Tim Gunn Moment

When i started writing this post 87 years ago, I titled it "Is This My Tim Gunn Moment?" I have since decided that, yes, this is my Tim Gunn moment. Make. It. Work.

I've been dragging my feet, hanging my head, complaining about my well-paying-benefit-loaded corporate gig because of a generally difficult work environment. (Git out yer tiny violins.) I have felt less than supported in my new gig as mom. I won't go into details here because, hey, that's unprofessional and I am trying soooo hard to be the consummate professional. Fail. In addition to the "just because your life changed doesn't mean ours has to" - which, granted, has some merit - I've gone from delightfully independent to utterly micromanaged over the past year. Another not so glorious part of my job, I am on call 24/7 which has landed me in some unfortunate situations on major holidays and whatnot. Enough complaining. Just trust me, I do not relish the opportunity to go to the office every day and it's mostly not about who I'm leaving at daycare (though that has put things in perspective).

What I have figured out is this: I am happy working when I am being creative. My favorite part of my current job is interior design. My best friend, S, is insanely creative and recently took the leap from her corporate gig into a retail interiors job. S and I are very in love and have been since sixth grade. So we're doing what any two gals with a penchant for financial instability and a longing for a creative bohemian lifestyle living in two separate cities would do - we're starting an interior design blog and business. All the details are still in the works. We're working on forming the LLC, getting our website up and running and talking to potential clients because, here's the stunner, people actually want to work with us and that is bananas. I mean, not truly bananas because we know what we're doing and have flawless taste but bananas because we're children pretending to be grownups.

You're probably rolling your eyes and thinking, "Well, la-dee-da, it sure must be nice to have the cash to finance this sort of gig." Yes, that would be nice. It's not the case for me. I'm going to work another job to keep this going. I foresee a lot of night and weekend work. And perhaps in 6-12 months, S and
I will shrug and say, "Well, that was stupid." But maybe not. And the maybe not is keeping us going.

All will be revealed soon, hopefully in my next post. 

28w4d - Bienvenido a "Third Tri"

I've been a neglectful blogger. Sorry bout that. My friend urged me to write more and I said I would and then I failed. I have been feeling sooooo overwhelmed. Work has become a bear. Much more so that usual. I believe I've mentioned that I work in property management. Here's what happens to properties when a once-in-20-years polar vortex (could that sound more dramatic?) occurs: all hell breaks loose. Pipes freeze, ice dams on roofs, water leaks into interior spaces, heating systems have a complete nervous breakdown. Here's how emotionally, intellectually and physically equipped I feel to deal with arctic disasters at the beginning of my third trimester: not at all. Right now, I wish I worked in an Indian call center. "Hi, my name is Roxanne (obviously not). Have you tried cycling your router? Oh really? Well, try again." See, I'd ace that shit. Indian call centers are warm, might potentially have reasonably comfortable seating, and might have decent shift hours (probably not). I'm just complaining. I'm sorry. Constant complaining is currently my crutch. Just ask my husband. Enough of that.


28 weeks in review (I just typed "38 weeks" which actually would be the most telling typo ever): I am a small pregnant lady. My weight gain was slow to start but is now staying on track. It is, however, centered on three places: boobs that look as though they'll be able to end hunger in a smattering of east African nations, a small-to-medium-sized low and compact belly, and a constantly growing ass. I don't understand why or how my ass has taken the lion's share of the responsibility but Nordstrom Rack's underwear department has been happy to comply with my never ending need for larger and larger underthings. In fun news, my uterus is measuring on schedule (low tech obstetrics) and baby boy is bouncing around as though I'm feeding him crack. This is hands down my favorite part of pregnancy. In the past week or so I've reached the point where I can feel a heel attached to a leg swinging around my upper right abdomen. I can feel that little leg and rub it for all of ten seconds before he squirms away. I can find a butt somewhere just south and right of my belly button. Confirmed by my OB at my last appointment, my guy is head down now! He still has room, could flip breech, but for now seems to alternate between head down and an angled transverse position. The miracle is that I can feel all this at all. Pregnancy has ceased to me a mysterious "condition" and now has become this very literal experience of carrying around an articulated human being wedged between my lower ribs and pubic bone. This may seem obvious to those of you who have been pregnant before but I really can't believe that later pregnancy feels so literal. I know, overuse of that word. But there it is. I am not merely swelling, I am carrying around a person.

I have become desperate to meet said person. As I get to know that one leg and mini butt, I just want him out and with me.  Perhaps this is a thinly veiled desire to start maternity leave this very moment (see first paragraph and "polar vortex"). I know, he's not at all done cooking. 10-12 more weeks. But how bout 10? 10 sounds good, right? I am insane and am completely thrilled and excited by the idea of going into labor. When I go into labor, it means I get to meet him. How Giselle Bundchen am I? I'll remember that it hurts at some point. Our child birth class takes place in 3 weeks. Maybe I'll reconsider my excitement then.


I've gone from wanting the nursery to be done in the next two months to wanting it done this very second. Because now he feels real. People who have legs need a bedroom and they need it now. Embroider that on a pillow if you wish. It's J's job to do all the physical work as he is A) a furniture maker and finish carpenter and B) he is not pregnant. This morning I maybe flipped a little bit because I determined that he was tackling projects in the wrong order. I have since apologized and blamed hormones. It's not hard to be too critical when your job is surfing the internet for adorable nursery décor while others slave away doing physical labor. Poor J. Wait, no, he gets a baby out of the deal, too.


"Third trimester" and "baby shower" are terms that I was not sure would ever be uttered in the same sentence as my name. Unless, of course, someone said, "That Amy, she'll never have a third trimester or baby shower." Yet, here they are upon me. This weekend I am headed to Boston with my besties where my friend and I will share honors at a mini brunch shower. (I am one of three of my best girlfriends expecting between February and July. All of us are having boys. All of us will learn about tiny penises together.) Then, later in February, I am having another shower thrown by my mom's best friends, known affectionately as The Cowgirls. These ladies have known me since I was a little girl and each has played a really special role in my life. I asked the Cowgirl hosting the shower if it could be a Jewish deli themed shower because generally I'd prefer to eat bagels, cream cheese and capers rather than play painfully awkward games. She was thrilled with the idea and is obliging. My registry is done (I need/want all of that?) and I've started to get gifts here and there. My little infertile soul wonders if the senders know that they might have wasted their money by sending gifts to a baby that will never actually exist. Then I get kicked in the ribs and work to banish all such thoughts. People with legs are real and need things. They need a nursery, clothes, a stroller with specs that rival my Toyota's, an activity gym for tummy time and pumping iron, pacifiers with stuffed animals attached, and swaddling blankets nicer than anything I've every put on my own bed. It is all excessive and thrilling.


I'm currently working on a post of my pregnancy essentials. Things that have kept me comfortable and diminished the complaining to a low roar. Forthcoming. Until then, mucho amor. I stalk all of your blogs, FB pages, etc. and am thinking constantly of your smiling faces and the state of your uteri.

Small Victories, Not Ectopic

Ladies and gentlemen (like there are actually gentlemen who read this),
Breathe easy. It is not ectopic. Previously mentioned ectopic phase is over. Confirmed via ultrasound at 5w4d. Ocho Cellito is planted firmly within my uterus, just north of center. So, that's the good part. I don't know if there is a bad part but J and I left the clinic feeling like utter doomsday. It was a shitty appointment instead of the celebratory jig it should have been. It left me confused and completely freaked. Here's how it went.

This time, I specifically requested that I see my RE, Dr. M, instead of whoever was available at the clinic that day. After I checked in, a 15-year-old called me and introduced herself by her first name - Kristen, not Dr. Kristen - and said that she was Dr. M's student. Fine. University teaching hospital. Both my parents worked and taught at teaching hospitals. They incredibly important institutions, at the forefront of research, blah blah blah. All good until it involves my uterus. I'm asked to undress from the waist down, as per usual, and J pipes in "Me too?" to break the ice. I laugh. Less nervous. I casually remark to J that I'm feeling very que sera sera about the whole affair and I actually believe that it's true. Dr. M and Kristen come in and Dr. M says "I hope we get you off this roller coaster soon." I concur. I assume the position and Kristen takes the lead. She searches and searches with the dildocam and finds nothing. Not even something resembling a uterus. Dr. M remarks, "Having some problems finding your uterus," with a smile. "Pretty sure I haven't lost any major organs lately!" I'm fucking dying. Finally Dr. M takes over and quickly locates the large object attached to my cervix. In it, an obvious gestational sac and yolk sac. Excellent. It's much larger and more obvious than last time. Dr. M points to an invisible white dot that he says is most likely the beginning of a fetal pole. I couldn't see it. Ovaries clear. Sitting up sans violating wand, I asked Dr. M if everything looked ok. "Yeah," with a shrug. What about the size of the sac? He looks at the print out a while and after a while says, "On the small side of normal." Upon leaving, he said, "Well, we'll see what's going on next week."

That's it. That was our first ultrasound. Nothing terribly negative but no one passed out cigars, either. I don't think Dr. M smiled once. I left feeling horrible. Small side of normal echoed in my head. It sounded too much like my 6 week ultrasound with my first pregnancy - measuring behind. I should focus on the "normal" part. Everything that was supposed to be there was there. Why the doomsday approach? Why act like the search was for a malignant tumor instead of the hopeful beginnings of a baby? Was he underwhelmed by my betas? The petite gestational sac? Or was he just bashing me over the head with the fact that the 5.5 week ultrasound isn't a particularly telling signifier of pregnancy outcome? Two pink lines and an ultrasound does not a baby make.

I'm starting to get pretty fed up with my clinic. Yes, there are some stellar caregivers there but the overall attitude sucks. I feel like their motto is "Shit happens." Sure, but can we at least fake a tiny orgasm when things don't appear to be circling the drain?

Today I'm feeling better than yesterday. There's nothing I can do but wait it out and take care of myself both mentally and physically. My next ultrasound is scheduled for Tuesday, 6w3d. I've been holding out for that ultrasound as the one that leaves me feeling finally confident. I need to let go of that expectation. Every glimpse should be uplifting but its unreasonable to expect that a single event will make everything better.

Tomorrow my best girlfriends leave for our annual summer vacation. This year they're headed to Santa Fe, NM. Very sadly, I won't be joining them but for good reason. I know that flying is theoretically safe during the first trimester but I'd rather take a bubble wrap approach this time. Should I miscarry again, I don't want to have anything hanging over my head. I'm staying put for my sanity and my growing embryo. As I've told them, the only thing I'd rather do than be on vacation with them is get knocked up. Well, bitch be knocked up. On the other hand, my sister asked me to come up to our parents' cabin with her this weekend to celebrate her birthday. Just us and the hubbies. I don't think my nerves over my fledgling pregnancy will be soothed at all by three days spent around her jubilant, glowing belly. Also, I haven't told my family yet. I am waiting until things feel a little more settled. Maybe next week (see previous paragraph) if/when I see a heartbeat. I'm going to respectfully decline the invitation and tell some white lie about work. Or not. Maybe the truth. Undecided.

Synopsis:
Physically - 5w4d, still pregnant. Waves of nausea that last for an hour or an afternoon with no rhyme or reason. Tender boobs.
Mentally - Juggling cautious optimism with unease. F-ing terrified to miscarry again. My brain and heart would explode.

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.

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.