37w0d - A Loss

Growing up, I lost a lot of people I love. I had five grandparents in the world when I was born (one divorce and remarriage), and by my preteen years I only had one. I lost my beloved uncle in that interim, too. With each of those deaths, there was time. They were struck down by cruel cancer, Alzheimer's in one case, things you expect in old age. Watching a loved one suffer isn't easy - much harder than my parents, I was the kid, I kept on going to school and seeing my friends, normal life for most of my day - but by the time they pass, you've known. You've maybe prayed for the end. 

My grandparents were old. Or, they felt old to me. My dad's parents were Holocaust survivors. They were of such a different generation. I look at my parents and in-laws and they seem so young, active, capable. Not the image of a grandparent I grew up with. 

Yesterday, early afternoon, my husband called me sobbing. His dad died. Massive heart attack. Gone in an instant. He was in northern Wisconsin at his cabin, celebrating his 22nd anniversary with J's step-mom. They were snowmobiling. He turned, grimaced, and that was it. It was immediate. His step-mom and neighbor did CPR but it was too late. I don't think he could have known what was happening, or felt much pain. The suddenness and the fact that he was in a place he loved, doing what he loved, with a person he loved, are the blessings in this horrible situation. 

J is lost, he's distraught. He wanted to see his dad hold his grandson. God knows we tried to make this happen sooner but now, 1-3 weeks before our boy is born, his grandfather is dead. What was such an exciting, anxiety ridden time is now so heart breaking. My husband hurts so badly and I can't make that go away. All I can do is hold him while cries, reassure him that no major decisions have to be made now. It sounds selfish, perhaps, but I hate the shadow of grief that is now hanging over the birth of our son. Of course we will be overjoyed, but J will be torn apart by love and longing for what absolutely should have been. 

J's dad and I did not always see eye to eye. I don't think that changes anything. I loved him because J loved him so fiercely. He was his parent, his teacher, and his boss for many years. Their relationship was more complex than most father-son relationships. I wish J would have his dad around to look to while he navigated parenting. J deserves that. He doesn't deserve this horribly-timed heartache. 

It's been less than 24 hours but it feels like it's been days. I am finding myself, at 9 months pregnant, more capable than I thought I was. While J has sweetly waited on me like an invalid in the past month or so, I have found the energy to take care of him. I am not worried about the activity, the hours, the throngs of family and friends descending. I welcome that for J. I dread the continued sadness. I didn't think we were there yet, the time where you start losing parents. We are becoming parents. Too much cycle of life. 

25w5d - Plague, Kegels, and Nesting

My holidays were more exciting than yours. More exciting IF you consider a familial case of plague-like stomach flu and an infant hospitalization exciting. And I do. You clicked on me, remember? First thing first, Niecelette is totally fine now however I will say that she started it. Along my brother-in-law. Simultaneously. At about 11 PM on December 22nd, Niecelette nursed like a champ and then proceeded to vomit it all up. Twice. Then slept and slept and slept which, as rule, newborns do not do. They sleep, wake up, feed, then sleep again. Not Niecelette. Unbeknownst to my sister, she was starting Baby's First Hunger Strike. In a bathroom down the hall, at the very same time, my sister's husband started vomiting as only a 6' 5" Canadian can. Niecelette kept on sleeping and my sister just stayed up staring at her, willing her to wake up and get her boob-on. At around 11 AM the next morning, my dad (a pediatrician) called it and took Niecelette to the emergency room. She hadn't eaten in 12 hours and was very lethargic. At the hospital, it was determined that she had a run of the mill stomach virus, just like her dad, but because she was only 13 days old she needed to be monitored for dehydration and kept on an IV. She and my sister spent the night at the hospital. The next evening (Christmas Eve), after feeding in very small amounts every 4-5 hours, she was allowed to go home.

 

In a medical crisis, I am your go-to-gal. I think it comes from growing up in a medical family; I'm the only one in the immediate family not currently or formerly in some branch of the field. (I like buildings.) I understand the lingo and can typically see past the symptoms to the bigger picture. However, when your 8.5 lb niece is lying there in a toddler hospital gown (Really children's hospital? No infant-sized apparel?), not eating and unable to stay awake, I promise that your cool, sensible Google-medical-school-educated head will fail you and your heart will just melt all over the floor. We were told the whole time that she was okay and would get better but still. Gah.

 

Niecelette revived and thrived, as did her dad. On Christmas morning, we all gathered at my mom and dad's house for presents and general merriment. My mom bore a slight resemblance to a green puddle and proceeded to get the same virus. Thinking myself of heartier stock than these weaklings, I washed my hands 74 times and went on my merry way to J's family's celebration. The next morning I woke up to bowel-churning, head-spinning nausea and remained more or less in the fetal position for 36 hours. I feel bad for my judgement of Niecelette's lethargy and refusal to eat. Here's what I did while sick with the same virus: did not eat and slept for the entire time. So, she had kind of a good wellness plan. I'll give her that.

 

Everyone was seemingly in the clear, virus gone, by Friday. The whole family - my mom and dad, Juice, her husband, baby Niecelette, J and me - packed into our respective vehicles and spent the next few days at the family cabin in Wisconsin. It was glorious until J got a belated strain of the virus and was banished to the bedroom. With the exception of that hiccup, it was a generally fabulous trip. I got to hold and play with Niecelette constantly. She is possibly the cutest baby ever. I also found that my relationship with my sister had slid back into normalcy after oh, say, 9 months of torture. Even once I was pregnant, the childish strain of "but her pregnancy is bigger, better, farther along, more naturally conceived than mine" played constantly in my head. It only took two or three weeks after the birth of my niece. Sigh. It gets easier, it just takes a birth, stomach virus and the general easing of emotional insanity to make the pain start to fade.

 

Ok, enough of that. I've written tomes on my emotional response to my sister's pregnancy/my miscarriage/my current pregnancy/yada yada. I shall write more, I'm sure.

 

Another milestone occurred while I was in Wisconsin. One morning, while wearing light grey, thin cotton pajama pants (you'll need that detail for later), I was standing around laughing with my sister and her husband. Of all things, we were talking about pregnancy brain. We joked about something mildly funny and, appropriately, I laughed a little bit. Not a lot. Just a little. And then I peed. Not a lot. Just a little. Juice then made me laugh again. Just a little. I then peed an equivalent amount. So now I've peed a little twice which means I've peed a medium amount in previously described pants. Under my breath I murmured, "Omigod I just peed my pants," turned, and walked to the bathroom at which point my sister saw my copiously pee-stained pants and announced that I had peed my pants. Fair enough. It was true. Once in the bathroom, I sneezed and peed again. So that happened. I became incontinent at 25 weeks pregnant. As I may have mentioned before, I have this bizarrely long torso that I inherited directly from my simian ancestors. My uterus has tons of room to expand before lifting and hitting my ribcage. As a result, little guy is riding low and at times wedges himself between my hip bones and smashes my bladder. According to the websites, he now weighs about 1.5 lbs. According to the science experiment described above, my bladder can accommodate under but nothing equal to or greater than 1.5 lbs of crushing pressure. I may have to accept that when he settles in that low wedge position from which he will not be moved, I will just pee myself. I knew this might happen. I just didn't realize I would have to buy maternity Depends this early in the game. 

I don't use hashtags frequently. I reserve them for my twitter posts about tween pop stars. But here, I feel that a hashtag is required. #timeforkegels.

 

In general, non-bodily fluid related news, I am nesting. It has hit with a vengeance. I have gone from being perfectly content with the future nursery looking like a hoarder/heroin addict's den to selling almost everything we own on Craigslist. Want a decrepit piano? Check Craiglist. A well-intentioned Christmas gift of a leather, memory foam full-size massage table? Ditto. Bar stools from an unused bar? All yours. Also the bar. Take it. I might sell my bed, refrigerator, sofa and anything else that takes up room. This is addictive.

 

Here's a stupidly adorable pic of me and Niecelette. True, I am possibly the most irresponsible aunt ever but, in my defense, it was 40 degrees, she was wrapped in fleece and down, my mom took the photo and my sister watched and approved whole-heartedly. I intend to retake this photo annually as a completely accurate measure of her growth (and mine). As her mother is 5' 8" and her dad is 6' 5", I figure she'll be taller than me by age 7.

 

Never too early to learn to make snow angels.

 

Happy 2014! May you stay blissfully free of viruses and incontinence.

 

 

  

 

 

22w4d - The Family Grows

Holy emotional shit storm. Yesterday, December 10th at 10:10 AM, I became an aunt to a beautiful baby girl. 8 lbs 1 oz, 21 long, long inches.  7 months and 9 days after the announcement that sent me reeling for so long. 2 days after my first due date. I wish I could say that in the moment, none of it mattered. I am not proud. My mom and I paced the hall outside of the delivery room until we heard her first cries. Immediately, we both bawled. We cried, while she cried, for the total miracle of your own daughter/sister having her own healthy baby. I cried too for the distance this pregnancy put between us, even while I was in the midst of my own. I flipped back and forth between elation and this difficult feeling of longing, a childish response of "this should have been me." I hate to admit those feelings. It was not my time. It was a miracle, my family had grown by a whole perfect human being.

Those feelings dissipated entirely once I got to meet her. Really, she is possibly the most beautiful little girl in the world. She has a shocking amount of thick, dark brown hair and rosebud lips. I couldn't stop touching her impossibly soft cheeks and belly and holding on to her feet. She will know me as "that giant that won't stop poking me." I spent the day my newly larger family. Mostly we stared and commented on how much she looked like a member of our immediate family. Halfway across the country, my brother-in-law's family commented on how much she looked like their family. They are wrong. She is totally one of us. Smushy, rosy lips are our trademark. It's hilarious how narcissistic newborns make us. We are so quick to claim their every feature as our own. I really do think she looks like a hybrid between me and my sister as newborns because me-me-me-me-me. That's what babies do to us. We become so vainly introspective as we gaze into their every-baby-could-have-been-switched-at-birth faces.

My sister was a total trouper. Her water broke on Monday afternoon with nary another sign of impending labor. Once at the hospital, they started her on Pitocin which led to a completely sleepless night. At 6:15 am she was 3 cm dilated. Only 2.5 hours later she was fully dilated and evicting that kid. No sleep, no pain meds, 1.5 hours of pushing. She's like a Navy Seal of childbirth.

I stayed until early evening and then drove back home to the city. I gushed on the phone to friends (hands free, safety first) and then sat in traffic and allowed anxiety set in. Seriously, I hate that I did this and that I continue to let myself go to these dark places. It seems so selfish. I am sometimes incapable of reason and seeing the big picture. My heart started aching. Surely, it would not go so perfectly for me. Bad things happen to me - this is my default, stupid, dark place mantra. I will never get my boy. I will go into early labor. I will lose him. April will never come (unlikely). Maybe he will be born but not healthy, not beautiful like his cousin. Will my family gush over him as much since he's a boy and not a rosebud-lipped girl? Send in the men in white coats. I'm sure there's a perfectly lovely asylum where I can convalesce for the rest of my pregnancy, preferably in a medically-induced coma. These are the fucking thoughts that circled my mind last night and this morning. I hate them. I hate those thoughts. They represent the worst of me and the worst of two years of infertility. I am ashamed that I can't just revel in the love and awe I feel for my niece and enjoy this wonderful, healthy pregnancy that I've been blessed with. To clarify, I do get those moments of peace, wonder and happiness. I experienced that nearly all day yesterday with my niece and sister and didn't fall apart until I was alone in the car. On weekend mornings, when I sit around reading, sipping a cup of tea, and feel and see my boy bopping around inside, I am there: totally in love and in the moment. He and I feel natural and meant to be. I just can't always cling on to that. I bought a Christmas ornament for him and hung it on our tree. I visit it as my reminder of how good I have it and how real he is. Fake babies do not have Christmas ornaments, right? We call our boy "Pindakaas," the Dutch word for peanut butter, because...because why not? Pin for short. We remain miles apart on names and I am a bit concerned that he will forever be known as Pindakaas. I suppose there are worse names. Pin's ornament is a piece of toast with peanut butter and two banana slices on it (J and I are clearly the bananas - one of us more than the other). Impossibly cute, like my fetus. Handcrafted affirmations in felt.

TGIE - Thank God for Etsy

I am going over to my sister's house after work to welcome them home and eat my mom's home cooking. As soon as I'm there, I'll be madly in love again. I will feel like that the whole time I'm there. I will possibly/probably melt down in the car. And then I'll pull myself together, feel my baby boy squirming, and will be fine. And then not. And then fine again. Possibly until April.

I'll leave you with a photo of my family's new perfect love.



Look at those sweet lips and that head of hair. Could you die?

Once an IF, Always an IF

On the me front (me me me) - I am good. From what the doppler and I can tell, the kid is cooking, my uterus is rising and enlarging, and my immune system has essentially shut down. There's a lot of snot, congestion, whining and couch surfing going on in my house but I'm told it's to be expected. This cold of mine would typically be something I could shrug off but apparently my body is busy doing other things. Fair enough and thank the lord for neti pots.

It has been 2 weeks since my last ultrasound (that felt like a confession) and I am holding up pretty well thanks to ye olde fetal doppler. Used it twice yesterday as I'm a spazz. Since the last post, I came out to my boss and coworkers. All were completely supportive and charmingly gleeful. It was nice. Naturally it gave me the jinx-willies hence the increased doppler useage. Again, no apparent correlation between pregnancy announcements and fetal cardiac activity. None the less, the experiment continues.

This weekend is my 6th wedding anniversary. Eleven years together and six legally bound to each other. Pretty cray cray. J and I are totally the couple that plans a romantic celebration and then ends up ordering pizza and watching a movie instead. Hey, it's worked for us. This year I've taken an entire half day off work (I know, slow down crazy!) and we're driving up to my parents cabin in Wisconsin. I'm thinking fall colors, picking apples off our very own very tiny apple trees, a hike with the dogs and general coziness. I'm psyched and willing tomorrow afternoon to come immediately.

So that's it for me. Uneventful and nice. And then my loves still in the trenches. This morning I got a text from my sister-in-law SD. I've mentioned her before. She ventured into the world of infertility before I did. We navigated treatments, fielded each other's hysterical phone calls, and glared at pregnant women together. And now I'm knocked up and she's not. The text this morning was telling me that her period had started after her third round of IVF. She didn't want to talk - and certainly not to me - and said she'd call some time next week. I want to remain a support system for her and I'm afraid that's just not possible. My heart breaks for her. It breaks for all of us. Once you're pregnant after infertility, the infertility doesn't go away. It lingers and haunts. It's why I have to check if my baby's heart is still beating after I tell another person I'm pregnant. Why I can't really imagine my baby and what he or she might look like and feel like in my arms. For so long we protect ourselves from those painful yearnings. When they start to look like a reality, the dream doesn't flood back. It creeps back slowly and we keep on protecting ourselves.

How do we support each other? The way this process works, all of us in the infertility boat will achieve our families at different times and in different ways. The timing of it all can make you feel so left behind. I felt so left behind for two years until suddenly I wasn't. I know that many, probably most of you reading this are in the midst of fertility treatments and adoption applications. Is there any place for comfort from someone teetering on the other side of the IF divide? Is that even possible?

If this all goes well and my baby comes in April, I will be back in the stirrups a year or two later. More hormone shots, retrievals, transfers and tears. My heart is still in it. I hate this natural, probably necessary, and temporary divide between SD and me.

12 Week Update

Kids, I am 12 weeks 3 days pregnant today. Boom. That is huge. I wasn't sure how 12 weeks would feel - if it would feel like a relief or if I would hold on for 13, or 14 weeks - but Saturday it hit and I woke up feeling like a million bucks. I realize you're never totally out of the woods but I have to say, there are definitely some glimmers of sunshine at the 12 week mark. Some well placed remarks by my new OB definitely helped. According to her, my chances of miscarriage are below 1% at this point. While it would be very me to say, oooohhhhh I could totally be in the 0.8%, it's statistically quite unlikely. I'm not not worried, it's just foolish to walk around wearing a black tulle veil and lamenting something that will probably not happen.

An aside to my fellow IF bloggers and readers, do you ever feel like reading new IF blogs can have the affect of making you more anxious? I always select the TTC history tab and have a mini nervous breakdown over recurrent pregnancy loss and, particularly now, second trimester loss. This isn't the beautiful-online-community thing to say, but I'm thinking I should just stick to my tried and true bloggers (you know who you are, mostly because you're listed on the right hand column of this blog). I'm familiar with your stories, none of you freak me out, and I am very comfortable being on your cheering squad no matter what happens. Yes. I made a decision. My IF blog list is temporarily closed for the sake of my mental health.

Anywho, on to brighter unicorns. Last Wednesday was our first OB appointment. I had my very first external ultrasound - jelly on the belly, just like on tv. Right away, there was the kid. Kid was feeling particularly jazzy. It (let me use "it" instead of some pretentious fake pronoun. If my child is transgendered, I will use whatever pronoun s/he prefers.) was lounging in utero, one hand behind the head, the other waving above. It arched its back at one point and kicked off the side of my uterus. I can't believe I can't feel all of this action. My new OB pronounced it "awesome" and a "great looking fetus." I concur. This was the first time it looked like an human/alien baby and not an amorphous blob. Really exciting. As nutty as it sounds, I'm also really heartened by the kid's body language. It seemed so at home lounging and flipping around like that, like there was an invisible margarita in its hand. I dare say my uterus seemed like a tropical resort. No frills, per se, but adequate food and a steady 98.6 degrees. (My, I am feeling ballsy writing like this. Eek!)

This weekend I unleashed the news on my extended family. My parents and sister knew, as did J's entire family (because secrets don't keep on that side). On Saturday, I drove over to my grandma's house under the auspices of being in the neighborhood to return a few things to the local suburban mall. Never mind that I work steps away from Chicago's main shopping district. Fertility treatments can really rob you of the opportunity to be adorable. Nobody got a surprise onesie after I peed on a stick. J saw the pee stick while he was peeing. That's how un-adorable this all was. 12 weeks into it, I decided that both my grandma and I deserved to be disgustingly adorable together. Grandma suffered through miscarriages herself, knew of our fertility woes, and being the fervent Catholic that she is, probably made the priest at St. John's order a few extra cases of candles for us. Sooo, I took the most human looking of the ultrasound photos, bought the only correctly sized frame at Target (not cute), assembled and gift wrapped. Because she is a woman of a certain age, I was able to hold my iphone up and film my grandma's response when she saw the photo. Her response was completely priceless. First she frowned and said she needed her glasses. Once glasses were on, the following conversation ensued.

Grandma: Is this a baby?
Me: Yes.
Grandma: Is it Juice's baby?
Me: No
Grandma: Well then who's baby is it?
Me: It's my baby.
Grandma: What do you mean it's your baby?
Me: I mean, it's my baby!
Grandma: Are you pregnant?
Me: Yes!
Grandma screams and stomps her foot and then abruptly stops.
Grandma: (very sternly) Amy, are you lying to me?!?!

Once I assured her that no, I would not lie about the content of my uterus, we celebrated. It was lovely. I got roped into telling Other Aunt in person, which was fine and actually easier than over the phone. Phones are so awkward.

So there, I'm partially out. Family knows. Close friends. I just have to let my boss know. I've decided I can wait until week 14 for that one unless I'm forced at some point. I feel like they've probably noticed that I've switched over to stretchy pants and jersey dresses but perhaps not.* It's fall, 'tis the season for complete pant abandonment.





*This fashion choice has been made out of comfort, not quite necessity. I'm packing a solid fupa now, definitely not a bump.

Normalish

First, I would like to announce that I did not meltdown on the car ride back from my grandma's 90th birthday. In the car on the way there, I said there was an 87% chance I'd have a meltdown and J said he thought it was 100% for sure. Well, looks like I'm 13% correct. Boo-yah. That being said, I can't gloat too much because I chose instead to cry off my makeup on the way to the party instead (bets were made after I stopped crying and reapplied mascara). I guess I was all dried out at that point.

The celebration was completely survivable as I've learned most things are. My cousin, a serious triathlete, looks completely adorable at 5-6 months pregnant as she has absolutely no body fat and carries her fetus outside of her body, covered by a thin layer of skin and muscle. She is having a boy. That elicits no response emotional response from me as I figured it was one or the other. No word yet on what my sister is having. That will bring up some *feelings* because, if it's a girl, I'll feel like she stole my girl. Insane, I know. I have always wanted a girl (though quite honestly would be thrilled to be pregnant with a mammal of any gender at this point) and she has always wanted boys. Ipso facto, if she is carrying a girl she will have effectively stolen it from me. I am completely aware that that statement in itself warrants a straight jacket and a visit from some nice men in white coats. Self-awareness is at least half the battle. We used to joke that if she had girls and I had boys, we would trade. Now I feel like she might not follow through on said promise. It would solve a lot of issues though...
Moving beyond that rant, while the afternoon started a little awkward turtle, it ended up fine. These fertiles are my family, I love them, and I can deal when forced to do so.

On to happier things. IVF #2 - It feels so damn good to be back in the saddle again. Of course I wish that I didn't have such a crippled horse to ride but my horse is my horse. This cycle is markedly different than the first. I am just so. much. calmer. I feel like a normal (bloated) person this time around. Yes, I shoot up twice a day and have done so in the comfort of my filthy, dog-hair-covered car and my friend's kitchen, but I really feel like I'm going on with normal life. I've been more lax about my so-called "fertility diet," allowing myself to enjoy gluten a little more regularly and small amounts of dairy like a normal human being. Last cycle, I listened to Circle + Bloom relaxation/imagery recordings every night to fall asleep. I imagined follicles growing and humming with life. I relied on those recordings to get to sleep and to stop feeling like a nervous wreck.This cycle, before bed I read whatever is loaded on my kindle and fall dead asleep. Pretty much like every other night. It's kind of a dream. Obviously I'm still nervous about the outcome. I'm not that calm. I'm normal. Surprisingly normal for day 7 of stims. Let's just see how we do come retrieval-transfer, shall we? 

Westward Ho!

Blogging while sleeping has got to be dangerous. 

I'm currently sitting at O'Hare airport, blinking my way through a coma. The green tea is only somewhat helping. 4:45 is such a horrible time to wake up. J is off "exploring" terminal 2 and I am holding down the fort. Why, you ask, are we camped in the airport like Edward Snowden? Well, not exactly like Snowden as we have a guitar in tow and valid tickets out of here. J and I are heading off to Yellowstone National Park for a week-long vacation with his mom, step-dad (recall the crazy pills?), and all their kids and spouses. I think there will be 14 of us all together fighting off grizzlies and riding buffalo through fields of geysers. I have never been to Yellowstone or any other of the great Western national parks but I assume that's how it is. Bison burgers and buffalo rides every single day. (My God, this is incoherent.)

I am very genuinely looking forward to this trip. I'm a sucker for a dramatic landscape and I here Yellowstone is lousy with 'em. Also, I get to cozy up with J's step-sister, SDN, my partner in crime (is knitting a crime?) and comadre in fertility woes. IVF veteran, regional champion eye-roller, and a Binny's frequent flyer, she's queen of the hop. I can't wait to see her. 

Ooh! Boarding! Love to you all. My next post will be from under the spray of Old Faithful. 

To tide you over, I leave you with an image of me in the future.

Tough Talk about Crazy Pills.

About 8 years ago, I went through a really deep, dark and scary depression-anxiety combo platter. It was not my first bout with depression but it was the first time that anxiety rattled my brain and left me a house-bound mess. I dutifully went to therapy and practiced yoga on the rare occasion when I could peel myself off my couch. I tried my damnedest to get through it without medication. I couldn't do it. Believe me, I gave it the good old college try.

After truly suffering for about 8 months, I finally succumbed and started anti-depressants (SSRI). Within weeks, I felt as though somebody had flipped on a light switch in my body. The fog began to lift. Dramatically. I laughed, I enjoyed myself, I stopped constantly crying hysterically for no real reason. I had felt like horrendous doom was around every corner and then POOF! doom disappeared. It felt like nothing short of a miracle. It still does. Three years ago, I tried to go off of SSRIs to prepare my body for getting pregnant. We weren't yet trying and I wanted to see if I could do it. Under the care of a psychiatrist that specializes in women's health and pregnancy, I slowly weaned myself off. It didn't take long for the light to switch back off and the fog to descend. Once again, I fought for over half a year before it dawned on me that it would be pretty hard to get pregnant if nobody wanted to sleep with sad, angry me. And so, I went back on. It was hard. I struggled significantly with that decision. Shed a whole lot of tears. At the end, I knew that to be a good mother - both while pregnant and after - I needed to be a healthy, sane and happy person. For better or worse, anti-depressants are part of what help me feel like me instead of a sluggish, hateful zombie. They don't work for everyone. I'm lucky that there's a solution out there for me.

I know that SSRIs carry risks to babies. The most well documented risks include PPHN (persistent pulmonary hypertension of the newborn) and heart defects. These risks are very low but they do exist. Depression during pregnancy also carries risks: pre-term labor, low birth weight and elevated cortisol levels at birth.

What's a crazy girl to do? I can only remark on what I've chosen. I'm on sertraline (Zoloft) - the SSRI considered the "safest" during pregnancy. While I still occasional doubts about my choice, I know that my mental health is critical to the physical health of me and my future baby. There are no awards given out for abject suffering and one must deal with the demerits.

As a fertility patient, I've been making choices about my own "greater good" for some time now. Since I started on medications designed to hyper-stimulate my ovaries one year ago, I've knowingly been ingesting and injecting drugs that increase my odds of getting ovarian cancer later in life. I see this as part of the difficult trade off of modern life and medicine: we have access to drugs, hormones, and procedures that we never had before. We can survive cancer, get pregnant despite a slew of otherwise debilitating factors, test for genetic predispositions, eradicate diseases that once killed thousands, transplant organs and implant devices that make our hearts beat. On the other hand, we pickle our food with hormones and pesticides and cloud our skies and water with pollutants, some of which may cause the very conditions we work so hard to cure. I realize that my choice to stay on anti-depressants while trying to limit my gluten, dairy and caffeine intake is in some ways ridiculous. Infertility makes you nuts, what can I say?

This was all brought on by an email I received this morning from my father-in-law. He sent this link regarding anti-depressant use during pregnancy to me, J, his daughter (also struggling with infertility, also on anti-depressants) and son-in-law. A professor at the National Institute for Health and Care Excellence (UK), states in the article that the risks inherent to SSRI use during pregnancy for women with mild to moderate depression "are not worth taking." I don't believe that my depression is mild or moderate, though who is to say? It's a deeply personal, subjective assessment. It is very easy to say that there are no risks worth taking when it comes to pregnancy and the health of your child. The decision is far harder when the "safer" road presents the risk of mental illness for the mother and a set of different, perhaps less precarious threats to the baby.

My father-in-law meant no harm. He wants us to be safe and his future grandchildren to be healthy. Believe me, so do I.  My first reaction to the email was rage, then sadness and now, calm rationalism. Here is the informed choice I made after many years of anguish and research. I do what I can and pray that my choice will one day matter at all. 

Birthday Survived, Nay Thrived.

Despite my best efforts to be a total angsty mess, I actually had a pretty perfect birthday. Admittedly there were a few tears leading up to the event but once I woke up on June 8th, all was good. This beautiful day - somewhat of a rarity lately in Chicago - started with coffee and a croissant (yup, you read right. Caffeine and gluten. Suck it, fertility diet!) with J. Then I made the effort to look well-groomed and hygienic (a must on your 31st) and skedaddled over my best gay, David's house for brunch. Sated with food and mimosas, I later met up with Maggie and Vlad and took in Midsommarfest, my first neighborhood festival of the season. All this was followed by drinks on a lovely patio and eventually dinner at one of my favorite restaurants in Chicago, HB. A perfect summer day with my hubbie and friends.

A pre-birthday story for you: I was born around 6:30 AM on June 8th. Therefore, and especially important given the events of 4:45 AM on June 8th, my birthday does not start until that exact time. No sooner. My dog Ella had a nasty case of diarrhea this weekend, brought on by God knows what. As you dog owners will know, dog diarrhea gets bloody really fast. Dogs are all about drama. In the wee hours of 6/8, Ella started to bark to go out. Since J had walked her last at 2 AM, I got up. We walked and, as I entered the house again and turned on the light, I saw that my kitchen floor was covered in shit and blood. So, at 4:45 AM, I scrubbed shit and blood on my hands and knees. At first I thought, "this better not be some kind of fucked up omen about this year." I then realized that it was not yet technically my birthday and decided instead that I was metaphorically scrubbing away the "shit" year (get it?!?) that had been. 4 IUIs, 1 IVF & 1 miscarriage wiped clean like my kitchen floor. And with that, I went back to bed and awoke a reasonable amount of hours later to coffee and croissants. Universe, if you send it, I will spin it.

Don't worry. After a strict diet of rice and ground chicken and frequent walks, Ella is just fine.

As planned and dreaded, my family went to brunch on Sunday. The weather was lovely, food delicious, and company pleasant. All internal squirming was kept to a minimum. I squeezed out a few tears on the drive home because it's what I do but generally the most icky part of the birthday dance was bearable. I won't go farther than that, bearable will do for now.

All in all, I think I aced my 31st birthday. Special recognition to J, David, *Maggie and Vlad* for making it extra special and far more than bearable.

*I made up the names Maggie and Vlad when they first appeared in the blog. They're not terribly far from their real names but regardless the pseudonyms feel so damned ridiculous. I cringe when I type them. But, I made my bed and shall lie in it. The other option is to reveal their real names and social security numbers in a subsequent post. Might do that.

31 Years Ago Today...

Nothing much happened. My mom was exceedingly pregnant with little old me. Well, not so old. I was quite young then. Fetal one might say.

Every year since I can remember, in the days leading up to my birthday, my mom tells me exactly what was happening "____ years ago today." My dad did the annual Run for the Zoo. We have a photo of him in very tiny shorts sporting a handlebar mustache to mark the occasion. He and their friends went to the Hyde Park Arts Fair. My mom went home feeling not quite right. And then things got exciting and I burst on to the scene on June 8, 1982. There are many other minute details that I could recite. My mom's elaborate ritual of celebrating my birthday always feels so sweet. I'd like to do it for my own kids eventually. This year I'm not so into it.

I've never been one to mourn the passing of years. If anything, I've always felt like I was "catching up" to the old lady I am at heart (did I mention I knit for fun?). Again, this year is different. I was 29 when we started trying. At 30, it felt like it just hadn't happened yet. At 31, it feels like I'm entering into a some kind of childless lifestyle. This birthday is a reminder of how interminable this infertility shit is. Also a reminder of my loss. I should be in my second trimester now. I should be celebrating two lives. Ugh, could I be more depressing? Yes. Yes I could. I used to be much more of a sad sack about all of this. I really am well into moving on. My birthday just feels sad. Also, I've been battling a cold for over a week now and am completely swamped at work. I'm having trouble mustering much enthusiasm for anything other than my sofa.

Sigh. Anyways, I am eschewing my inner mope and doing deliberately happy things on my birthday. Brunch with one set of friends followed by dinner with another. I will eat my way through this blessed occasion. On Sunday I'll celebrate with my family. That will be the kicker. Frankly, this is more for them than for me. We'll do brunch. A finite, food-centric event. Oh, I'm dreading it. How many mimosas does it take to drown out mom's painful concern and my sister's maternal glow? 2 or 3? Or perhaps one for every candle...

The Scary Talk

This weekend I bit the bullet and had a scary conversation with my pregnant litte sister, Juice (childhood nickname), that I should have had long ago. It was so much harder than I ever anticipated. And lord, so much more crying than I thought was possible. And yet, very necessary.

Juice's pregnancy has been going swimmingly, as it should. Two weeks after the announcement, I am still bursting into tears nearly every time I talk about it. As of the end of last week, I still hadn't seen her and beyond a few random texts here and there, I hadn't had real contact with her. I figured my options were thus: A) Pretend that my sister is not pregnant and avoid all contact with my family despite the fact that they live 30 minutes away. I could then resurface either for the birth of the baby - if I'm up for it - or months/years from now when I get pregnant, adopt or am accepted into an elite convent despite my halfie Jew blood. Perfectly reasonable. OR B) Talk to my sister, let her know I'm still having a hard time, and ask her to respectfully limit the pregnancy and baby talk in my presence. I had a session with the resident therapist at my fertility clinic and she insisted that "B" was the only real option. Ugh. Fine. Logic wins again.

On Saturday after I got my hair did (at least I looked good), I went over to Juice's house. I rolled into my pre-planned, therapist-approved spiel almost immediately. The abbreviated version is as follows:
 Since going through the past year and a half of infertility and especially since my miscarriage, it has been really hard to be around pregnant women and babies because they are a reminder of what I want most, what I can't have, and of how sad I often feel. But, now it's you that is pregnant and I really truly am happy for you. I can't wait to be an aunt. I am sad that I am not able to do the things I'd like to do for you as a big sister during your first pregnancy. I wish I would have already started knitting for you and planned out your nursery. But I can't do that right now and I won't be able to for a while. I need to figure out the best way to be with you, because I love you, and support you but also protect me. I think the best way to do that is for you to be able to be happy about your pregnancy and talk about your pregnancy in front of me, but in a more limited way. What do you think?

It must be mentioned that I sobbed through that entire soliloquy.

Juice responded by crying which she NEVER EVER DOES. I am the dramatic, sensitive one in the family. She is the warrior. It was disarming to see her cry. Though it came in starts and stops, Juice let me know how she was feeling and how honestly hard this has been for her as well. She's sad for me, wants to help me however she can, but doesn't want to have to hide her pregnancy (which is not what I've asked of her but in the end might be a question of semantics). She feels that no one in the family is genuinely excited about her pregnancy. The sad thing is she's not wrong. I'm not the only one that's been bowled over by infertility struggles and loss. My parents have been going through it too. My mom told me that Juice's pregnancy feels unreal to her. I concur. We, as a family, are excited but if I can speak for my mom, dad and husband (and by blog, I can), we're also struggling with the timing of what should be purely happy news. Shitty, shitty timing for everyone. I so sincerely wish for Juice's sake that her pregnancy had occured even a month or two before or after when it did. After a lot of mutual crying, we were no closer to making things all better again but we did understand each other. My sister is one of my very best friends and any discord between us is just a dagger in the heart.

I cannot go an entire weekend with only fertility-pregnancy-related crap dropped on my lap. I need fun, unrelated things dropped on my lap, too. Though it's been bubbling up for a while, Saturday I had this grand realization that I had let a lot of what I've considered to be intrinsically "me" drop along the way. It was totally thrilling and requires more explanation. But, duty calls and I must stop blogging and work. I shall return.

A Belated Mothers' Day Post

A quick post on Mama's Day. This could have been a really hard Mothers' Day. Honestly, I don't think anyone would blame me for spending it in bed. I didn't mostly because I was still in Boston and would have had to perform my elaborate and vocal mourning rituals on S's living room sofa. S & L wouldn't have minded and probably would have plied me with cocktails and bad television but S's husband might have felt uncomfortable. I called my mom to wish her a happy day and left the formalities at that.

I decided that this Mothers' Day, I was "opting out" of the conventional celebration. Opting out is my new thing for potentially difficult situations. I realize it's not necessarily the mature choice (please, I'm only thirty) but it is my current method of self preservation. My only rule is that I don't hurt others. Fair, right? After giving love to my own sweet mama, I spent the morning playing with S's unbelievably adorable daughter, Peanut*, and the afternoon scouring the weekly vintage market with S & L. In some ways, I think I did a great job of honoring Mothers' Day. No, I didn't sit on my aunt and uncle's back patio eating hockey puck burgers with the rest of the family but I did spend the day with one of my favorite mothers of all time, S. I feel very lucky to be a part of their lives and to watch Peanut grow up into this beautiful and funny little girl. S's family reminds me of why I am on this long, tough journey. It will be so worth it. What a miracle to witness your friends' mini-hybrid model blossom before your very eyes.

*A note: While S is generally a creative genius and odd in her own right, she did not name her daughter Peanut. It is simply her frequent nickname.

Emerging from the Depths

It has been exactly one week since my sister announced her pregnancy and I officially dove off the deep end. Diving is perhaps not the verb to use. Really, it was more like a belly flop. Designed for maximum impact, searing pain, and the general discomfort for those around me. I can see the anxious looks on everyone’s faces as I emerge from the water.  Awkward. Well, I’m alive. Still here, still kicking.

I attribute three things to my quickly surfacing from what was certainly one of the darkest, deepest mind fucks of my life:

1)      J, who went miraculously from being baffled/annoyed by my grief to the most amazing, supportive, understanding husband ever. I don’t know what happened. I’m not sure I care. I’m just incredibly grateful and more in love than ever.  I have loved J deeply for the past 10+ years and he has been there for me through this whole fertility business. But this never-ending miscarriage plus familial pregnancy boom combo has been the moment where he’s proven himself as my partner and constant champion. I never needed him to “prove himself,” but my God has he done it.

2)      My girlfriends, who reached out, listened and affirmed that I had been dealt a shitty deck and that a mental breakdown was entirely warranted. Hearing that things are as just bad as you think they are and that your behavior is permissible is somehow very comforting. Despite the fact that they’re sprinkled across the country, I feel like they’ve been emotionally spooning me this whole time.

3)      The state of Wisconsin. Well, not the whole state. Just the southwest corner. This past weekend, I dragged my very sad and angry ass up to my parents’ cabin to half-heartedly celebrate my friend Vlad’s 32^nd birthday. Maggie and Vlad are our very best “couple friends.” They share our love of escaping the city for the wild farmlands of Wisconsin and do so with us as often as possible. While I initially decided to go through with the weekend for the sole purpose of avoiding lying on the couch and crying for two days, a strange thing happened. I actually enjoyed myself. What’s more, I felt like myself. I remembered that my life was made up of more than a series of tragic ultrasounds and the relentless, tiring pursuit of pregnancy. It was a tremendous relief to simply relax and laugh for two days. I got a brief reprieve from reporting my condition to my mom on an all too frequent basis. I refreshed.

On the way home from the cabin I called my mom. She has been endlessly supportive throughout this rollercoaster. She sprang into action when I fell apart at the seams last week. And then she said one thing, one simple thing last Wednesday that made me furious at her. It doesn’t even matter what it was. In grief-addled mind, I think I felt she had it coming. Who did she think she was, this formerly Fertile Myrtle creating one equally fertile kid and one reproductively-challenged misfit?!? I didn’t express my anger that way nor did I conceive of it as being  that ridiculous. It felt very real and well-reasoned at the time. I thought she was choosing my sister’s elation over my pain. She wasn’t. She was being a mom. She was trying to take care of us both. Having two kids can at times mean having your heart ripped in two different directions. This is one of those times.

So at any rate, the call. The sweet Wisconsin dairy air cooled down my blinding anger and lifted just enough of my sadness that I was able to call and apologize. We both cried all over again. Once again and as always, my mom was wonderful. She let me explain what I could and said she understood. Last week I could not grasp how someone so sad could participate in a family that was bursting with so much new pride and happiness. I’m still not entirely sure how though it appears that my family is willing to figure it out with me.  It feels sad to write that. Never in my 30 years have I felt such a disconnect from my loving and sweetly co-dependent family. Regardless, the gulf is lessening. I'm feeling more and more human and therefore inherently hopeful.

I write to you on a second tear-free day.