – as much as I hate to admit it – if the meds are actually working, or starting to work.

Damn. I thought I’d be able to wear mascara today. File that under “Bad Ideas.”

the things I've learned

2010-10-19T00:08:00.000-05:00

I am not - by any means - a religious person. Throughout my adult years, I've made the transition from believer to agnostic to atheist. My feelings about God were pretty well summed up by Kurt from Glee a few episodes ago: "God is kind of like Santa Claus for adults." Indeed, Kurt. Indeed.

Don't get me wrong - a lot of people I love are spiritual and believers, and I respect anyone who has faith and sticks to it. In fact, I think this whole journey would be easier if I did believe in a benevolent God, overseeing all with some sort of plan for me. I just don't believe that's true.

I have found - and perhaps this explains some of my disdain for organized religion - that those who claim to be the closest to God say some of the cruelest things and have the least empathy. I may not believe in God, but I do believe that Christ lived and was a social revolutionary who opened his arms to one and all; I also believe that Christ would be appalled by many of the things that are done and said in his name.

Anyway, I've learned a few things over the past few weeks. And some of it has to do with people of faith.

1. Religious people can be very very cruel. Sometimes, I am sure, this cruelty is unintended. Other times, I think some people hide behind the shield of religion to say whatever the fuck they want. We've recently heard that God doesn't give a person more pain than they can handle (really? then why do depressed people kill themselves? Did God abandon them?); that it will happen for us in God's time (so is it God's time when crackheads and abusers give birth to babies who will face a lifetime of horrors?); that God has a plan and everything happens for a reason (really? God planned for me, and my IF/RPL sisters to experience this heartbreak again and again? If that's true, God's kind of a jerk, and definitely not a woman).

2. I can sometimes be overwhelmed by the surprising desire to punch sweet little old ladies in the face, particularly when they spout the nonsense mentioned above.

3. People who don't have pets, and don't get why my girl's untimely (in so many ways) death has left me in ruins, are almost always assholes. Likewise, people who love pets, and have lost pets, seem to have bigger hearts and more kindness in their souls, and are generally more likable folks. Just as I am unable to befriend the fertile, I am also unable to befriend the petless - I'll never understand them, and they'll never understand me.

4. Sometimes, especially when the universe is falling apart, people you have never met can lift you up more than those you have known for years. Thank you, internet friends, for embracing me. I will try my hardest to pay it forward. And I feel really driven to meet you all, and share a drink or two and some laughs. Maybe I'll actually get motivated to plan "Camp Dead/No Baby," even if I have to come to your homes and drag you out to join me. You've been warned.

5. The people who have always been there for me - my mom, my brother, my hubby and some others - are rock solid, wonderful people. I need more people like them in my life. Seriously. It is so beyond true that when you cry, you cry alone. I've reached out to long time "friends" and have not been terribly surprised by their non-response. I get it - it's more fun to hang with the friends who are getting married and having babies and looking forward to happy-filled futures than with someone like me, who wonders if I'll have the strength to face my fate and slog through another hour, another day.

6. The personality trait - stubbornness, I guess - that propelled me towards success in my pre-RPL life is holding me back now: when I decide to do something I commit. And I've decided, dammit, that I want to have a baby, and that nothing will stop me. Rationally, I know that there is very little chance of things working out for us pregnancy-wise. I need to accept it and learn how to live with that new reality. I just can't. I will try anything to experience a full term pregnancy, to see my belly swell and feel the little kicks, and know that for once, I gave birth and not death. Sigh. I just can't let go.

7. The depression diet works. I'm down quite a few pounds. I've realized that I am the type of girl who cooks my feelings, so that others may eat them. I'm finally learning to bake (I had a traumatizing experience with cream puffs years ago, and though I am a darned good cook, I've avoided learning to bake until now). I also drink my feelings - which really isn't good, and is something I'll be addressing with my kick ass therapist - and have become quite friendly with tequila and whiskey. Tequila plus whiskey plus baked goods - sometimes all in the same night, and sometimes all at 3 am - make life bearable.

Okay, tequila fueled ramble over. Love to you all.

A purpose driven life

2010-10-14T08:15:00.001-05:00

I was watching “The Early Show” yesterday, and they featured an interesting piece on gossip. Apparently – as generations of women have known, but I guess academic researchers have nothing better to study – gossiping makes a person feel better about her own life.

Sharing good news – pregnancies, marriages, engagements, births – resulted in good feelings for the gossips. It's likely there won't be any good news to share about my life again, which makes me pretty damned sad.

Sharing bad news – such as, ahem, a person’s eighth miscarriage – caused the gossips to feel better about their own lives. It seems that my life brings bad news galore.

Just when I thought my life had no purpose, “The Early Show” gave me one – I am a reason for (most) other people to feel better about themselves. Yay.

in mourning

2010-10-10T23:58:00.000-05:00

Tuesday was - bar none - the worst day of my life (and I've had some pretty shitty days). I thank you all so much for your words of support. It helps to know that people - strangers, even - have us in their thoughts.

But let's back up, so I can tell my sweet girl's story (sorry it's a bit long, but I have to get it out). She spent much of the day last Sunday enjoying the unseasonably warm weather we've been having. She ran all over the yard, chasing and barking at that damned squirrel - her longtime nemesis - who always happened to be just one step ahead. She sunned herself on the deck. She rolled in the grass. All in all, she had a good day.

It also happened to be a mostly unsupervised day. When she came in in the early evening and vomitted, I didn't think much of it. Dogs puke, ya know? Then she puked a few more times, and the alarm bells slowly started going off in my head. I knew I'd have to bring her in to work with me the next day, but I still didn't think it was serious - we've seen a TON of pukey dogs lately, and with medications and TLC they all recovered without a problem. She didn't seem terribly comfortable though, as she kept pacing and coming in and out. I thought that maybe I should bring her to the emergency clinic, but wrote it off as overreacting. Those of us who work in the veterinary field sometimes imagine the worst for our own pets. I woke up sometime between three and four in the morning, and went to check on her. She seemed to be resting a bit more comfortably, but there were numerous spots of vomit throughout the living room. I kept an eye on her until my office opened, and then dropped her off there so I could clean up the pukey house before work.

I was pretty worried about a foreign body obstruction, based on her symptoms. A series of xrays seemed to confirm it, so just before lunch we decided to open her up and do an exploratory. While she was getting prepped, I decided to grab a quick bite since it was sure to be a long day of surgery, recovery and aftercare. I had just taken my food out of the microwave when my boss came in to the break room and said "You need to get her to a specialist." Apparently, she spewed bloody diarrhea all over the place after intubation. Pure panic overtook me. The doctors woke her up and off I went to the specialist. She never quite woke up, though, not that I saw. The specialist decided to admit her and run some more diagnostics, and then to go ahead with the exploratory because they thought they saw a foreign body on the ultrasound. I spoke to the surgeon afterwards, who explained that they didn't actually find a foreign body, but it seemed she had Hemorrhagic GastroEnteritis (HGE), which could be medically managed. He said she woke up just fine, and was resting with sedation and pain relief.

At this point I thought the worst part of all of this would be dealing with a large healing incision, and paying for a surgery that proved unnecessary. I called Monday night before bed to check on her - about 10pm, I think, and the tech said she was doing great and had been out for a short walk. I decided not to visit her because I didn't want her to get too excited and think she was coming home.

Tuesday, I rolled out of bed and called again to check on her and to my surprise, was informed that she struggled all night. She had been doing great, the doctor said, until about midnight. She then had a large seizure and was in a semi-conscious state. I almost had a panic attack right there, but I pulled it together enough to jump in the car and go see her. I spent an hour with her, petting her and telling her how much I love her. It broke my heart to see her like that - my sweet, crazy, enthusiastic about everything and everyone pup, just lying there, barely blinking, just giving the occasional groan.

Throughout the morning she continued to decline, having seizure after seizure, vomitting, having explosive, hemorrhagic diarrhea despite IV anti-seizure and anti-nausea/diarrhea meds. Her neurological symptoms worsened - her pupils were unevenly dilated and it seemed that she was unable to control her eyes at all. She was also unable to maintain her blood sugar, despite IV dextrose.

Nothing they were doing helped. The doctor in charge of her case said they could try a few more things but he wasn't too hopeful (he suspected a stroke), and it would have cost upwards of $8000 (in addition to the $2000 for the surgery). I decided to give her another few hours to see if anything improved at all. Nothing did.

I decided to pick her up and bring her back to my office for euthanasia. I just couldn't stomach the thought of her taking her last breath in the place where she was so so sick. I wanted to bring her home, to her friends and a familiar environment.The only way they could get her to stop convulsing for the ride was to give her a paralytic normally used to induce anesthesia (which didn't do anything for the cause of the seizures, just prevented her muscles from spasming). I felt - still feel - like a complete scumbag for letting money influence my decision, but we are BROKE (and trying to save for treatment) and the thought of her suffering any more while we tried shots in the dark destroyed me.

That car ride was the most difficult thing I have ever done. I tried to be soothing to her, but she was struggling to breathe and with each labored breath, I died a little inside. Hubby met me at my office and together we said goodbye to our sweetie. I still can't believe she's not coming home. My heart has broken a thousand times this week - every time I think I see her shadow or hear her collar it hits me all over again: She's fucking dead! I can't sleep because every time I close my eyes, I see her. Oh, and then we got to go find out that our baby had died. Yay.

I wish I would have done so many things differently - supervised her more in the yard, brought her in to the emergency vet late Sunday, brought her to a different specialist, gone to see her after her surgery, made different decisions about her care, given her more time to pull through. But she's dead - dead! I can't fucking wrap my brain around it - and I can't change anything about it. I just hate that her last days were spent so very ill, getting cut open and handled by strangers and feeling so fucking shitty. I'm haunted by it. I was her mama, and I failed her, just as I failed Ocho and all the others before him.

I had accepted - expected - that things probably weren't going well with the pregnancy. I was somewhat prepared for the horrible encounter with the dildocam, and the growing realization that being an eight time loser means I will probably never get to have what I want so badly. I just never imagined it would be two hours after I watched my dog die. I didn't know that I could cry as much as I have this past week and not run out of tears, that I could hurt so terribly and not just die.

My dog is dead. My baby is dead. I fail at life.

Oh sweet Lulu, you were the best cuddle buddy I could ever have. The bed feels so empty without you. I'll miss your butt wags, your face licks, your sniff downs and snorts and snores, your huge personality stuffed in that little body. You loved everyone - and everyone loved you - and if I could have just half the enthusiasm you had for everything, I'd be just fine. I'm so very sorry you suffered. I love you.

PS - Papa wanted to kill that squirrel for you, but I thought you'd like it better if Big John got him instead. Here's hoping (but we all know you were the better hunter!).

BTW, this post will totally out me to some peeps I know IRL, and I just don't give a damn.

white flag

2010-10-06T03:17:00.000-05:00

Okay, universe.

It seems you're pretty determined to keep me miserable.

I'm tired of fighting it, of trying to pursue happiness.

Nothing has worked - acupuncture, change of diet, herbs, anti-anxiety meds, anti-depressants, therapy, exercise. I even gave up on the idea of conceiving without medical intervention.

So I surrender. I accept it. Misery is my path. You win.

and that's that

2010-10-05T14:38:00.000-05:00

Dead dog, dead baby.

Crazy town, here I come (but first I'll be making a stop in Drunksville).

Taking the train to crazy town.....

2010-10-05T09:49:00.000-05:00

So.

My ultrasound is this afternoon. I'm not too optimistic about that since I've been bleeding and my nausea has basically disappeared.

In the meantime, my poor dog is in a coma in a specialist hospital. (I'll post more about that if I can actually get on a computer instead of typing on my phone). It's not looking too good for her either.

So today could be the day I get to put my sweet girl to sleep and find out that my utesaurus has eaten another baby. I have a feeling I'm going to be taking a long trip to crazy town....

Whoever said "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger" must have been one lucky son of a bitch.

Happenings

2010-10-01T10:26:00.000-05:00

Ocho update: Still spotting, though it varies from nothing to almost worrisome, depending on the hour (this hour, it’s almost worrisome). I’m pretty nauseous as well. I’ve done some quick consulting with Dr. Google, and he assures me that it is quite common for women who are on lovenox and aspirin during pregnancy to have some light bleeding.

My RE assured me that unless it becomes heavy bleeding, I should try not to worry about it (and as we all know, that is easier said than done). I’m still wearing that grin, and trying to keep my mind in a good place, but I have my dark moments.
My real worry is the ultrasound Tuesday. I have NEVER had a good ultrasound. The closest we’ve ever come was Cletus – the ectopic – because even though he was in the wrong place, he was developing like a normal embryo.
I’m scared that we’ll be saying goodbye to The Ocho on Tuesday. I’m really really scared that I’ll have a panic attack before the ultrasound even starts. I’m really really really scared that if the u/s doesn’t go well, I will fall off the precipice of mental well being into a dark hole from which there is no escape.
One day at a time, I guess. For now, I’m still pregnant, and I guess that’s enough.

!

2010-09-29T12:12:00.001-05:00

Holy Crapola.

3rd beta = 627. Right on target.

While I know that this is no guarantee of anything, I'm going to get at least a few more days of walking around with a shit-eating grin on my face (what a strange phrase that is!).

For now, I'm pregnant!

Now off for a celebratory lunch with the hubs, before he gets outta dodge for a few days for work.

Wow.

FML

2010-09-28T19:39:00.000-05:00

Of course things couldn't stay on the upswing for me.

I'm trying not to freak the fuck out but I started spotting tonight.

I don't have a good feeling about this.

what would you do?

2010-09-27T08:40:00.000-05:00

I want to thank you all so much for your wonderful words of support. They make me feel almost like a normal pregnant woman, one who gets to make pregnancy announcements a happy thing.

I have my ultrasound scheduled for 10/5, so I'll know more about the fate of the ocho then.

I'm debating telling my coworkers. My boss knows, since he asked me to help xray a patient Saturday and I had to fess up. I don't know if I should tell the rest of the office. Most of them have limited knowledge of our troubles (some know more than others). My duties will definitely be limited, and it will affect them. I just don't know if I want to lay my heart on the line for all of them to see.

What would you do?

maybe baby?

2010-09-26T11:31:00.000-05:00

2nd beta is 207!

Maybe the ocho will be the one to stick.

My doctor said what I need right now is a healthy dose of optimism, so I'm going to try very very hard to stay positive.

Next hurdle is an ultrasound sometime in a week or so. I'm not quite sure how I'll survive the wait but I'll do my best.

Still processing. Head spinning.

is this irony?

2010-09-25T06:59:00.000-05:00

or tragedy?

or comedy?

or just plan ridiculous?

or just the story of my life?

Yesterday I went to the pharmacy to pick up my new meds. On a whim, a bought some hpts because they were on sale, and I've had a stomach bug for a week so I figured it couldn't hurt to rule out pregnancy.

I got home, took the test, and nearly passed out.

Positive. My eighth pregnancy. We've decided to knickname this one "The Ocho" (having just watched Dodgeball for the 90th time this weekend).

I almost had a panic attack because, since we weren't trying, I was not behaving like a good fertility patient - eating crappy food, drinking a lot, not taking my aspirin or folic acid, among other things. And, since this pregnancy has started out like so many others for me - I had bleeding and cramping this weekend and assumed it was Aunt Flow - I am trying really really hard to keep my mind open to the possibility that it might actually work out, to walk that tightrope between hope and despair.

First beta was 91 (not great, but not terrible). I go in tomorrow for the second. Fingers are crossed very tightly.

Oh boy. I hope I'm ready for whatever happens.

Panic

2010-09-24T10:55:00.000-05:00

Heart racing, chest tightening, holy shit I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t fucking breathe I think I’m going to die panic.

My mornings have not been starting well.

I’m just so afraid that things will never get better, despite the meds and the therapy and the reassurances of my kick-ass therapist.
I’m afraid that when my husband says “I don’t want to live like this anymore” what he really means is “I don’t want you anymore, you miserable, barren bitter shell of the woman I married.”

Yesterday morning, I left the bathroom door open when I showered so the mirror wouldn’t get too foggy. As soon as the water hit my face, the sobs came. I wailed at the unfairness of it all, and because I’m not ready to rewrite the narrative of my life, but I can’t get better unless I do. I opened the door to find Hubby standing there, looking shocked and broken. “Were you crying in there?” he asked. “Yes Sherlock.” I said. I wonder if he’s figured it out now – that I go into the shower to let it all out, like somehow the hot water washing away the tears will wash away all the rest of it too. (Well shit I sure hope he has figured it out because it’s pretty damned obvious that laying on the couch does not make one filthy enough to warrant 4 showers a day.)

He’s made it clear in therapy that he wants the old me back. I’m afraid, though, that she is dead. Back then, I was so sure of myself, of my place in the world. I knew – I just knew – that I could accomplish anything. I could decide in a snap to move to the other side of the country, to a city where I knew no one and had no apartment or car and only a couple of hundred bucks, and the promise of an Americorps stipend, and make my life work. And it did work, even though I spent my first weeks living with an old crazy lady who pulled a gun on a man she thought tracked dirt onto her carpets (umm, it was me, and I found my own apartment two days later.)

I was happy when we met. I could make major life decisions with the assurance that I should trust my gut, that somehow my instincts would guide me. I could say “Yes, I’ll marry you!” to a man I had barely known for two weeks and not have a single doubt. I could plan my Elvis wedding without caring that my disregard for certain traditions would piss people off. I could trust that we were right for each other because we both wanted the same things – a bunch of babies, a chaotic family life filled with love and family dinners and tight budgets and each other.

But the truth is that I cannot accomplish anything. I cannot force this body of mine to work – just once, for crissakes, just once – like its supposed to. I cannot accept that, nor can I change it. It’s all tied in together now. I cannot make decisions because I’m just not sure about anything. Adoption? IVF? Say goodbye to this whole thing and go child-free? I love my husband to the depths of my soul and I want to stay with him for the rest of my life, but I’m not sure if that’s the right thing for him. I’m afraid to stay with him, afraid of how he’ll change because of my misery. But I’m afraid to go, to live without him, afraid that I am no longer capable of making my life work on my own.
And all of it together causes this panic to consume me. My doctors have adjusted my meds. I’ve started acupuncture again. I have therapy again next week (all of which makes me sound crazy. But if you’ve read this far, it’s pretty clear that I am).

I hope it works, but as I well know, hope is a dirty word. It’s what’s gotten me into this whole mess.

you're in trouble now

2010-09-21T22:52:00.000-05:00

I've sort of figured out how to blog from my new phone (although commenting on other blogs is still far too technically advanced for me).

anyway, there just might be a number of typographically challenged posts from me in your future (those of you who still bother to read, that is).

Rock on.

run away

2010-09-21T12:24:00.000-05:00

I just want to run away.
I was doing better, feeling - gasp - normal.

I was smiling more. My eyes stayed dry. August was a taste of life for me.

I thought September's downswing would pass quickly. I am, after all, behaving like a good mental patient. I'm taking my meds - antianxiety and antidepressants. ='m going to therapy.

I survived a friend's fb pregnancy announcement - handled it like a champ, actually.

And then my husband's brother called to say that his wife is pregnant again.

I swear to you - all of my dead baby sisters, I think, know this feeling - I felt as if someone shot me in the chest. Right where my heart used to be is a smoking black hole.

Internets, I lost my shit. I've been crying for three days. This is as bad as I've ever felt after a miscarriage. What's the point to therapy, to meds, if I'm right back in the midst of the crapstorm?

All I can think about are my dead babies, and the chances they'll never have. My hubby, and the pain on his face. The fact that I'm still a bitter, sad, selfish shit who cannot manage to summon an ounce of excitement for this soon to be babe. How Christmas is going to be unbearable because I'll be surrounded by the complete happy family. But my family will never be complete.

What if this is as good as it gets for me? What if, no matter what I do, the sucker punches keep knocking me out? I look ahead and see a life of blah punctuated by bouts of deep sadness. I don't see happiness waiting out there for me at all.

And all I want to do is run away.

Alive

2010-09-14T10:14:00.000-05:00

I’m still here. I’m sorry if I made anyone worry about me with my long absence!

For the most part, August was a great month for me – I was extremely busy at work, extremely busy at home (5 houseguests! Including a baby!) and had little time to think, breathe or blog.

Now, though, things are slowing down. Life is returning to normal. And for the first time in a while, I feel sadness creeping back into my life.

September 11 always takes my breath away, even now, nine years later and half a country away. A flash of footage on TV and I am right back there, in the midst of the chaos and the panic and the overwhelming, monstrous sadness.
And then there’s this – the knowledge that, had my first pregnancy been normal, I’d have given birth four year ago this week. We’d be celebrating a fourth birthday. I like to think that we’d pull out all of the stops and throw a huge bash – cake, magician, pony rides, the whole nine yards.
We’d be a family.

And instead of a four year old, I have no child – just arms weary from emptiness, and an aching heart.

love/hate

2010-07-30T20:48:00.001-05:00

I have a totally dysfunctional relationship with my job.

I work for a veterinarian - a job for which I have no formal training and to which none of my many years of higher education apply. I took it as a part time position four years ago, just something fun to do while I waited to get knocked up.

I had such high expectations for my life.

Now, years later, I am full time, part office manager, part vet tech, part doctor wrangler, marketing coordinator, client satisfaction specialist, poop recipient and cleaner of various bodily fluids. I wear many hats at work.

I love animals, so any time I get to have contact with them, or help puzzle out a diagnosis, is sweet. There is nothing better - nothing - than going about my daily routine with a kitty in need of TLC in my lap. I like to help people too, and so there are days when my job rocks.

Lately though, I've been feeling burnt out. Part of the problem is that my work world has been insulated from my infertility woes because for a long time none of my coworkers had kids or wanted them. Then, a coworkers best friend got knocked up and the insulation started to get torn away. I hear a lot of baby talk these days. And then, a new girl was hired.

She has a kid. He's four. And yet somehow, she still manages to tell a story every day about her pregnancy. If that weren't annoying enough, she has taken to harassing me about having babies because she "just loves them."

Insulation - gone.

I know that she couldn't even imagine my history - and I don't like her enough to tell her - but I still find her assumptions fucking rude. Soon enough, I will call her out on her rudeness.

Anyway, I thought I would bless you all with my very own top 5 list.

Top 5 Most Awful Things About My Job

1. I play with poop. Namely, I take samples from clients and mix the poop with a solution that will make parasite eggs rise to the top of a little glass slip, which is then read under a microscope. Daily, I get to smell the wonderful aroma of dog/cat (and occasionally, ferret) ass, fermented in plastic bags. If that weren't bad enough, the other day a lady literally walked in, threw a bag of poop in my face, and walked out (without paying!). Seriously, people, poop in my face. Go ahead and laugh - you know you want to.

2. Speaking of ass, let me mention anal glands. They are supposed to express a very pungent liquid when an animal defecates. Sometimes, for a variety of reasons, they do not express as they should, and that is when we come in. I get to restrain the animal while my coworkers glove up and dive into the rectum to express the glands. Usually, the smell is the worst part. Every so often, though, something goes awry and that dark horrendous liquid from a particularly juicy gland ends up shooting onto a person. Hair, eyes, skin, mouth - all have been invaded by stinky anal juice. Hungry?

3. People suck. Some neglect their animals, or let them suffer because of money, or just don't train their dogs so even minor procedures become a wrestling match. Once, I got elbowed in the head - by my boss! - so hard I nearly passed out while trying to restrain an untrained dog. Some people are simply rude, like the folks who come in talking on their cell phones and expect me to stop what I'm doing to help them while they chit chat away.

4. Knowledge is a burden sometimes. I will now freak out whenever my animals seem off, because I always envision the worst case scenario.

5. I am (almost) an animal hoarder. It comes with the job. I dare you to find a veterinary employee who does not have a ridiculous number of pets (I have 6). You will fail. We all work in the field because we like animals, and part of the job inevitably becomes bringing the needy home (such as my latest addition, a 17 year old cat whose owner died and was facing euthanasia. He came home with me that day). The problem? See number 4. We obsess over their health, to a ridiculous degree. It becomes expensive, and stressful.

None of those, though, are enough to make me quit (yet). I need to find a new direction for myself, especially now that my insulation has been torn away, but I don't know which way to turn.

Hopefully, that magic fucking pill will help me figure it out.

the fucking pill

2010-07-30T11:55:00.001-05:00

Yesterday was THE DAY.

I had put off starting the antidepressant all week, even though I knew with reasonable certainty that I was not pregnant.

I swear, I really am a head case. Even though I am on anti-anxiety meds, I had a mini anxiety attack regarding the fucking pill. My heart raced, and I couldn’t hold back the tears. I felt like I had the word “Failure” stamped on my forehead. I tried to control my life, to plan things out, to have babies, to treat depression, first without therapy and then without meds – and I failed.

I wanted to take it, because I want to change my life; I was scared to take it for so many reasons. I don’t know what it’s like anymore to be happy – sadness and despair are my home now. They are - in a sick way - comfy to me. I was scared of the unknown side effects. I was afraid to face the rest of the summer cookout/hangout season without wine (goodbye, my vine ripened friend. I shall see you on the other side, in vast quantities).

Mostly, I was scared I would choke on the fucker. I have a serious issue with pills, and this one is considerably larger than my folic acid, which I do occasionally choke on. Hubby stood by, ready to break out the Heimlich maneuver if necessary. We discussed various swallowing techniques. And then, I just did it – opened my mouth, popped it in, swigged some water, and swallowed.

And down it went, mocking me all the way to my stomach. “You were scared of me?” it said. “I was made to slide down your throat, you fucking nutcase.”

That was it. I’ll take another one tonight, and head off to therapy. No side effects yet, although I am tracking my weight since I was promised that 99% of people actually lose weight on this drug.
We all know, though, that I am a walking statistical anomaly. I fully expect to be the one percent that blows up like a pig, and whose fat thighs strain at her scrubs until they finally give up and burst open one day right in front of a client.

We’ll see.

camp dead baby?

2010-07-29T09:24:00.000-05:00

So, I read lots of widow blogs, for a lot of reasons: to explore a sadness other than my own, and also because my mother was widowed (with 2 young-ish kids), my grandmothers were both widowed with young kids, and my cousin, although she wasn't married to him, lost her son's father. I identify with the grief process in others, particularly widows and dead baby parents.

Many of the widowed bloggers I read will be attending what they call "Camp Widow". They'll be gathering together in community, support, celebration and hope. I read many of the blogs after Camp Widow last year, and people really seemed changed by it. And, as odd as it seems, they had FUN! After all, camp is always fun (isn't it? I never got to go away to camp as a kid so I have this vision that camp = heaven).

I want to go to "Camp Dead/No Baby." I know it sounds morbid but I just have this need to be around other people who know - who just know, and who think my dead baby jokes are funny and not indicative of my need for serious psychiatric help.

I'm wondering if a) there would be interest in the ALI community for something like this and b) if folks are interested, if someone would like to collaborate to try to get it off the ground.

Anyone? Anyone?

schooled

2010-07-26T22:04:00.000-05:00

If I even thought for a second I might have been pregnant, I got schooled yesterday.

Aunt Flo showed up with a vengeance. I was crippled all day, physically. And I am mentally drained.

This was it, our last chance before we start dropping serious money on the problem (which we don't, at the moment, have).

I've gotten pregnant seven times. Seven. And I couldn't conceive once on femara.

And all around me, in blogosphere and on fb and in real life, people keep getting knocked up and having babies. I feel more left behind than ever, more alone than usual.

At least I have my (everything that isn't reproductive) health. I'll drink to that.

And then tomorrow, I'll start taking that fucking pill.

my own best friend

2010-07-23T00:44:00.000-05:00

I thought things were set in stone for me, that sadness and grief and depression would be constants in my life, sorta like the evil monkey from "Family Guy" who pops out randomly to terrorize Chris.

I was wrong.

I had a therapy session Tuesday night that left me sobbing in the car on the way home, shaken to the core. Dr. A has been questioning my resistance to taking antidepressants. She told me, in no uncertain terms, that my refusal to medicate amounts to a subconscious desire to sabotage my marriage.

My first reaction was to give her the finger (she didn't see, as she was writing something at that moment, probably something along the lines of "batshit crazy").

But then I thought about it, and accepted that she was right. You see, I've felt for a long time like Hubby would be better off without me. In my darkest moments, I've told him to divorce me. I mean, I wouldn't want to be married to me - I have issues (ummm, that would be an understatement). If he left, I could let go of this guilt that consumes me, this feeling that I am an anchor around his neck dragging him down. He could go off and find a woman of proven fertility and have a family and be happy. So I stay sad and hopeless and inert, in this sick effort to push him away.

Only, he won't leave. I should have expected nothing else from a man who firmly believes that if you work out and don't puke, you didn't really work out. He commits, that man, even to the unpleasant.

And then I thought about my situation as if I were one of my friends. What would I say to friend-wifey? It might go a little something like this:
"You deserve to be happy. After all of the awful crazy things you've been through, you deserve it. Grief and trauma have changed you. Therapy is a good step, but if your therapist recommends a pill, don't be a dumb, resistant shithead (I can be a little meaner to myself than I would be to any other friend). Take the fucking pill. Make yourself well. Stop sabotaging your life."

So I decided to take the fucking pill (that is, if the red headed bitch comes for a visit this weekend, which, in all likelihood, she will). I will join the legions of Americans who medicate their sadness away, because I need to. I need to live, for myself, for Hubby, and for any child who comes into our lives (however that might happen). And as soon as I made the decision to get the prescription, I felt a weight lift off of me. I could breathe, and see hope in my future.

Plus, one of the side effects of this particular drug is weight loss. Who wouldn't be excited about that? I have to confess, that sold it for me - the thought that I could be a skinny happy girl makes me giddy. Nope, I'm not vain at all.

So, once I start the meds I'm going to try to blog more often, to have a record of me officially kicking depression's ass.

That's right, evil monkey, you are hereby evicted from my closet.

ICLW - welcome!

2010-07-21T00:06:00.001-05:00

Hi there! Thanks for visiting! I love the feeling of community that ICLW brings, and I'm looking forward to finding some new blogs this month (and hopefully some new readers too!)

If you're new to the world of semi-fertile, read on - a brief recap of my long and tumultuous ttc journey follows.

I met my Hubby in January 2003. We got engaged two weeks later, and married in June 2003. I went off of birth control pills in June 2005, got pregnant in December 2005, and promptly miscarried in January 2006. Pregnancy number 2 occured a few months later, which also ended quickly. Two more early miscarriages occurred over the next few years, during which I endured every RPL test known to man. I did test positive for antiphospholipid antibodies (a clotting disorder) and was prescribed aspirin, a mega dose of folic acid, and injectable Lovenox (an anticoagulant) upon confirmation of pregnancy. My fifth pregnancy, in December 2008, was devastating, as it seemed to be normal until the ultrasound - and then, an ectopic was diagnosed. I had surgery to remove cletus the fetus from my tube - poor cletus, who was actually growing on schedule and looked good aside from his location. My seventh pregnancy, in the fall of 2009, ended in early miscarriage as well. Further testing revealed a high level of prolactin, which has been corrected with medication. And despite 6 cycles with femara, we have not conceived since (although I am currently in the 2ww from the last femara cycle, but not exactly hopeful).

Since the demise of cletus, I have been deeply depressed. I am working on getting myself well and healthy while we take a break to save for IVF. We may do a couple of IUIs in the meantime.

So there you have it - my utesaurus eats babies, and it makes me sad. I still try to laugh, though, and I am determined to kick depression's ass before I move on to beating the shit out of RPL.

warped

2010-07-19T22:14:00.000-05:00

In so many ways, I have been defined by infertility and loss. My primal drive to become a mother, and my failures along the way, have warped me, like wood that has gotten wet repeatedly, and has swollen and morphed into a new shape. It is still essentially wood - all of the things that make it wood are still there - and yet it's different. There are ridges and valleys where there weren't, although the grain is still visible. There might even be a little mold. And no matter how dry that wood gets, it will never look like the wood it used to be. Those ridges and valleys are permanent, until the mold eats it away into dust.

I am still essentially me, and yet I'm not. Infertility has seeped into my soul, rotting me from the inside out. I am warped. My life was once even, defined by the expectation of "when." Now, I am all ridges and valleys, riding the rollercoaster of "if:" If I get pregnant again. If I don't miscarry again. If we save the money for treatment. If my marriage isn't wrecked in the meantime. If I can pull myself together enough to become a fully functioning, happy human being, regardless of how this all turns out.

All I can do is to hang out, dry out my soul enough so that the rot stops in its tracks. Those ridges and valleys are here to stay.

I am forever changed.

the crawl

2010-07-01T10:41:00.004-05:00

Slowly, surely I am putting one foot in front of the other on the path towards wellness. Okay, maybe that’s a bit of wishful thinking –most times I am army crawling inch by painful inch, through the sand traps of grief and the water traps of sadness and despair, under and over obstacles lobbed at me by infertility. I see a normal life ahead, just out of reach, and I want it, so badly, even if children aren’t in it. I want to live, and smile, and lessen the stranglehold of depression.

Therapy is so helpful, as are the anti-anxiety meds. I am really thankful that Hubby is open to the process, that he acknowledges that he needs to change too, if I am to get well, and that maybe he needs help to reach his own happiness. Our therapist gets me, I think. She sees right into the heart of our relationship and zeroes in on what is good, and what is bad. She has, in her own roundabout way, convinced me that I really truly am suffering from clinical depression. I don’t think I realized just how ill I have been until recently. I can’t believe I let it get so bad. I also can’t believe that I was more willing to accept a vision of myself as a total fuckup – a wife who can’t keep the house clean and the bills paid, whose inertia almost brought us to the brink of financial ruin, who barely has the energy for work and surely can’t fit time for friends in – than as someone with a mental illness. And so now I am double stigmatized – I am a mentally ill infertile who happens to take breast cancer meds and Parkinson’s meds and anxiety meds and aspirin and folic acid in the foolhardy hope that something will make it all magically work as it should. Yay me.

Hubby and I have a reasonable plan ahead (I know, I know, our plans change almost as frequently as our underwear). We’re going to try with our last cycle of femara. Then, we may take a couple of months off so I can detox a bit and get physically and mentally as healthy as possible. Exercise. Sweat. Do acupuncture and yoga. Eat well. Spend time with friends (or maybe actually make some of my own, since all of our friends here are couple friends and I let all of my female friendships die). All the while we’ll be building our savings account towards that lofty goal, IVF. And since it will take a while – since, in my depression, things like “paying the bills” and “not getting sent to collections” were not high on my priority list – we’ll try a couple of iui cycles. If all that fails – as it likely will – we’ll move on to IVF (which scares the shit out of me, because if that fails as well, I’ll be cliff diving off the precipice of depression to the depths of complete batshit crazy!).
We’ll get there, inch by inch. We might be the oldest parents of a kindergardener EVER, but we'll get there. I hope.

lemonade

2010-06-25T21:49:00.000-05:00

So, I'm still here.

Remember how I said I can change my mind regarding the whole adoption vs. IVF conundrum?

Well, Hubby and I have started couples counseling and individual therapy, mostly to prepare us for our adoption journey.

Only Dr. A, our therapist, thinks that we should forget adoption right now and move towards IVF. She thinks I won't be able to move on with my life if I don't at least try it. I think she's right, but I'm still trying to wrap my head around all that that means. I've also started taking anti anxiety medication, because she's helped me realize that I am really really clinically depressed and that I need to address it, and that most of my depression stems from anxiety.

I'm sorry that I haven't been commenting. You all mean so much to me and I feel terrible about it but I've been spending a lot of time working on myself these days. I've been starting to read blogs again, though, which is good.

I'm making lemonade, I am.

unlucky seven

2010-06-21T10:53:00.000-05:00

Seven years ago today, I married the love of my life, with visions of a future that wasn’t to be dancing in my head.
We’ve spent more than half of our marriage trying to bring a baby into our lives, and experiencing heartbreak after heartbreak.
He’s still the love of my life. I couldn’t imagine walking this road with anyone else by my side. Dead babies have a way of either pulling a couple together, or pushing them apart, and I guess we’re lucky that we’ve been cemented together like we have. We have an intimacy that people who have been married three times as long as us lack.
I’d trade all the closeness, though, for one of my babies to have lived; I’d trade it for sleepless nights and stress and dirty diapers and spit up and stretch marks. I’d trade that intimacy to not have to see the look of pain on my husband’s face when idiot family members make stupid comments, and tell him that babies don’t like him because he’s not a daddy.

He IS a daddy, in his heart.

In fact, his seventh baby would have been due today, on our seventh anniversary, a day after Father’s Day, if my utesaurus hadn’t killed it.
And so we struggle on, and whisper “Happy Anniversary” to each other yet again, while neither of us is truly happy or in the mood to celebrate, not while the thoughts of our seven dead babies – one for each year we’ve been married – haunt us. Oh, the irony! We have the big family we always wanted, only they’re all dead, all of them.
My heart hurts today.

poor neglected blog

2010-06-14T22:02:00.000-05:00

I've been a bad, bad blogger, and am prepared for my whipping. Got yer stitch?

I apologize for my absence in comment land. I have not been reading or writing much of anything lately. My brain has been sort of like a shaken up snowglobe lately, and things are just settling back to normal.

I do have some updates though and will hopefully have a longer post this week.

no, I'm not pregnant. sigh.

let the darkness in...

2010-05-26T18:08:00.001-05:00

I have noticed over the past several months that my dark days arrive with a pattern. Usually they are tied to the imminent arrival of the crimson tide. I can be positively sunny and upbeat one day, and feeling the depths of despair the next. I lose perspective, and the ability to evaluate a situation with any intelligence.

Right now, things just seem insurmountable. The housework is piling up. The yardwork is out of control. The bills that need to be paid before we can start saving for adoption scare the shit out of me. I mourn the relationships that I have let fail. The fact that am probably not pregnant this month, and I probably will never be again, makes me wish desperately that my husband would leave me and find a happy life with someone else. The first baby who would have been approaching four - FOUR! - years old (you know, if my body didn't kill him) haunts me.

Right now, today, I feel as if everything is falling apart and I will never be enough, not in any way.

I didn't feel this way yesterday, and I know that soon, things will look up (I hope).

But right now, I don't want this life.

the darnedest things

2010-05-23T17:49:00.000-05:00

The scene: that backseat of my friend's minivan, about to be dropped off for a girls' evening of fun. My friend's cute little boy is keeping me company. We're chatting about, well, whatever the hell a five year old in a minivan talks about.

And then he says, "You know, Wifey, I really wish you had kids so that when I come over I'd have someone to play with."

And I say, "But we have dogs. You always like to play with our dogs."

His reply: "I know, but dogs aren't kids. They're just not."

Don't I know it, kid.

the rapist strikes again

2010-05-18T23:34:00.000-05:00

Hubby and I had our first joint therapy appointment last night. I'm trying to be open to the whole process, but I just don't know if I am a good fit for therapy.

I did feel a real connection to our therapist, Dr. A. She was funny at times, and used profanity in a way that made me smile. She also agrees that my husband's parents are fucked up.

I think that she'll try to convince me to medicate. She thinks I'm depressed, and a shell of a person. I think I laugh a hell of a lot for a depressed shell, but maybe I'd be Tina Fey if I medicated. Honestly, if medical marijuana were legal here I'd rather smoke the occasional joint when feeling down than pop a pill every day and risk turning into a zombie. I really really really really really really don't want to take antidepressants.

Dr. A did note that, despite the rollercoaster to hell we've been on, it is clear that we love each other deeply, and that we're best friends. That was reassuring - to hear from a professional that my fuckedupness hasn't completely ruined our marriage makes me feel like less of a failure.

We'll see how it all turns out. Our next step is in a couple of weeks: we'll have individual sessions, and then another joint session to decide how to proceed.

Anywho, in other news, the two week wait has begun. This is the third to last 2ww for me (for the forseeable future). The thought of not trying anymore scares the shit out of me. I don't really know how to turn off that part of me that is hyperaware of my cycles and fertility signs and possible pregnancy signs. I don't know who I am anymore when not wrapped up in trying to reproduce, and obsessing over what I can put in my body to help me reproduce.

I guess that's what Dr. A meant when she called me a shell.

invisible

2010-05-09T21:29:00.000-05:00

No cards.
No flowers.
No "Happy Mother's Day" greetings.
No hugs.
No mention of my dead babies.

I am invisible, unloved, marginalized, forgotten.

Mother's Day can suck it.

flip flop

2010-05-05T23:30:00.000-05:00

Including this month, I have three months left on femara.

And then, interwebs, when my body fails yet again to produce a viable pregnancy - as it surely will - I do believe we'll be taking a big long break from this whole baby making thing to seriously pursue adoption.

I've flip flopped so much about this, and may again, but I need to be moving forward, striving towards some kind of happiness. And while I know the road to a successful adoption can be bumpy as hell (and let's face it, with my luck it probably will be) if it's not my own personal failure, I think I can probably handle it.

Miscarriage after miscarriage does not a happy girl make.

We think we might just be able to put together the funds by the end of 2010. It means no fun for us this summer, no trips or concerts or cute summery dresses, but I can handle that. I can.

So for the next few months I am going to be as healthy as I can be to give my body the best chance possible to do this, and then, I'll turn down that fork in the road to parenthood and leave the timed sex, fertility drugs, blood draws and dildo cams behind, at least until we recover financially and emotionally from the adoption process.

That's the plan, anyway - for now. I reserve the right to change my crazy infertile mind at any time.

I found her

2010-05-02T17:47:00.000-05:00

Aunt Flow, that is.

I guess she just needed to fuck with me for a bit.

I'm so tired of this life: the tears, the fears, the anxiety, the dark sadness that seems like it will never end, the stab to the heart that comes with seeing a big pregnant belly. I'm worn out, used up, I have absolutely nothing left.

But you can bet your sweet bippy I'll be at Walgreen's tomorrow picking up more Femara and folic acid.

It's a sickness, I tell ya.

How to grow time.... infertile style

2010-05-02T10:28:00.001-05:00

Hey there fellow IFers!

Do you find that there aren't enough hours in the day?

Does staring at pee sticks and contemplating when to have sex interfere with your jobs and household duties?

Do you ever wish you simply had more time to dream up imaginary pregnancy symptoms?

Well, step right up, because I've got the solution for you!

Listening to your fertile friends discuss IN GRAPHIC DETAIL the births of their five collective children is a sure fire way to make 2 hours stretch into a time warp that feels like two years!

I guarantee it.

Man, I really need more infertile friends in real life.

waiting

2010-05-01T17:34:00.000-05:00

Aunt Flow is playing games with me again.

Today is 14dpo, and I keep awaiting her knock on the door.

But there is no sign of the bitch, and my hpt was stark white today. I think I even heard it say, "Move along, nothing to see here" as I searched under the brightest lights possible for the hint of a line.

I am NEVER late, but I guess my body just keeps the surprises coming.

If you see Aunt Flow hanging around, give her the Stockton Heybuddy for me.

What IF.....

2010-04-30T11:15:00.001-05:00

What IF we save the money we need, blow it all on IVF, and fail?

What then?

Money has been a constant factor in our IF journey. Hubby and I are a professional couple - I certainly wouldn't call us well off, but we both work and make decent money and try to live within our means. In those nightmarish beginning days, when we were just a few miscarriages in, money was like a balm. We used it to soothe our souls and our broken hearts with vacations, dinners out, and a bit of retail therapy here and there. We were reminded, by our spending power, that there are financial advantages to not having children. Our friends with kids would look at us wistfully when we announced another trip, just as we would look at them wistfully when they announced another pregnancy.

You see, in those days, we still believed that we'd be able to have a child with minimal medical intervention. After all, we thought, conception does not seem to be a problem. Eventually, we thought, one will stick and our days of lounging on a beach chair drinking frosty drinks will come to an end, replaced with the bliss of diapers and spit up and sleepless nights and chubby baby thighs.

Those sunny, child free days are now behind us. And no, we didn't magically have a child that I told none of you about. It has become glaringly obvious to us, four years and seven dead babies in, that a family won't come cheaply.

The physical costs - fertility drugs, hormones, supplements, miscarriages - are astronomical. The mental and emotional costs - well, I could write a whole blog about them. (Oh wait, I did!) The financial burden of infertility is another layer of hurt, magnifying the other million daggers.

My doctor has suggested that in vitro fertilization probably represents my best hope of having a successful pregnancy. Unfortunately, we do not have any insurance coverage for infertility treatments. Zip. Zero. Zilch.

And so we are left to scrimp and save, trying to pay off debt and build our savings, in a race against time. I started this journey at 27. I am now 32, and have precious few sort of fertile years ahead of me. We no longer go out to eat, or to the movies, or to see bands play. We don't take vacations. We cancelled our lawn service, and I walked to work every single day this winter (no small feat in Iowa) so we wouldn't have to purchase a second car. Our home is quite a mess right now, but things like renovations, repairs and upgrades will just have to wait, and we'll deal with the demolished bathroom that we can't finish right now. We want a family, and are willing to make whatever sacrifices we need to make, but the fact that we don't have a child, and cannot enjoy our child free life, sucks monkey balls (especially when plenty of folks we know are absolutely in no financial position to support a child, and pop them out like pez dispensers!).

I know that, for my own future mental health, I need to exhaust all of my options before we accept that birthing a child is an impossibility. I cannot have regrets about this process, or I will end up more bat shit crazy than I already am. My biggest fear, though, is that we will make all of these sacrifices, and drain our savings for IVF, only to fail. Then, we would have no back up plan, no option of adoption, no family, no future.

I don't understand - I really, truly don't - why insurance companies are free to discriminate against the infertile. Sure, infertility is not fatal, but neither is eczema, and I have coverage for that. If pregnancy is considered a "lifestyle choice" for the infertile, why is it not for the fertile? I think about people who don't have any extra income to save, and who will never be able to afford treatment, and my heart breaks into a million more tiny pieces. I think about the economic impact of millions of infertile couples in the same boat we're in, who are dumping every single penny into saving for treatment instead of stimulating the local and national economies, and it's clear to me that insurance coverage for infertility treatments benefits everyone.

What if insurance companies covered infertility treatments, and infertility was no longer a disease only the wealthy could afford to treat? What if everyone could pursue the dream of parenthood, without having to put themselves in financial ruin?

What then?

This post is part of Project IF: Part 2 in recognition of National Infertility Awareness Week (April 24-May 1). For more information about infertility, please click here. For more information about NIAW, please click here. If you'd like to check out more about Project IF, and see the list that inspired this post and many others, please click here.

Illusion

2010-04-29T08:20:00.000-05:00

Hubby and I had an emotional night last night.

It all started when he told me that we would be going to his parents' house to celebrate Mother's Day. I fucking lost my shit. I don't know if it was just picturing me sitting at that table again, wishing to be anywhere else, with no one acknowledging that it might be difficult for me. Perhaps it was the realization that another Mother's Day is upon us, and our arms are still so so empty.

But anyway, I cooked dinner with tears streaming down my face (and probably into the food too. Don't tell the health department!) and somehow we got into an argument. I think Hubby has a lot of anger towards me, and sometimes he acts like I should just magically be ok and forget that the last four years have ever happened.

I can't be ok, not yet. Maybe I'm weak or just too FUBAR to ever be a normal person. Maybe I should just be over all of this by now, but I'm not.

Or maybe I'm just an emotional PMSing bitch, and this will all seem ridiculous next week.

Anyway, I've started to contact couples counselors in our area. I want my marriage to survive this, and we do love each other very very much. If I have to deal with a therapist, I will.

Infertility, you may have stolen my soul but you will not ruin my marriage.

Smackdown!

2010-04-24T15:05:00.001-05:00

One of the worst things about infertility and RPL is what I like to call the grief smackdown. I can be walking around, a sorta normal, fairly happy person, when BAM! A grief smackdown leaves me cowering, snotty and tearful, waiting for another blow.

Most often, the grief smackdown is triggered by something ridiculous and unexpected. Sure, the belly rubbers and the FB baby boom get me down, but I expect to feel like shit when looking at newborn pictures or staring at pregnant bellies.

This week's grief smackdown has come courtesy of a bed.

Hubby and his dad spent the day doing some heavy moving on Wednesday. They picked up the materials for our new deck (to be built sometime this summer, I hope) and then some furniture his parents wanted to get rid of.

The furnishings? They're for our empty guest room. Since we've lived in this house, the second largest bedroom has stayed empty, ready to become a nursery for our baby. That emptiness was like a symbol of our hope that eventually, someday, some way, we'd bring a baby home. I'd go in there, occasionally, just to look around the room and picture how we'd set it up. It was a room that was fertile ground for daydreams and wishful thinking.

And then we agreed to take this bed and dresser from the out-laws. We need another bed, to be sure. My family lives halfway across the country, and between their visits and friends who spend the night, it'll get used. (Side note: I need to remember to put rubber sheets on that thing. One of our lovely friends occasionally spends the night because he doesn't drink and drive. Last summer he ruined our sweet. red. leather couch by peeing on it in his drunken stupor. Somehow, I love him anyway.) I always imagined, though, that we'd get some small daybed or futon and stuff it into our third bedroom/office (which is really not much bigger than a large closet). There is no way that queen sized bed will fit into the office - not if you want to be able to walk, too.

And so now, that queen sized mattress and boxspring and dresser sit in my dining room, because I cannot bear to haul them upstairs and say goodbye to my vision of us, as a family, filling that room with the sweet smells and sounds of babyhood. It feels like a betrayal of my hopeful self, but the reality is that I'm probably not pregnant now. And even if I were, I'd probably miscarry. Chances are, we have years left in our quest, because that is how long it's going to take to get our finances in order.

Hubby is so wonderful. I know he won't push me to get the bed together and the room established as a proper guest room until I'm good and ready to say goodbye to what could have been. And I suppose that is the one small light in all of this: I love him. I know how much he loves me, despite my faulty parts and bouts of tearfulness. That has to be enough, for now.

Happy ICLW!

2010-04-21T13:29:00.000-05:00

I love ICLW. I haven't participated in a few months but I'm glad to be back, and looking forward to finding new blogs to add to my reader.

So, if you're new around here, this will give you a little introduction to my life. Right now, I am in the Two Week Wait: Femara Cycle #3/6, and feeling alternately hopeful/hopeless.

Thanks for stopping by.

I'm like a bird

2010-04-19T11:00:00.000-05:00

Our house was previously owned by a childless (oh my god. maybe the house is making me infertile!) older couple who gardened like it was their job.

Then, the husband got sick and died and the wife got dementia and let everything in the yard go to crap. We've been in the house almost 4 years now and it is a constant battle to keep invasive vegetation from taking over. I am not a gardener! I'm more a concrete jungle kind of gal, and I have absolutely no base knowledge of anything plant related. Seriously. I got The Idiot's Guide to Gardening and it's too fucking advanced for me. There are days when I stare out at the yard, in my gardening get-up, trying to figure out what the hell to do, and what tool to use to do it, and then I go inside and fix myself a nice cocktail. Or three.

Anyway, Hubby and I have this week off because we really need some time away from work, and we really really need to tackle some serious house projects, including the yard. (And what are we doing this fine morning? I'm writing and he's sleeping. Productive indeed.) He got started on Saturday while I was at work and took down a rotting, swaying pergola attached to our garage that had probably been up since the dawn of time.

I didn't know he was going to do it, and if I had, I probably would have convinced him not to. I know that it really needed to come down before it collapsed onto the dogs. I get it.

But it had become the perfect nesting place for some birds. They constructed a nest under the overhang from the garage. They made a home there last summer, and we watched them raise their babies and taunt our dogs, who really haven't figured out that they can't fly, and will never be able to jump high enough to snag a critter that can. And then the birds came back this year.

Hubby was worried because the thing was so damned rickety, and the dogs were trying to climb it to get to it's residents. So he took the pergola down, and the little nest with it.

There were two eggs in that nest.

And now the momma bird sits on my garage, staring at the spot where her nest used to be, looking for her soon to be babies. She makes me so sad, that poor little momma, because I get it. I know what it's like to do everything right, and lose your babies anyway.

Maybe I'm anthropomorphizing. Maybe I'm just looking for an excuse to avoid being outside and doing yardwork. But still, whenever I see her, my heart aches.

fertility drugs

2010-04-16T21:17:00.000-05:00

since crackheads can have babies

and i can't

maybe i need to start smoking crack.

From the lushary....

2010-04-15T09:50:00.001-05:00

I'm making my first visit to the lushary.

((Drinking a giant virtual black velvet and cherry coke. yum.))

Did you know that pain can be a good thing? Pain usually indicates that something is wrong, somewhere, and that something needs to be done.

My pain tolerance - physical, emotional, mental - is a bit on the high side.

I think the fact that I have survived seven miscarriages and I'm still trying proves it.

Need more proof? Well, settle in, have another drink, and I'll tell you a story.

In 2000, I was living the good life. I was working, dating a musician, about to graduate from college, partying as much as humanly possible. I was an athletic, active girl then, one who hadn't alienated half of her friends and who didn't cry every day. My boyfriend and I took up snowboarding that winter, and we became fanatics. After the yearly ski/snowboard trip we took with my friends, after just one lesson, we went out and purchased all of our own equipment and planned another trip, just the two of us.

So, the first morning of our trip, we decided to take another lesson. It went well - I seem to have a bit of a natural knack for snowboarding - and I decided that my nascent skills needed a test.

So I attempted a jump. Note the word "attempt." It did not go well, and I fell hard, but got up and continued to ride all day, despite the pain in my groin.

Fast forward two weeks. I was still in pain, and the thought occured to me that I might have more than a strained muscle. I'd go out for a jog and only manage three miles instead of six or seven.

So, off to the doctor I went. He sent me out for xrays. That night, I was out in a bar with some friends when my (giant! non-web-browsing!) cell phone rang.

It was my mom, telling me to get my ass home immediately. She had just spoken to my doctor, and that strained muscle? well, it was actually a fractured pelvis. As in, sit down, put your feet up and don't get drunk and stumble on your fractured pelvis.

I was a very lucky girl: lucky that all of my snowboarding (and falling on my black and blue butt) after the accident didn't cause the fracture to become a clean break. Lucky that nothing else went wrong in those two in-between weeks that I was jogging and partying and clubbing.

And very very lucky that I didn't go to the hospital when it first happened.

At my consult with an orthopedic doctor, I was informed that had I presented in an ER with that fracture, I probably would have been sent to surgery to be repaired, which would have meant immobilizing my left side and a long and painful recovery, which would have put a crimp in my two-job having, college attending, party all of the time style.

As it was, by the time the rads were taken, the fracture was starting to heal. All I had to do was rest as much as possible for another 8 weeks. No running or other strenuous activities. And I healed up just fine, no issues or complications.

I think I used up all of my medical luck on the wonder-pelvis.

mirror image

2010-04-13T21:54:00.001-05:00

To recap: I work with my friend A, who is best friends with M, who just had a baby this weekend.

Yesterday was a strange work day for me. I felt disjointed and out-of-place, like I had woken up in some alternate universe. A was aflutter over the recent birth of M's baby girl, and was spilling details left and right about the whole process. My office was transformed from a somewhat baby-hostile environment into motherfucking baby land.
I've spouted off many times before about how when someone I know has a baby, as is true for many of us dead-baby mamas, I'm sure, I am sent into a tailspin of self-destructive and self-pitying thoughts. It's an ugly place to be, and it makes me feel like an ugly person: selfish, locked so deep in my prison of grief that I cannot even muster a smile or a "Congratulations" to welcome the miracle of a new life.

Yesterday was different though.

I watched A, radiating ~~happiness~~ pure joy for her friend. I saw how she loved the hell out of this new baby, this newly expanded family.

And suddenly, it wasn't M and her healthy-baby-popping-out abilities that turned me green. A, and her I-don't-have-a-kid-and-I-don't-care vibe shocked me. I wanted to be her.

I could have been her, before my utesaurus started eating babies. I could have gone grocery shopping for the new parents on my break. I could have spoken with pride and joy about the birth of my best friend's child. I could have been there for every pregnancy milestone. Seeing A act with such concern and kindness was like watching myself in a mirror to some weird opposite land, where babies don't die, and people don't break up with their friends when they reproduce.

My oh my how RPL can change a gal.

Props

2010-04-13T20:32:00.000-05:00

Did I just mark myself as a child of the nineties by using the word "props?" Well, the nineties were great for me, so I really don't mind.

Anyway, I just wanted to thank each and every person who reads and comments here for, well, being you. The ALI blogosphere is comprised of the most amazing and supportive women in the world, and I appreciate each and every kind comment left here.

So, props to all of you.

Word.

untitled

2010-04-12T11:00:00.000-05:00

Once again, a friend (M) has had a baby.

Once again, I am in a tailspin.

I'm sitting here at work, overhearing snippets of conversation from the back. Baby talk, like women do.

I fucking hate it.

This typing is my attempt to look too busy to join in the conversation.

My mind wanders. Will we ever have that moment? Will I ever get to melt as I watch my dear sweet hubby meet his child? Will I ever bring joy into my loved ones' lives, rather than sadness?

And another post......

2010-04-08T18:43:00.000-05:00

I've posted before about our friend M, who is about to pop.

Like, literally. She's now almost two weeks past her due date. And once again, I'm left thinking about how different our paths are.

Her FB is filled with comments about how much her baby loves being inside of her, how she's created such a wonderful home that the baby just doesn't want to come out. And all I can think is Does that mean my babies hated me? I think this, despite the very impossibility of the words. They weren't actual babies, at least not with the capability to hate (not that it would have made much difference even if it were possible) but still, I am plagued by visions of my babies as kamikaze pilots.

And I want to send her good wishes, but all I can think of are the worst. possible. outcomes. The things that can go wrong when a little one hangs out past her due date. I'm so scared for her, but as Shannon (who has lost another one - head on over and give her some love) recently wrote, I've taken the statistical bullet for everyone I know in real life. Most likely, things will go perfectly well for M and her sweet gal. I sure fucking hope so.

BTW, I kind of like the vision of me taking the statistical bullets for everyone I know. It makes me feel a bit like a superhero, almost. So, go on, girls! Get knocked up! Have unprotected sex - nary a miscarriage or stillbirth will head your way. Wifey will protect you!

(It's times like this that I really wish I could draw. I'd like an avatar. If anyone who does draw would like to draw me a picture of a Deadbaby Mama superhero with tattoos, I'll be your friend forever!)

outed

2010-04-08T07:47:00.000-05:00

I have this sneaky suspicion that my blog has been discovered by people I know in real life (other than the people I've invited to read).

I'm not thrilled about it, but it is what it is. I just have to post this disclaimer: Please don't be offended by anything you might read here. This is my therapy space, my place to connect with the other ladies in this unfortunate sisterhood. I know it's probably difficult for you to understand what's written here, to connect it to who I am in the flesh, but just know this: it's all me. The good, the bad, the ugly.

Anyway.

Aunt Flo showed. I hate that bitch. We're on to femara cycle #3, and we're working on a timeline to **gasp** stop trying.

Or, at least, take a break until we have treatment dollars saved up. It might involve me flying to a foreign country and selling a kidney. And perhaps half of my liver.

I'd sell my eggs, but, well, you know.

groundhog day

2010-03-31T15:45:00.000-05:00

I want to say goodbye to this ache that haunts me. I want to say goodbye to these four long disastrous years and be someone else - or, more accurately, the "before" me.

I want to smile with my soul, like I did before.
I want to celebrate the babies that other people have, like I did before.
I want to imagine a future filled with laughter and joy, like I did before.
I want to walk into a room with a pregnant woman and not have a panic attack, like I did before.
I want my eyes to stay dry, like they did before.

Hubby and I had a long talk last night, the kind where all sorts of shit gets aired out and tears are cried and we stay up way too fucking late because we can't turn off the verbal diarrhea. Among other things, he asked me if I could ever imagine myself not being haunted by our losses and my fading dream of motherhood. And I said the words I NEVER thought I'd have to say: I can't start to heal until we stop trying.

It's true. I hate it for being true, but it's true. Every time I start to heal emotionally from a miscarriage, I end up pregnant and going through it all all over again. Like fucking groundhog day. And now the calendar destroys me, because every month is something - a would be birthday. A loss anniversary. A pregnancy anniversary. Mother's Day. Father's Day. A veritable minefield.

I don't think I want to stop trying, yet. But it's different now. I've always believed in my heart that somehow I'd end up pregnant with a baby that didn't die. Now, I just don't know. I doubt it will happen, and I doubt I can ever forgive my body for failing us. It's like that last little innocent, naive part of me - the part that got excited about a positive hpt, the part that could still remember the excitement that our first pregnancy brought us - is finally dead.

How do you know when to walk away from a dream? When do you walk away from everything you've ever wanted? How do you know when you're crossing the line that separates "trying everything I can" from "destroying everything I am?"

Snot

2010-03-30T19:32:00.000-05:00

The numbers: day 21 progesterone = 18. Prolactin = 28. My doctor was happy with both, as the first indicates that I ovulated, the second indicates that what I refer to as my "coma pill" is working. But, but, but. The progesterone probably indicates that I am not pregnant. The prolactin is down, but still not normal. Good news, but not so good news - the story of my life.

I've blogged a lot lately about the general upswing that I have been on. And it is certainly true - for the most part, I've been less consumed by sadness. But the truth of it, dear readers, is something that I am just starting to unravel. The truth of it is that I've simply gotten better at squashing those bad feelings down, like snotty crumpled tissues in the bottom of my purse. Just because I choose not to acknowledge them (does that make me gross?) does not mean they have ceased to exist. There are still an embarassing number of snotty tissues in my purse. I am still sad. Sometimes, overwhelmingly so. And sometimes, life just goes on, and I laugh, and love, and cook.

As much as I despise how the people in my life choose not to acknowledge the trauma and grief that have defined me, I am also grateful to them - the ignorance of others is my bliss. For the three and a half years that I have had my job, I've been blessed to be surrounded by the ignorant. No one at work wants to talk about pregnancy loss and infertility (even on those rare occassions when I do) because it is so outside of their frames of reference. They don't have kids. They don't want to get pregnant, or have babies, and they probably think that I am insane for trying as long as I have. Even in my darkest moments, when at best my life could be classified as "merely existing," I had my job as my refuge. It's not glamorous - most jobs that involve animals and their various bodily excretions aren't - but it's fulfilling and has served me well as an escape.

That's all over now though. My friend A is besties with another friend, M, who also happens to be a client at our clinic. M is due any minute (or, as her husband told mine yesterday, "Any fucking day now, man. Any. fucking. day.") And somehow, the baby shunning women I work with have all turned gaga. People walk into work and, before they have even clocked in, check with A to see how M is. Every conversation turns back to the baby. Discussions of names, breastfeeding, labor - I overhear bits and pieces of them all, but of course only bits and pieces, because when I walk into the room, the baby talk stops. My refuge has vanished as surely as the shimmering illusion of a desert oasis. It sucks donkey balls, and I am left feeling as awkward and out of place in my work life as I do when surrounded by fertiles in my non-work life.

Sigh. To top it off, we have a lunch meeting coming up with one of our sales reps who - wait for it, wait for it - also happens to be hugely pregnant. I'll have to sit for an hour, pretending to listen to her lecture, wearing my "attentive" face, while all the while I'll be staring at her pregnant belly and hating myself for my failures, and the misery I've brought into my husband's life.

The gal who wrote a post that is so beautiful, and unnerving, that it brought tears to my eyes. It's about accepting the childless life after years of trying to conceive, and suffering loss after loss. She is struggling, and I wonder if I'll struggle too when we finally decide that our time of trying is over. I struggle now.

exsanguination

2010-03-25T09:41:00.002-05:00

I was up.

I am now down.

Such is the rollercoaster life of a recurrent pregnancy loss survivor, I suppose. Just as I was basking in the light, the darkness swallowed me. Endless cycles of grief, of hope, of happiness and sadness, triggered by life. That’s all – nothing traumatic or horrific or overtly sad has happened. Simply life.

Or to be more specific, other people’s lives.

It seems my friends are having a baby boom. I log onto FB and am bombarded with proof that for other people, reproduction just sort of happens. I need to take a FB break, I think. It is too much. I feel marked as different, the only one of a large group of people without belly pictures and baby pictures posted to my wall. I have been contemplating letting my IF/loss rage out onto FB, but I waver. You see, I have not come out of the IF/loss closet to many of these folks. I am almost at the point where I just don’t care – this is my life, this is what I live with every day, and to present myself as someone else seems dishonest and fake, two things I despise – but I just don’t know.

It feels whiny and self centered just to say it, but I hate reading all of the messages of support posted on new parents’ walls. All of the congratulations and well wishes, they make me sick. Yes, it is someone’s happiest day. But what about me, what about all of us living in this hell? Who supports us? A new baby changes a parent’s life forever, for sure. A lost baby does the same, but at the other end of the spectrum – the sadness and despair side. And whereas other people – friends, coworkers, acquaintances - rally around the happiness, they shun the sadness and despair like it’s contagious.

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

I’m now in the two week wait. The hope is draining out of me, exsanguinating my soul. Tuesday, I go in for a day 21 progesterone check and a prolactin recheck. The last time I had my day 21 progesterone tested, I was pregnant. Of course, I soon miscarried. As usual. I’m sort of on pins and needles about it for no clear reason.

Thanks for reading my whine.

just for laughs....

2010-03-20T15:12:00.000-05:00

and I really don't mean to offend any readers who happen to be pregnant. I had an encounter with a belly-rubber today, and Hubby showed me this to make me laugh.

Hope you enjoy it.

Smug

Well hello there!

2010-03-17T20:42:00.000-05:00

It's been a while, for sure.

I've had limited internet access at home lately, and have been too busy at work to do much blog reading/writing.

What have I been up to? Why, thanks for asking!

Cycle #1 on femara was a fail. We are currently 9 days into femara cycle 2. I have my fingers crossed. I'm not really sure if it's the change of seasons or what but I have been feeling really hopeful lately. We'll see.

The rest of my life has been rocky lately as well: friends are popping out kids like crazy. I invited my MIL to go to the RESOLVE conference with me and she declined, so, since I had no one to travel with, I passed. I'll definitely be going next year though. My basement flooded, and as I was using the shop vac to dry it out, the power went out. My home computer died. My dog got sick. Hubby left on a work trip the same day that bitch Aunt Flo arrived. I found out we owe the IRS several thousand dollars, so all of the home projects we were planning on using a tax refund for are on hold (meaning we are living with a demolished upstairs bathroom). And so on. The crap never stops.

I've been holding it together fairly well, considering. I really credit the regular exercise I've been getting for my mood stability, but it could be more than that. Perspective is everything. I mean, I have a home, and food to eat. What more could I ask for (besides a baby)? There are so many who are worse off.

I'm not minimizing what I've been through. I still grieve for my babies - every. single. day - and the life I thought I'd get to live. The difference is this: for a long time our fertility struggles felt like a new pair of shoes that left horrid blisters on my soul, and now they're worn in and comfy. It is what it is, you know? I'm doing what I can, and the rest is up to fate and medical professionals. The despair is gone, and I couldn't be happier to see it go.

On the bright side, my cousin has offered for the fourth or fifth time to be a surrogate for us. I'm not at that point yet, and I've not done any sort of research on what it would entail (especially because she lives in NYC and we're in the midwest), but it's an option. Options are good.

I hope that all of you have been well. I should be posting more (and hopefully more thoughtful posts than this) and commenting more now that I have internet access at home again.

Life is good.

anyone going....

2010-03-02T15:07:00.004-06:00

to the Resolve conference in Minneapolis on Saturday, March 13?

I really want to go, but Hubby will be out of town that weekend and I don't really know who else to ask.

So, if you're planning on going, let me know - maybe we can meet up. I'd love to have an ally there.

the boys

2010-02-25T07:53:00.002-06:00

So, the boys are cancer free. As Hubby explained it to me, he strained himself (probably while working out) which lead to some localized swelling that felt like a lump. He just needs to take it easy and take anti-inflammatories for the time being. What an emotional rollercoaster!

What a pair we are, though. I think part of what makes our marriage strong is that we have the ability to laugh in the face of one fucked up universe. Indeed, while we waited to get the ultrasound results this weekend, we laughed quite a lot. At the possibility of cancer. And miscarriage. And infertility. We're quite a jolly bunch.

Hubby can now join the club though - sitting in a dark room with your genitals exposed and a stranger manipulating them. If he had had to put is feet in stirrups I probably would have cracked up, instead of giggling like I did.

Oh, and of course I ovulated Monday, which means that his poor sore boys had to perform this weekend (with the doctor's permission). How do you know that your husband is an infertility veteran? Well, when he remembers your ovulation schedule and checks with his doctor to make sure sex is okay without being prompted.

In other momentous news, you'll never believe what I did last week.

Have you guessed?

That's right, I shopped for a baby shower gift. Of course I didn't actually attend the shower, but I bought a gift and a card and I didn't cry once. I think I'm a bit numb, and frankly, I like it. I was so fucking proud of that ten minutes in Target, which really is pathetic because, well, all I did was grab a gift and go. But for years I haven't been able to even look at the baby aisle, so this was, however lame, a huge breakthrough for me.

Come to think of it, lately I haven't been crying at all. Weird. Is this - could it be - what it's like to be happy? Or am I just numb?

After all of this time, I've finally accepted our situation for what it is: completely craptastic and awful, and I wish it were different, but it's my life, and for the first time in a long time, it actually seems more appealing than death.

I must have the opposite of seasonal affective disorder, because it has been one hell of a winter in Iowa this year. We're breaking records left and right (snowfall, days with five or more inches of snow cover, temperature) and everyone is whining about it while I smile.