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.

Glow - A Fertility Insurance App?

S just forwarded me this article on Mark Levchin's (PayPal cofounder) new fertility tracking app, Glow.* My first thought as a seasoned infertile was probably the same as yours: there are already 37 fertility apps out there. Maybe 1,037. Frankly, from a tracking standpoint, Glow seems to be the same - you enter the average length of your cycles, date of your period, your basal body temperature, and - everyone's favorite - the consistency of your cervical mucus. You can also add comments about your stress level. One of the things that sets Glow apart is that it has an app for men. Basically it will share this information with your sensitive man. Said husband can also enter data about you, specifically whether or not you seem stressed. I am stressed, you say. My uterus is all janked up and my husband's sperm swim backwards. But let's say your uterus isn't janked up, or you don't know if it's janked up or not. The microscopic contents of your husband's semen is a big sticky question mark. All you know is that you want a baby and you've heard unprotected sex is an effective method of achieving your new goal. Your choices are to A) have sex when you feel like it and hope for the best, B) order Taking Charge of Your Fertility on Amazon, learn about ovulation signs, and properly time intercourse with the help of a free app like Fertility Friend, or C) Pay $50 a month and sign up for Glow where you'll track the same info you'd track had you chosen Option B.

So why do it? Why pay to take your temperature in the morning and study cervical seepage? That $50 you pay per month goes into a pool. If you are pregnant within 10 months of signing up for the app then good for you, you bought the most costly app ever. But you get a baby. So stop complaining, it's not like kids are expensive. If you don't get pregnant within 10 months, the idea is that you should check into a local fertility specialist's office. (Naturally, Glow will direct you to one in your neighborhood.) Levchin says that at least double what you've invested in your Glow app - and much more in the future - will go towards the cost of your treatment. Maybe now that means covering the cost of your Femara or an IUI, but in the future it could cover the cost of a cycle of IVF. Levchin has already invested one million of his own dollars into Glow and has raised $6 million more. Essentially this is an insurance scheme. Most of us don't get in car accidents but when we do, we sure are happy that we've paid our monthly insurance bill and that the repairs are covered. Most couples don't need help getting pregnant but many do. Is $500 a reasonable risk to put down on your fertility?

Honestly, I'm stuck on this one. On the one hand, Levchin has publicly recognized what most states and insurance companies haven't - infertility is a legitimate physical problem with serious emotional, mental and social repercussions worthy of care and coverage.  The idea of elective self-insurance is exciting and could very well be ground-breaking within healthcare. I am concerned, however, that this app takes advantage of women's anxiety over their own fertility. While I consider myself an educated consumer, I'm embarrassed to admit that I have personally have thrown money away on ridiculous ebooks and programs "guaranteed" to improve my chances of conception. (I say ridiculous not because they didn't work for me, but because they were junk science marketed to very desperate women, like myself.) Also, with a $50 per month price tag, isn't Glow potentially offering a service to those that are better equipped to pay for assisted reproductive technologies anyways? True, $500 is a drop in the IVF bucket. Levchin states that he wants to use the data he farms on his app to shed light on various factors that can affect fertility, like weight and stress. That data may say more about the type of women that use the app; let me go out on a limb here - Type A, compulsive temperature checkers with a hunch that pregnancy might not come so easy.

I live in one of the very few states with an infertility insurance coverage mandate. Infertiles in Illinois and Massachusetts are very, very lucky. From a financial standpoint, I probably shouldn't take a stance at all. From an ethical standpoint, I'm conflicted. Glow is potentially exciting, certainly innovative as a healthcare funding concept. Maybe putting the idea out there is enough. (Well, the idea plus $6 million.) What do you think? I'm so curious to know.

*Interested to learn more about Glow? THIS INTERVIEW with Mark Levchin provides much more information than the article.

Loving Jimmy Fallon

Here's a confession that is no surprise to anyone who actually knows me: I love celebrity gossip. I know it's dumb. I still love it. And I love stupid TV. So sue me. I can be an intellectual AND watch Princesses of Long Island at the same time. It's called mental multi-tasking.

As my fertility issues have dragged on, one thing that has seriously irked me is the glowing announcements of elderly celebrities just thrilled to be - surprise! - pregnant at the age of 85. Good for you! IVF donor egg confessions anyone? No, I didn't think so. You're naturally lean and muscled, love a good burger and got pregnant via sexual intercourse despite the fact that you're pre-menopausal. I one-hundred-percent believe everything you told People Magazine to print. So, when Jimmy Fallon announced that he and his 46-year-old wife had a baby named Winnie, my initial response was twofold: 1) Winnie is possibly the cutest name ever. Good work. 2) Forty six? What a flip-flapping miracle a la Virgin Mary Halle Berry. I decided to focus on the stellar name choice and moved on. Then, this morning, my beloved People.com published a story where Jimmy states that Winnie was carried by a surrogate and says, unapologetically, that they had struggled with infertility before turning to surrogacy. Bravo! Thank you! Thanks for being honest and not pretending that your lovely wife is one of the three women in the world (Halle) who has primo eggs in her mid-forties. I am forever impressed by people's honesty about infertility and miscarriage. It makes it so much easier for those of us in the trenches. If this kid sticks, I feel like I'll want to tell the universe how hard won it was.

A quick update. I am doing pretty well. Still bouncing among scared-anxious-thrilled-beatific. Yesterday was my "ectopic" phase. S assured me that I would go through an "ectopic" and "molar" pregnancy freakout before I accepted that I had an intrauterine pregnancy. Molar seems like a bit of a stretch but she was on the money with ectopic. J assured me I was mildly nuts. I told him that I felt twinges on my right side and he said it was only because I was thinking about twinges on my right side. Maybe, maybe not. Ectopics happen! Then again, so do brain tumors and bank heists. Not worth worrying over at this juncture.

Mental issues aside, physically I am tired, feeling generally "meh" and my boobs have varying degrees of tenderness throughout the day. I'm also having the craziest night sweats ever which, Dr. Google tells me, are due to fluxuations in hormones. It's disgusting or charming depending on whether you're into wet sheets.

Signing off, with much love.

Supporting Your Very Own Infertile

Today I depart from the usual and bring you a guest blog entry by S, my best friend and "gold star" fertile. I wanted to let her speak to the other side if this difficult equation: what it's like to support your very own infertile. What makes this all the more interesting is that S is pregnant with her second kiddo. What's more, I'm thrilled about it. I certainly cannot say that for all the pregos in my life right now. I think the secret is how we went about navigating this emotional minefield. I'll let S speak to that.

The other good reason for a guest blogger is that I'm too damn nervous for my beta tomorrow to write anything coherent.

With that, please enjoy...

Sitting down to write this guest entry makes me feel a bit like I’m in Fertility Anonymous; Hello, my name is S, and I’m pregnant.

I’ve known Amy - real name, practically out of the closet - for almost our whole lives.  She and I (and a couple other close girlfriends that she has mentioned previously in the blog) go on vacation every August. Except not this year. Amy will either be pregnant or not from her second round of IVF and right now I have such bad morning sickness I’m unable to shower, brush my teeth, or sneeze without throwing up (lovely right?)  

When she asked me to write a post on "supporting your infertile" I wasn’t really sure what to say. I have been exceedingly fortunate in my own grand experiment with one beautiful 19 month old girl and now another on the way.  I can’t imagine being helpful or comforting to Amy and her readers.  I’ve been by her side during this whole adventure but I in no way know how hard it is for her (and many of you.) I’m an outsider in the infertile community, but I do consider myself a very strong supporter.

Here is one thing I know. You probably all have friends, family, people who love you who are starting or growing families themselves. I can promise you that you are a strong presence in their minds.  When my first test came back with the two dark lines indicating positive one of my first thoughts was, “How am I going to tell Amy?" When I told my husband, he said, “Holy shit, how are you going to tell Amy?”  If I can offer anything of value to this chronicle it’s how Amy and I together made a plan for sharing this news, and how (I hope) that plan made it just a bit easier for her to handle.

Amy and I both have siblings.  Our husbands have siblings.  When we were younger and daydreaming about family life, we always talked about our (multiple) children.  She, Amy, expected that as Peanut got to be around 15 months old we’d be trying for another.  Given her struggles we both knew this wouldn’t be easy for her.  I had my own anxieties about if and how I would talk with her.  I can’t compare this to the hardship she has had, but it would be silly to pretend it didn’t cause me grief.  I felt guilty, of course, for being so lucky when Amy and others were so, well, not.  I didn’t want to lie to my best friend but I definitely didn’t want to cause her more anguish, especially now with IVF round 2 coming up.  She needed all her mental strength focused on that.

Luckily, Amy was mature enough and open enough to be honest with me about what she needed.  As this spring came around she asked me to tell her when we ‘pulled the goalie.’  Some may see this as an invasion of privacy or selfish or having “chutzpah” (a little Yiddish for you).  Let me assure you, IT IS NOT.  By telling me exactly what she needed Amy was not only looking out for herself, but for our friendship.  Selfishly, it also took a load off of me.  I know how incredibly lucky I have been to be able to start my family and watch it grow with little difficulty (except for a little---okay a lot---of vomiting, things for us have been very easy).  Besides watching Amy go through all this, I grew up with stories of how my parents tried to start their family for 7 years and the sadness surrounding my mom’s 4 miscarriages.  Amy’s honesty has taken so much of that guilt away from me and allowed me to enjoy these past 9 weeks (as much as I can outside of the vomiting) and for that I am so grateful.

The key was (and again, this may sound weird, but trust me) making a plan. I want to encourage you, both infertiles and supporters, to be as honest as you can with each other.  I promise it will help you both.  Amy has been honest with me about what she wants and does not want to know including but not limited to:  

1) when we started trying to get pregnant (yes)

2) when we conceived (yes, and as soon as I got the double line)

3) how she wanted to find out (via phone—although it ended up being via text)

4) when she is ready to see ultrasound photos (not yet).

No one is a mind reader and these are sensitive issues.  It’s unfair to expect them to just know how to navigate this type of situation; it’s an emotional mine-field.  It’s not like you get a lot of practice telling your fertility-challenged best friend that you’re having (yet) another child.  It’s kind of a once or twice type of thing.

 

And now, a random segue.  A few years ago my baby sister was diagnosed with a very rare and aggressive form of cancer. I hate to compare a diagnosis of infertility to cancer, but in so many ways I see similarities.  The diagnosis itself is devastating and for the next (weeks/months/years) you are living day to day.  Even with the best distractions, it is always there in the background.  I could not have survived that time without Amy helping me through.  And I try my best to provide that same support to her now.  After telling my girlfriends about my second pregnancy I received an outpouring of love and support.  But, in the back of their minds, I know every one of them was thinking about Amy (and just as they should have they all called her to check in after hearing the news.)

3 years later my sister is in remission. She is a much stronger, more mature, more confident young woman because of her experience.  You can always tell the survivors of hardship; those that have come out on the other side of some trauma.  They have gotten up off the mat and it’s inspiring.  I see this in Amy. She has always been strong, but the grit and resilience she’s displayed in the past 2 years is nothing short of extraordinary.

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. 

Home, A Shiny Object

What do you do while you wait?
I currently vacillate between enjoying my Chicago summer and fixating on the waiting. The interminable waiting. Waiting for my period, waiting for my next IVF cycle, waiting for my - fingers crossed, prayers submitted - next positive pregnancy test, and I dare not go beyond that. Occupational infertility hazard: I rarely verbalize or think beyond getting knocked up by docs/lab techs and staying pregnant beyond some invented "safe zone" in the second trimester.  Images of giving birth to an actual baby rarely cross my mind. Certainly that's the goal but mentally it's an abstract goal.
Yeah. That. I want that. Another glass of wine, s'il vous plait.
Then I distract myself with a shiny object.
It's perfectly healthy.

As of late, my go-to shiny object has been my home. I live in a cute two bedroom condo with wonderfully large living and sunny spaces, a sweet little balcony, and very tiny bedrooms. It is covered in dog hair.

Stream of consciousness story break - My very spoiled coworker came over for drinks one evening and complemented my home. She then added, "But what will you do when you have a baby? Where will you put it?" Totally normal way to talk about children. Where do you put them? "In the second bedroom," I replied. "We'll convert it from an office to a nursery." "But it's so small! You can't put a baby in there!" Girl, please. Babies have slept in dresser drawers for the past 4,000 years. Entire Inuit families sleep in a single igloo. My kid will do just fine in her 8 x 8 bedroom whenever she decides to grace us with her presence.

And back to my previous train of thought. My home. As things feel rather out of control with my uterus, I've poured my energy into making my home feel like a more stylish, comforting place to be. I'm trying to reduce the clutter and crap and bring in pieces and colors that make me feel calm and happy. I started with my bedroom. I went from drab olive walls (my choice 5 years ago - going for cozy and autumnal. fail.) to a gorgeous light blue-gray (Benjamin Moore Arctic Gray, if you're interested). Et voila, insta-peace. Then added a beautiful Deco-inspired sunburst mirror, an upholstered headboard and some white and nickel lamps. Yesterday I polished it off by splurging a little on a Kate Spade comforter and sham set. I kinda love it. Here's the pic replete with wrinkled comforter right out of the bag. The photo was taken with my phone and seeing as the room is quite small, it could have benefited from a wide angle lens. 

Also on the agenda, my balcony. Flowers make me happy. A few weeks ago I ventured to the local garden center and stocked up on some plants that I knew would do well on my sun-dappled, mostly shady porch. Peppermint double-impatiens (obsessed. like little roses!), yellow-purple torenia and lime green sweet potato vine won out. Some inherited giant begonias joined the team on the table. And the result? A sweetly relaxing spot to while away the weeks/months before my next cycle. Just picture morning tea on this bad boy. Side-planted hanging baskets to follow.

I generally move at a snail's pace on home projects so I'm trying to take advantage of this new found energy. Next on the slate, family room. Maybe kitchen. And the charming but useless bar that J built in the living room window niche? That's going to become a window seat with bookshelves. And on no particular schedule, hopefully that teeny-tiny-"call DCFS" second bedroom will be cleaned out and magically turned into a nursery. Eventually.

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 Good Part

WORST. BLOGGER. EVER. I'm sure there's an award for that. There's an award for everything in the blogging world. I've been writing about twice a week (sometimes way more in the midst of my first IVF cycle) and just about dropped off the face of the earth. I also timed this right after I promised a follow-up post. Genius, just genius. I've been on this major personal campaign to remind/convince myself that my life is about much more than getting pregnant and now, when I'm forcibly kicked off the TTC wagon, I can't muster up the strength or creativity to write a single post?!?! Oh no. This must change.

Here's the long and short of what's happened. Very importantly, I finally completed this damned miscarriage. 6 weeks, folks. That's right. 6 weeks from the day that Dr. Robot told me there was no heartbeat to the day I stopped bleeding and my HCG levels settled back down to zero. What does a six week miscarriage look like? Well, one bout of bleeding after trying to go "au natural" (I didn't get pregnant naturally, not sure why I thought I could get unpregnant naturally) followed by spotting, then elevated HCG levels and a cancelled D&C. Boom, sister pregnancy announcement. Cue curtain of darkness. Freako rising HCG levels (more pregnant! with nothing!) and a shot of methotrexate in the ass. HCG levels gradually fall, bleeding resumes and eventually ends several days after HCG reaches 0. All in all I had 3 major bouts of bleeding, never stopped spotting in between and wore pads or pantie liners for a total of 8 weeks (plus 2 for Endometrin leaks post transfer). I win again. That's a second award. First for worst blogger, second for most obnoxiously drawn out miscarriage of 2013.

The worst, my dears, is over. The sun is shining - it really is. I'm on an airplane flying over the desert and it's basically blinding - and I am on the other side of this. My sister remains pregnant and healthy and we are figuring it out. Life is moving on and so am I. Once I get my period again J and I will decide whether to do another round on that cycle or the next. That I am willing to wait another second to try again is a testament to how far I've come in the past few weeks. A big part of me still feels like a successful pregnancy is the only way to completely heal the heartache of the miscarriage and I do want to be pregnant yesterday, but I also want to be able to relax and not run around like a madwoman during the next go round. Let's give this all we got. I'm not seeing that kind of R&R happening this summer.

Here's the promised follow-up to the post I wrote about the conversation with my sister. The Good Part of all of this. Somewhere along the way - and well before all this infertility junk - I stopped being the creative person I've been since I was a little kid. I stopped drawing, dancing, writing, and most other creative outlets. It started slowly sometime around graduate school, where I needed to focus single mindedly on academics, and continued through this career-building phase of my life. Infertility put a nail in the coffin. Here's the real downside of being a Type A: when life gives you something to focus on, you focus like hell until it's achieved, often to the detriment of everything else. Relationships included. Like many others I've talked to, fertility feels like my full-time job. My miscarriage was a lesson that single-minded obsession would not get nor keep me pregnant. Creating a life is not like writing a master's thesis. There's a little more science, magic and something far beyond my cognitive reaches. You cannot force those cells to divide and thrive.
Thankfully, I had begun blogging this experience a few months before and in doing so, remembered why I used to love writing. It's fun, it's cathartic, it's both distraction and expression. One creative activity back on the map. I also have begun to take on a lot more interior design work at my job. I'm loving it so much. Everyday I have this perfect diversion thinking of nothing but aesthetics (oh right, and function too). As soon as I felt that I had "failed" at the job I had set forth for myself - fertility and pregnancy - I got this perfect reminder that it was not my job, more of a side project, and that my life could be far more full with activities and people that I love. And so, I am making a promise to myself to be more creative. Creative in what I wear, what I eat, what I write. I will resume dancing around the house and doodling in the margins. Because that is who I've always been and it's time to scoop the old me back up. She's what will get me through the next cycle and beyond.

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.

Story Telling

As soon as J and I started "outing" ourselves as (please whisper the following) *INFERTILE *, everyone and their sister began sharing stories. I totally get the impulse, I do it too. It's human nature to share similar experiences, be they yours or anecdotal, to demonstrate empathy. However, the stories were always along the same lines: My coworker/friend/sister/college professor tried to get pregnant for THIRTY YEARS and they had totally given up when they became pregnant at age 75 with healthy twins! Implication being that that could totally be me! I'd love to slog through this for years and years on end! Actively trying to get pregnant for more than (enter your threshold here) is generally hellish so the thought of the experience lasting for several more years is not appetizing. This is the lens of infertility. The stories that seem so encouraging to the reproductively blessed or those not proven otherwise, are nothing but nails on a chalkboard to you. It's too hard to see the larger picture, that in the end things will be okay, because the only way to get through this trial is to trudge through the daily emotions and physical challenges with your head up. Ten years later your friends concieved naturally? All I hear is ten years, lady.

Once we began doing IVF, the stories changed to couples who had done multiple rounds of IVF with no success and then, once they had completely given up, (Notice a theme here? You have to abandon all hope and live as though you have stage 4 cancer) they got pregnant naturally. Another miracle! Despite statistics posted by reproductive endocrinology clinics boasting otherwise, science apparently does not work. Only magic.

Getting pregnant really did feel like magic. And miscarrying like an unfair roll of the genetic dice (we hope, as opposed to across the board chromosomal problems from here on out). But once again, people have more uplifting stories to share with us. You miscarried? My grandmother miscarried SEVEN times before she had her children. The worst part of that story is that it came from my own husband. He told me not once but twice to encourage me. While communication surrounding fertility has been somewhat trying with my usually emotive J, this miscarriage business has proven especially difficult. He doesn't get it and doesn't know what to say. He's torn between feeling incredibly sad and very hopeful, just like me, but can't relate to the physicality of it. How could he? I couldn't before this happened. I am in a fertility support group full of amazing smart and funny women. Like in most other aspects of my life, I can't stop talking at those meetings. Until the subject of miscarriage invariable comes up. And, in meetings past, when other women cried, I sat staring at my hands knowing what they were saying was sad but with no ability to relate. It's just one of those things in life where you just can't grasp it until you've gone through it yourself. And thank God for that.

J's grandma really did lose 7 pregnancies. And did go on to have healthy babies. But all I hear in that story is, "You think this is bad? It's going to be so much worse the second, fifth, and seventh times!" I have thought about the fact that if I'm lucky enough to get pregnant again, that it could end the same way. It is what I think about the most now.
I've decided to filter out everyone else's stories. They mean well but they are keeping me from moving forward which is all I want to do. Eye on the prize. Instead, I'm thinking of all the women I know who had one miscarriage and went on to have successful pregnancies or "live births" as they call it in the biz. So far, I've thought of 5 including my aunt and my own grandma. I welcome all just plain happy stories.

Is my story just plain happy? A simple test. If it includes the words, "and just when they had given up all hope..." then no.

Beta #3 - The Snowball

This morning I went back for my 85th HCG beta. The word was if the number went above 50, they'd have me retest on Friday. If not, I'd stop my meds and let it flow... You're welcome for the imagery.
My favorite salsa singing tech drew my blood again today. "Are your levels going well?" "No, they're not." "But they're going up?" "Barely." "Then you have to have faith." Um, no I don't. Why have faith in something impossible? This pregnancy has a snowball's chance in hell. The tech promised that he'd add a little extra HCG to the mix.

I think he did. My HCG came in at 65. This snowball is apparently scrambling to hang in there. I know that my chances are still really bad. Perhaps not quite as bad as I thought they were on Monday but still quite dismal. So now we wait again... continued meds, more bloodwork on Friday.

This is very much like breaking my foot.

I have this feeling similar to when I broke my foot as a teenager. Let me explain. When I was 15, I broke my foot during a dance rehearsal. For months after that, I would watch people leap and jump and was shocked every time they landed safely. If my foot couldn't sustain an impact, how could theirs? Jumping rope looked like a suicidal act. And then eventually, that feeling disappeared. I healed, I walked, I jumped, ran and danced and nothing else happened. My foot has remained unbroken for the ensuing 15 years.
I have to say, this admittedly very fresh experience has made me view pregnancy in the same light. "Excuse me pregnant woman, how did you make that fetus stay in your uterus? Tips? Pointers?" And to the woman pushing a stroller down the street, "I assume you grew that person inside of you for 9 months without it falling out. Exactly how did you manage?" It just seems absolutely impossible. I jumped, I broke my foot. I got pregnant, I lost it immediately.
I know that the vast majority of chemical pregnancies/early miscarriages are caused by chromosomal abnormalities, same as regular later first trimester miscarriages. I really do intellectually understand and accept that. The annoying side of my brain (There's a logical, intellectual side and an annoying side. I googled it.) thinks I should have taken Chinese herbs last week and probably shouldn't use so much Splenda. Again, I get it. It wasn't the Splenda or the gluten. It was the chromosomes, the science, the fact that this bundle of cells wasn't the gestating type.
Honestly, really honestly, that's okay. I'm alright. I am sad. Absolutely sad about how this little hint of joy and excitement turned out. But this is not the same as a miscarriage in the 8th or 10th week or, God forbid, later. I never connected the positive pregnancy test to a person. Instead, I became very enamored of the possibilities. For two days I had a due date. December 8th. A baby before Christmas. Amazing. Even more amazing, this could all be over. The constant ultrasounds and wands up in my piece, belly injections, intimate suppositories, nearly done! So that is why I'm sad. I'm sad to let go of this little glimmer of hope but anxious to move on. I am alright. A little foggy and dazed, not terribly productive and more prone to curling up on the couch. I'm in the process of mending.
HCG beta #3 tomorrow. If it raises above 50, I go in for a 4th beta. I'm still on progesterone, waiting for the clinic to officially call it.

Beta #2 - Fun While it Lasted

It's pretty much over and fun while it lasted. My HCG level did rise but only from 25 to 32.9. It needed to double.
I stay on my meds and go back for more blood work on Wednesday. Prolonging the agony.
I am spotting, too. At first friendly, not so worrisome spotting and now more. Angry, foreshadowing spotting. I wish I didn't have to hang in there for two more days. I want to dive into a bottle of wine and reemerge in a few days.
And I am sad. I was pregnant for 2 whole days.

Um...What? Sort of happy, WTF.

I am not not pregnant. I am a little bit pregnant. Which is a lot more pregnant than I have ever been before.
My HCG beta came back at 25. Over 100 is ideal. 25 is really low, possibly/probably a chemical pregnancy. So I am maybe pregnant. On Monday I will go back in for another blood test to see if my beta has doubled. I pray that it does.
Here is the good news: my body can possibly get pregnant. It can happen. I wasn't sure that it could. No matter how this turns out, I can take that piece of very good news with me. The other good news that I should not forget between now and Monday is that there is a small chance that this might work. It's not terribly likely but the chance is there. As I said in a previous post, "maybe" is a very happy place for me.

The last real day - 8dp3dt

I am considering this the last real day before my blood test. (I honestly can't bear using the words "pregnancy test." Perhaps I'll pretend I'm being blood typed or something as I sit in the chair with my favorite salsa dancing lab technician. I don't know his name, he probably knows mine or my patient ID. All day he listens and sings out loud to old school salsa. I love it. It's much easier to distract myself while he croons.) I say the last real day because A) I am a child and have a warped sense of time and B) tomorrow is Good Friday and I have the day off of work. Tomorrow will be a fun day to simply fritter away. I might get my bangs trimmed and visit my grandma. It might be that wild and crazy. That is, after I complete the Stations of the Cross. Um, not really. I don't actually even know what that means in a practical sense. I figure it would require prayer and walking on my
knees on stone flooring.

My single goal for today is to be productive at work (good start, eh?). This is a formidable task since I spend much of my day sitting in front of the sickly glow of Dr. Google. Don't google today. There is nothing to be found. There is no magical combination of search terms to tell you if you're pregnant or not, or what medications you should be on next time if there is a next time.

Is it horrible to admit that I think there will be a next time? And that I'm not all that upset about it? Not really. I just expect it. When you've been on such a long road, it's very hard to imagine that you'll ever get to pull over and take a nap. Long distance trucking is an absolutely apt description for infertility.

On this last real day and last real blog post before my blood donation, I wanted to do a little product placement. Here's to you, Tylenol! The only drug I can take during IVF and pregnancy. Cures about 7% of what ails ya. Seriously though, this fertility haul has made me look a lot at my diet. I never ate particularly unhealthily but I have made a few real changes to my diet. First, I scrapped my dependence on caffeine. It hurt. Terribly. But just for a little while. I went from 2-3 cups of strong coffee a day to zero with an occasional cup of decaf to get me through the shakes. I weaned myself slowly going from full blast to half-caf to decaf and then nada. I drank green tea for a while, mostly decaf, but got really tired of it. It is an uninspiring hot beverage and, according to my acupuncturist (yep, I've gone all crunchy granola these days), too cooling to the body. These days I'm allowing myself black tea or homemade chai with almond milk in the morning. It's caffeinated but pales in comparison to a grande dark roast. Product placement #1 - Lipton Yellow Label and Twinings English Breakfast.
Another change has been my full acceptance of the fact that I'm lactose intolerant. No more grilled cheese sandwiches with creamy soup. Worst of all, no more ice cream (well, a very occasional treat). It's remarkable how grateful my digestive system is. Product placement #2 - Almond milk. Any brand. Thank you.
The most difficult change has been avoiding gluten. I don't eat completely gluten free. I don't have the patience nor the ill-effects of a true gluten intolerance to inspire me. While I'm certainly not any shade of Celiac, I have learned that gluten is an inflammatory and is thought to affect fertility. And since my fertility is certainly affected, I thought I'd give going gluten-free (or gluten-limited) a whirl. I don't know if it's affected much of anything. If anything, it's kept me from being so carb dependent. I know that this is not a change I'll incorporate into the rest of my life but it gives me a sense of control for now. One of the hardest things about infertility is the feeling that you can't control your treatments and the outcome. Diet is one productive thing to grab hold of. And with that, product placement #3 - a shout out to Ancient Harvest quinoa spaghetti, Udi's Gluten-Free breads, Pamela's cookies, herb bread from Marie Catrib's of Grand Rapids, MI and rice crackers. Ok, looks like I'm just as carb dependent as before.
Finally, phyto-estrogens. This is sort of a minefield and one I choose not to drive myself crazy with. I've got plenty of crazy. Soy is a phyto-estrogen and can negatively impact your hormonal balance when consumed in large amounts. So I simply limit my tofu and soy milk intake. That's it.
Is any of this making a difference? Who knows. All of the changes I have made simply feel like healthy ones. I haven't lost any weight and have only seen digestive benefits. I'll spare you the details. Much of this won't all stay with me when infertility is behind me. I miss coffee and bagels too much. Together and separately. Coffee and bagels, I will come back. Just not yet.

What diet and lifestyle changes have you made to reach a goal, fertility related or otherwise?

In between, almost there - 6dp3dt

This is such an odd, in between kind of time. I'm so close to the official end of this cycle and so far from where I started, popping birth control pills in February. And yet Saturday, the big blood draw, seems quite distant. I am alternately sure that I'm not pregnant, 10 minutes later thinking that maybe there's a chance, and later that day feeling very positive. I can't stay negative, I'm not letting myself. Notice I don't say that I feel sure I AM pregnant. I don't know how to feel that after 15 months of negative pregnancy tests. Uncertainty is positivity to me. "Maybe" is a very happy place.

My symptoms are nil. No waves of nausea, boobs are no more sore than normal on progesterone, no particularly interesting twinges or cramping. Nothing significant. I want projectile vomit and boobs on fire. I want something dramatic and sure. Like the results of a blood test. Saturday. Breathe, wait.

I think I will feel relief either way the test goes. I will be really sad and frustrated if it's negative. I plan for a Starbucks and a bottle of wine in that case. And I'll be thrilled and mostly shocked if it's positive. Either way I can stop holding my breath for this cycle and move onto the next challenge, whichever it may be.

The Survivor - 4dp3dt

Today I feel like time is finally starting pass normally. Not as painfully slowly as before. The work week is ahead of me and as gruesome as that can be, it typically passes in a blur. Part of the beauty of having an unmanageable workload.
Downton Abbey is playing a large, nay enormous role in my time management. I'm a total junkie. If Maggie Smith and I aren't smirking then it is simply time wasted. Netflix is so crucial to a bearable "two-week-wait." TWW in TTC lingo. There is an hilarious amount of verbiage associated with the IF (infertility) online community. Your husband is your DH - darling husband - and your children are your DS and DD - darling son & darling daughter. There's more, loads more, but the required prefix of "darling" is the one I find the ickiest. A typical post on a TTC form look like this:
DH and I went to the RE yesterday while DS stayed with my MIL. After TTC for 2 years, a diagnosis of PCOS and 2 failed IUIs, we're on to IVF. I'm most nervous about the PIO shots and, gulp, of course the HCG beta!
I'm not translating. It's best that you have no idea what that means. I have never ever called my husband "darling." He is hairy and sometimes farts in bed. While he has many endearing qualities, I could never pin the term "darling" on him.

I did end up getting a call from the embryologist yesterday. Of the 3 embryos we were waiting on, 1 made it to blastocyst stage and was frozen for possible future use. The other two didn't make it past their day 3 development. 3 viable embryos out of 7 mature follicles and 11 total follicles is nothing to write home about. Should this cycle not work out, I have to have a discussion with my doctor about changing medication protocols to encourage better quality embryos. I may never have the best eggs in the hen house but there are medications that tend to work better for those of us with quality issues.
All of this said, I was actually very encouraged by my talk with the embryologist. I had the opportunity to ask about the two 6-cell embryos that were transferred. Both of them had zero fragmentation (parts of cells breaking off) which is excellent. One of them was a Grade 1 (all cells equally sized) and the other was a Grade 1-2 (slight variation in divided cell size) which she assured me was not problematic. If my lone survivor cell was able to keep growing into a blastocyst then why not the healthy (if a little slow - like me) embryos that were actually implanted? No reason. No reason at all. Focus on growing, implanting and hatching. Yup, even human eggs hatch.