Rechaka (Sanskrit for exhale)

46 chromosomes and healthy.

Also, as someone aptly pointed out in the comments, only 10 toes. (Sheesh, can you tell how nerve wracked I was?).

And it looks like we have to change Junior's name to something a little more, um, girly.

Bring on the little pink ski helmet and rhinestone-studded goggles.

Good lord, what is Cowboy going to do with two of us?

Deepest rechaka. Ever.

CVS update

The CVS drama went well yesterday. I won't have preliminary results until tomorrow (Friday) and official, official results until Dec. 24 or 26. Perfect timing as we will be on our ski trip and most likely out of cell range somewhere in some mountain valley.

The reason they give you 2 results is that they grow a short term culture and then a long term culture. They test each one to ensure that they didn't accidentally grab maternal tissue in the sample, which would throw off the results from the first culture. The genetics counselor explained it better, but that is all I remember from what she told me. I was a little focused on the forthcoming procedure by that point.

In nearly all cases, the result does not change from the short term to the long term culture. So I should be satisifed with tomorrow's result. But, knowing me, I probably won't be.

The procedure was easy and relatively pain-free. If you've had an HSG, a CVS is a snap. On a pain scale, a CVS is a 1 compared to 6 or 7 for an HSG. They used a catheter to go in vaginally due to the position of the placenta. I made Cowboy go with me because I am gradually getting him used to seeing my feet up in the stirrups.

The risks for a CVS are 1 in 200. Miscarriages - if they happen from the actual procedure - generally happen within 48 hours. I have another 20 hours to go.

We also had a pretty detailed ultrasound. Junior was positioned exactly sideways with its face and belly towards my backbone. As such, we got a terrific view of the spine and all of the little ribs. Plus, it's feet were tucked up so that the soles of the feet were pointed towards my belly, giving us the opportunity to count - and marvel at - two tiny little feet and 20 toes. It is about 4 inches long now. Measuring right where it should be with a FHR of 167.

The ultrasound techs at the Maternal Fetal Clinic I went to are strictly trained to be diplomatic. There is only, "this is an arm," "here is a leg." No modifiers or descriptors. No, "this looks perfect." She pointed out the major organs, too. I guess no news is good news at these things. And when the doctor only comes in to perform the procedure, I am taking that as a good sign, as well.

If we want to, we can find out the gender, too. I think that I will find out if everything is OK. If not, I won't.

Quick Update

I am so sorry I have been a slack blogger of late. I am sorry I haven't been reading, commenting or offering support.

My work is fever pitch from now until March. The nausea and vomiting have not ceased. I am at 13w3d. Will it ever go away? I have not had an ultrasound or Doppler since before Thanksgiving. Deep breath. My genetics counseling and subsequent CVS is tomorrow at 10 pdt.

Although I want to know. I am so very freaked about it all. Assuming I don't miscarry from it, I will not have the results for another week.

The stress is palpable.

Blog you very much

JJ at Reproductive Jeans had just the best idea to post a shout-out to the blogs that inspired you to start yours.

I exactly remember the day I found Stirrup Queens a few weeks after my first miscarriage last November and clicked on a few blogs and started reading. I would read someone's blog from start to finish in one sitting. Before then, I had only heard about blogs on NPR. Here are a few I connected with immediately, sustained me through the dark days and inspired me to begin my own.

So blog you, ladies. Blog you very much.

Apron Strings. Known then as The Oneliner, Christina was (still is) funny and honest. At the time she was still trying to figure out why the basic baby making business wasn't happening for her. In her, I saw another professional woman - similar to myself - struggling. She honestly wrote about ovulation sex fights and being happy one day and beyond sad the next. About being dedicated to her career but wanting (and deserving) so much more. I knew exactly what she was going through. And she made me feel not so alone. I will cry tears of joy the day that Christina becomes someone's mom.

My Dear Watson. Infertility can be such a sad journey. But Watson got sassy with infertility and made it her bitch. She used self-deprecating humor and her terrific writing skills to make it seem not so sad. Each post was a big middle finger in the face of infertility. And then pregnancy. Now I can't wait to see what she writes about motherhood.

Sticky Bun. Have you ever read someone else's post and thought, "that person has been inside my head!" Nearly every one of Sticky's posts were like reading a page from my diary. If we didn't live on opposite sides of the country, I am sure we'd be dragging our husbands to dinner parties together. From hyphenated last names to miscarriages to a strained relationship with the religion in which we were raised, Sticky and I have so much in common. And when our paths were different, Sticky's posts always gracefully reminded me of what the other side might be dealing with.

With much love and thanks to you each.

Melt Down

Today marks my first (and hopefully last) mini-meltdown on my OB's office. Subject: my ability to get an appointment for genetic testing before I hit the 13w6d cut-off.

The Wednesday before Thanksgiving I had my first regular OB appointment. No fancy u/sound, but I did hear Junior's heartbeat on the Doppler. I am approaching the end of the first trimester (11w2d today), which means time for first trimester genetic screening and testing. I have always been very clear with my OB that I would like a CVS. She supports my decision given the following factors: my age (late 30's) and someone genetically related to us has a child with Trisomy 21.

Much like miscarriage or even infertility, most of us might consider that having a child with the kinds of chromosomal or neural tube issues that can be revealed in utero as something that happens to "other people." And then it happens to someone very close to you. And your perspective changes. Immediately.

As such, I researched all the options available for genetic screening and testing, including the pros and cons, before I ever got pregnant. Additionally, Cowboy and I had discussed and agreed upon our choices and the subsequent decisions given the outcome, again, before we achieved a pregnancy. I don't refer to myself as Ms. Planner for nothing. It was a pact from which neither of us wavered.

Until this pregnancy. Which was so hard won. I found myself wavering. And thinking more about just having the nuchal translucency screen, with no risks of miscarriage, and hedging our bets.

So I talked to the person who has the Down's Syndrome child and pointedly asked which tests she had done. This is not something I wanted to do because, for me, asking sounded a little like blaming. What had she done or not done to determine the risks before the surprise delivery of a baby with Trisomy 21 who had to be airlifted to a bigger hospital minutes after birth because she wasn't breathing and underwent total reconstructive surgery to build a fourth chamber in her heart at age 2 months.

She had done the nuchal translucency test. And was given a 1 and 4,999 chance of having a baby with Down's Syndrome.

Hell, I'd have played those odds, too.

But I'm not going to. If only the maternal-fetal clinic I've been referred to would let me schedule what is my right to request and have: a CVS.

For some reason, the referral from my OB only requests first trimester screening, which is the nuchal translucency screen and genetic counseling. I tried explaining to maternal-fetal clinic that given our family history, I would not even believe the results of an NT screen, so please, just schedule the fucking CVS. That way I can either make the heartbreaking decision or finally bond with this fetus.

But noooo. I had to call my OB's office and outline - in tears with my voice wavering in a high octave - to the nurse-on-duty very clearly why I would like a CVS:

1. I am in my late 30's.
2. This is my third pregnancy and I have no living children.
3. My XXX has a child with Trisomy 21. She had an NT screen, which gave her very low odds of carrying a child with Downs.
4. I am not letting myself bond with this baby until I have answers.

I mean, for fuck's sake. It is not like I just heard about CVS in a blurb in USA Today and decided this was the test for me. My - our - decision is the result of thoughtful primary and secondary research and subsequent discussion. Well, I discussed. Cowboy, in his cowboy-like way, listened and said, "Have the test. The first test you can have."

Thank goodness the nurse was an open and understanding soul. She completely agreed and said she would change and re-fax the referral to the maternal-fetal clinic.

So now I wait for the maternal-fetal clinic to call. Again. I'll have to stop myself from having a little edge of "I told you so" in my voice when I FINALLY schedule the appointment.

I know the subject of genetic testing (amnio and CVS) versus genetic screening (NT scan and quad blood markers) is so deeply personal and scary. With testing, you know absolutely, but there are very clear risks. With screening, there are no risks, but you are only given odds with no guarantees. The decision seems even harder when you factor in the effort taken to even have the privelege to make such choices.

I sometimes wish I didn't think so much. That I was carefree and confident. That I was a happy, bubbly pregnant woman. But that's not me today. I have let this entire process rob me of so much reproductive confidence that I am angry with myself.

I just want to get past this test and the first trimester so I can start to live a little again. Why is that so hard for me right now?

How?

How can I nicely tell my friend to take me off her email list of her exciting pregnancy news? Yes, the same one who spam emailed her 9-week sonogram picture to a dist list of friends & family has recently emailed news announcing she has a daughter in utero to the aforementioned list. I should point out that this friend has no idea I am pregnant. As far as she knows, I am the same person who has had two miscarriages - and nothing more - since TTC a year-and-a-half ago.

How can I nicely tell my other friend that I really enjoy our chances to get together and talk over coffee, but why does she always have to bring her 6-month old? I feel she only plans things with me when her husband is out of town and she therefore brings her son along. This was all but confirmed last weekend when she canceled last minute because her son was sick. And her husband was out of town.

How can I nicely change my attitude so I can accept that my friends lives have changed. That while we may have meant something to each other when we were ensconced in grad school and the years pre-husband-and-family immediately after, that perhaps we don't mean that much to each other now.

Because, in my view, if we did, I would make mental adjustments to embrace and empathize with what they have going on in their lives. And they would do the same in consideration of me.

Aw shucks, thanks for all the birthday messages! You know how to make an old guy feel loved. But what is this about me potentially getting a little brother or sister? Huh? No one cleared that with me. Fuckers.

Graduation Day

Two important milestones today:

First, my beloved golden, Gus, turns 13 today. A teenager. Whoa. I've had Gus since he was a 7-week-old little ball of fur and sharp teeth. He's celebrating the usual way: with a hamburger from a local fast food chain that only uses free range, grassfed beef. How Portland. He always eats the bun first. I am not kidding. He picks his hamburger apart and eats the top then the bottom bun then the meat. Gus loves carbs.

Second, I graduated to the regular OB. Whew! We had ultrasound #2 today at 9w4d and the kid was having a party in there. Moving all around. Cowboy maintained "he" was boxing (I suspect he wants a boy, ya think?) and, indeed, that is what it looked like. I said it was dancing, proving that boy or girl, I expect it to be able to get down with the get down. In other notes, its heartrate and measurements were all exactly where they should be.

By the way, I'm feeling a little horrible because I still refer to Junior as "it". Probably some sort of linguistics defense mechanism.

In a terribly cute, awwww moment, Junior's hand was on his/her/its face and the RE speculated that he/she/it was sucking his/her/its thumb. Which would make it exactly my kid since I sucked my thumb until I was, like, 8 or something.

Criminy, the he/she/it thing is gonna get old. I can't even use the term baby yet. I know, I am horrible. For now, I'll just keep it at "it" and we'll all just deal with my detached callousness.

By the way, if your fur babies want to give a shout out to Gus on his birthday, please do so in the comments. I will read them to him.

Fun with Cucumbers

I am not going to complain about being nauseous. Instead, I'm trying to have fun with it. I mean, after a fucking month of daily sickness reminiscent of the feeling you get the day after a "beer-before-liquor-never-sicker" college party, you gotta do something to find a little humor in it. Or you start to pout. And no one likes a pouter after the cuteness wears off.

After years of carefully crafting our weekly household menu (including vegetarian night, which Cowboy hates), I find I can no longer plan anything because I have to indulge in whatever I feel like I might be able to keep down RIGHT THEN AND THERE.

If I don't, I turn ravenous, which quickly turns to nausea and the cycle starts all over again. Leaving me munching on graham crackers at the edge of the bathroom door.

Which means a lot of last minute trips to the grocery store where I buy something completely practical, like, say, 5 cucumbers.

I was feeling horrible on Sunday when the thought of cold cucumber slices popped into my head. Without hesitation, I drove to the store and could not think about anything other than buying cucumbers. I didn't really think about what I was doing, how this might look to the average New Seasons shopper until I was piling them into my grocery basket.

I suppose I could have saved face by buying some other grocery items but thinking about cucumbers was THE ONLY THING that kept me from feeling like I was going to hurl.

Grocery stores are hard enough with all the smells. I needed to get the damn cucumbers and get the hell out.

I also suppose I just could have bought my cucumber stash without looking up and slinking out of the store. But I was so darn sick of feeling sick that I decided I would control this party. It was not gonna control me.

So, just for fun, I shoved my wedding band into my jeans pocket while waiting in the check out line. And for more fun, I picked a guy checker. A cute one.

And to amuse my pathetic self further, I replied, "Oh I will," with arched eyebrows and a little grin when he bade me to have a good day.

At least I was the story du jour of the girl-who-bought-five-cucumbers-and-nothing-more rather than the girl who threw up in the produce department.

Vote!

Hopefully you voted today if you live in the U.S.

Today means that there is officially only one year left in the presidential administration of He-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless-on-this-Blog. Thankfully it is almost over.

Even if you don't live in the U.S., you, too, can vote today. Click here to vote for Stirrup Queens as the best medical-related blog. Having one of our own win this award would really shine the spotlight on the issue of infertility. You know, experts estimate that within a few years infertility will affect 1 in 8 couples. That puts the pervasiveness of infertility in the ranks with breast cancer.

Plus, Mel - quite simply - rocks. She's Jewish, but I'm calling her Saint Mel. Because finding Stirrup Queens literally saved my soul in the darkest days after my first miscarriage. Please go vote for her!

Lemon!

Not only is it one of my favorite U2 songs, but I recently looked up - and only because I was absolutely desperate - tried this remedy for nausea:

Suck on slices of fresh lemon sprinkled with salt

Yes, it makes your face contort in a manner that has your "supportive" husband making fun of you AND tastes vaguely like the lemon-flavored Sour Patch kids candy (not a bad thing in my book). But, I swear, try 2 or 3 of these slices of goodness when you are feeling at your lowest and it gives you some temporary relief.

Word of caution: remedy does not work when you are starving and therefore caught in a cycle of nausea and low blood sugar. It just makes you retch more quickly.

Any other tried and true remedies out there?

Freakin' Fertiles (volume 1)

Since I promised I would not be ingrateful and complain about pregnancy stuff on this blog, I have another thing to complain about: fertiles.

I’m gonna be mean. Because I’m cranky. So if you are looking for some nice, sweet post - you ain’t gonna find it here.

Freakin’ Fertile story #1: Early in October, before I knew I was pregnant, I was perusing Craig’s List because I was posting a few big ticket items I didn’t sell during my tag sale. Just for kicks, I typed in the name of a baby high chair I've always imagined we’d have. You know, just to see if anyone was selling one used and for what price. Mere curiosity. Well, apparently some fertile was into this brand, too, because she had posted a "wanted" listing for a crib. Only she didn’t need the item until she was due. In May! This was early October. She was due in mid May. You do the math. Uh-huh. I mean, I hope it works out for her and all, but how’s that for getting carried away with your preggers self?

Freakin’ Fertile story #2: I am helping with invitations for a baby shower for a friend. The shower is a "white of winter" themed fete and guests are asked to bring a white-themed gift. The mother-to-be – who requested the white theme – asked me to include a line on the invitations requesting that guests not bring disposable diapers as a gift. (I guess chances are pretty high that someone would bring the proverbial cake o’ diapers to a white-themed baby shower.) Instead, I am asked to include something to the effect that the new parents are – and I quote – "saving the environment by using gdiapers." As fucking if. A little self righteous, eh? If you really want to save the environment use cloth.

Okay, enough from little Miss Cranky Pants for today. If you have a fun Freakin’ Fertile story, please do share.

Barren Bitches Book Tour #7: Happiness Sold Separately, by Lolly Winston (Group B)

#1. On pages 51-52, Elinor discusses her abortion experience. She says choices are a fairytale and that she had always been pro-choice but now realized she had no choice. Has your stance on abortion changed at all since you began suffering from infertility?

Since I learned the difference between pro-life and pro-choice, I have always supported a woman’s right to control her reproductive destiny. As we considered our options down the road – ART versus adoption – I tended to lean more toward the adoption route. While I thought my beliefs on abortion might change the further we walked down the adoption path, they never did.

I remain steadfast that no one has the right to tell anyone what they should so with their body. The way my logic sees it, you if allow one to meddle in a women’s right to end her pregnancy, then we also have to put up with meddling in all sorts of other reproductive capacities, from donor eggs, freezing, donor sperm, surrogates, etc. And that kind of meddling, in my opinion, will lead us back to the dark ages.

#4. One of the parts of the book that brought me to tears was when the oak tree that Elinor loves is chopped down. The tree had become a solid source of support for her, something that gave her comfort following the failure of fertility treatment and the separation with her husband, so its loss was devastating. Have you found something inanimate that has provided you with such support? What happened (or what would happen) when you lost that support?

I loved this question because I almost cried, too, when the Elinor’s oak tree is chopped down. We have a lovely old black walnut tree in the park right behind our house. It shades our house in the summer and has grown wide branches that obscure our backyard and porch from the park’s playground. (As you can imagine, I sometimes get sad looking at the playground).

When they were building the park, I used to have nightmares that I would come home from work and find the tree gone. I would not love my house so much if that tree were not there.

A few weeks ago, my husband trimmed back the tree’s lower branches in preparation for winter. We get big wind storms off the Pacific Ocean in the fall and the branches often break off, hitting our windows. This season, however, he trimmed them back so far that I can see the playground and the other houses across the park. Upon seeing this, I nearly went into a rage. He thought I was being a possessed bitch (and probably with good reason) but I felt so exposed with those branches gone. I still miss them and wish they would grow back quickly. I could not imagine how depressed I would be if the entire tree, like Elinor’s, was gone too.

Now that I have almost gotten over the branch-removal-episode, I must admit that it is fun to watch the squirrels jump from our fence to the now-higher branches. Quite the little athletes they are.

5. At the very close of the book, having discovered her balanced translocation, Elinor likens herself to a screwed up silverware drawer. "Yet there's solace in discovering something is tangibly wrong. A diagnosis rather than you're old" Have you ever felt like this? Do you have a diagnosis for your fertility problems? Was it a relief? If your problem is unidentified, or age is against you, do you wish that you did have a reason?

After my second miscarriage, I had the recurrent pregnancy loss panel done. Mercifully, my doctors generally begin testing after two miscarriages. I vividly remember the first day at the RE’s office. I felt a little giddy because I thought they would find something (a HA!), I would just take a magic pill and viola! baby. Turns out it never is that simple, is it? And even when you do have something tangibly diagnosed – as I know from reading these blogs – the path from diagnosis is often a tough road, too.

I was both relieved and pissed to find out that nothing was really wrong except for my age (I am in my late 30’s but my FSH was in the normal range) and that my progesterone was low. The well-your-age-is-a-factor was the toughest pill to swallow. I blamed myself for waiting. My husband for wanting to wait. And sat by dumbfounded as friend after friend – not to mention celebrities – in their late 30’s and beyond got pregnant with little problem.

I am newly pregnant again. And while I am on 600mg of prometrium a day, my progesterone has hovered around 26 for my entire pregnancy thus far. I can’t help but believe that my low progesterone levels (no matter what the differing studies say) may have complicated my earlier pregnancies when I wasn’t getting any progesterone support. If this one makes it, I will be so relieved. I will try not to be bitter about the other ones and be thankful for what I have, but I will always wonder…

# # #

Like what you read here and are intrigued to see what other's thought about Happiness Sold Separately? Hop along to another stop on this blog tour by visiting the main list at http://stirrup-queens.blogspot.com/.

You can also sign up for the next book on this online book club: The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood.

In praise of median

Ultrasound #1 at 6w4d = median.

Median meaning that Junior (and there is only one of them) measured spot on the median for everything: crown-to-rump size, gestational sac size and heartrate.

Hurdle #3 cleared. Deep exhale.

At this point, being in the center of the bell curve is good. Normal is comforting. The fact that Junior is entirely average brings me a few days of peace.

My progesterone. That's another story. Even with supplementing 600mg a day, it is only at 26.9. So I am still on suppositories 3x a day. Good thing our local coupon book (you know, the kind your neighbor kid suckers you into buying for $20 so their school can buy rock climbing ladders for the playground) had a page - a whole page! - of coupons for Naturelle organic cotton pantyliners. I think it was meant to be, but still, ugh, gross.

I am so sorry that I did not post on Thursday. You see, immediately on the heels of my ultrasound was a business trip. And I was so nervous and focused on the ultrasound that I forgot to pack my laptop (!) and my toothbrush. By the time I returned last night, I was so tired I went immediately to bed (um, that would be at 8:30 on a Friday night - LAME). This morning, I just recovered from several hours of I-must-lay-here-very-still-because-I-feel-like-I-am-going-to-hurl-at-any-moment.

Ultrasound #2 is November 15 at 9w4d. At this point, let's just assume I get there. Like ultrasound #1, this one takes place on the birthday of someone I love: my dog's 13th birthday. I can't believe I have a teenager! Lordy. Ultrasound #1 was on the birthday of my best gal, JZ.

Between now and then I have to figure out how I am going to get Cowboy there. See, until Thursday, Cowboy had not attended a single lady-bits-appointment with me. We both liked it that way. But this time, I am a mean wife because while I informed him we were going for an ultrasound, I neglected to include the word "transvaginal" in front of ultrasound. I will never forget the trapped look in his eyes when the nurse asked me to disrobe from the waist down.

Nor the amused grin he flashed when I gestured to the condom-covered dildo cam in the center of the room.

"I wonder if those are magnum sized," were his only words.

Half Pregnant

Have you ever heard the saying, "you can’t be half pregnant." You either are. Or you aren’t.

I am living proof that you can indeed be half pregnant.

I am pregnant. I have 7 HPTs in my desk drawer and 2 decent HCG betas to prove it. But I am not letting myself feel pregnant. I don’t want to re-join the club unless I am certain I won’t be kicked out of it. Again.

My two week wait went by amazingly fast. Even when I suspected I might be pregnant ("hmmm, why am I ordering a milkshake? I never crave milkshakes."), I didn’t dwell on it. Since seeing two lines two weeks ago, time has slowed to a crawl.

My first ultrasound is on Thursday, Oct. 25. A day of which I am terrified. And a date that can’t get here fast enough.

I have symptoms, I try to rationalize to myself. My boobs are sore and feel denser by the day. I literally conk out at 2 in the afternoon. Luckily, no one minds. Today I feel like I have a hangover: tired, a little nauseous, blah. I am not complaining. In fact, I secretly delight in these feelings.

And that’s when I start to feel like a fraud. What if this is all one big, cruel rouse? I go around acting like I am pregnant and feel like I might be called out at any moment: "You! Yes, you, over there. Not pregnant anymore! Please leave the room."

Yesterday, another symptom started – light cramping. Not really cramping but more like a stretching or pulling horizontally across my lower abdomen. I hate this symptom. It has me on edge. I read somewhere that this is normal. That the uterus is stretching. But in my experience, cramping of any kind = very bad. So I am nervous.

And I promised myself. Absolutely promised that I would not complain. I knew that the early stages of being pregnant would be the toughest for me. To that end, I am disappointed in myself that I'm even posting this. But these thoughts, they need some place to go.

So every day I wake up and say my mantra, "Today, I am pregnant."

And I so want to believe it and embrace it. But I haven’t quite figured out what kind of grasp to use.

8 More Things About Me

The lovely, always artistic, Von at Murphy is a Bastard recently nominated me for the 8 things about me theme. Since I love writing about myself more than anything in the world, I was thrilled to receive this task. We now interrupt our regularly scheduled programming of beta results and progesterone levels* for
8 Things About Me.


1) Similar to Miss Von, I have never had a one-night stand. This fact is the God’s honest truth but I only put this in here because my mom reads my blog.


2) I snowboarded for 12 years before I started skiing. Usually it’s the other way around.


3) For our honeymoon we went to Tasmania and New Zealand. Most of my honeymoon was spent sleeping in a tent or backpacker’s cabin with the exception of a glorious B&B we were surprised with in New Zealand. In Tasmania, we backpacked to the summit of this obscure peak called Frenchman’s Cap. This was of Cowboy’s choosing. Getting there required us slogging through 5K of mud bogs. And slogging it was. I was three days into my marriage and up to my thighs (no joke) in mud. I will tell you about the leeches another time.



4) While on our Frenchman’s Cap trek, we had this huge backpacker’s cabin to ourselves. We wrote in the cabin log that we were there on our honeymoon and, hence, gave every bunk platform a go. But it was all a big lie. After hiking through mud bogs and leeches on Day 1 and a 12-hour summit and back on Day 2, we were too tired to touch each other.


That is Cowboy in his technical hiking knickers. He will love that I published this photo on the internet. Note clothes drying above from aforementioned mud bog foray.

5) I grew up in Texas but am from a family of flaming liberals. They exist in that state. For real. I can prove it.

6) I have been practicing Ashtanga yoga for five years (practicing religiously for about 2) and still have one more pose – supta kurmasana – to go before I master the Primary – yes, as in first – series.

7) When I was a little girl in Texas we had a tornado warning in our town. We were scared to go to bed so our parents put us in our pajamas and let us pick 2 small items from our room that we could hold on to in case we had to take shelter in the bathroom at the center of the house. I choose my stuffed bunny – which I still have – and my poster of Parker Stevenson of the Frank Hardy "Hardy Boys" television show. Because the poster was big and my rescue item needed to be small, I folded the poster into a thick, small square and STUFFED IT DOWN MY UNDERPANTS lest I lose it. Sadly, I no longer have the poster of Parker.**

8) It may sound shallow, but one of my absolute most favorite possessions is my wedding band. I hope I have a child or maybe even a grandchild to give it to one day.

* Today's chocolate milkshake was divine.

** My sister chose her Shaun Cassidy as Joe Hardy "Hardy Boys" poster. So even if our house had been reduced to smithers, we could have taken solace in our matching set of Hardy Boys posters.

In turn I nominate these ladies for the 8 Things About Me theme:
WordGirl at Blood Signs
Liz at Missed Conceptions
Amy at Waiting for…?

Cannot wait to read what y'all write. Many thanks to Von for helping take my mind off the oh-my-god-am-I-still-pregnant-? train for a brief while.

My Milkshake Brings All the Boys to the Yard

Today's beta at 18dpo (4wk6days since LMP) = 2049

I hope this is good. The nurse indicated it was.

Originally my paperwork today read that they were not testing for progesterone. I asked the gal who takes the blood in the office if she would kindly ask the nurse, who would ask Dr. Stretch, if they could test for progesterone. She said she would. But I wouldn't be Ms. Planner if I didn't cover all my bases, so I called the clinic before I even exited its parking garage and asked Dr. Stretch's nurse to please, please, please test my progesterone level.

I just had this feeling, this strong intuition that my progesterone needed to tracked. And good thing I asked for it because my progesterone level actually went down (yikes!) to 25.9 and so now I am on 200mg of progesterone 3x per day.

From what I have read I know there is a lot of mixed opinions about progesterone supplementation. And you can bet I'll be researching it all this weekend. Hello old friend, Dr. Google.

Some argue that a healty embryo would be producing adequate amounts of progesterone. And low progesterone is indicative of an unhealthy embryo. Others supplement with progesterone, monitor their levels and viola! healthy baby. I know which hypothesis I want to believe.

If anyone has any beta on progesterone supplementation, anecdotally or whatever, I would really appreciate hearing it. Because, of course, I am relieved with the 2049 HCG level, but completely freaked out about my progesterone levels.

You can bet I'll be calling my RE next Friday begging for another progesterone test. I've already got it in my calendar.

First u/s is scheduled for Thurs., Oct. 25 (assuming we get there). Tomorrow I am at 5wk0day, which is when I lost Junior #2. Making it past then will be a milestone of sorts. I hope I will be celebrating with a milkshake.

Plan A lives to see another day

I want to thank each one of you for leaving your optimistic comments on my blog. They are helping me tremendously right now.

I really, really appreciate your thoughtfulness and good wishes. I will be thanking each of you personally and apologize to those I have not gotten to yet if I don't post a thank-you right away. You see, on top of all of this, I have another business trip and a huge market research project due this week. At least that will keep me from obsessing over beta levels. Yeah. Right. I didn't convince you either.

Speaking of beta levels, at 4wks2days mine are = 210
Progesterone = 26.9

I don't know if these are good or bad. My first pregnancy, I didn't know what an HCG beta was. My second one, by the time I received my beta it was a 9 (and taken after a positive HPT so I knew which direction we were headed). My progesterone test for the second pregnancy came back a 2. Not so great.

Dr. Stretch's cheery nice nurse said 210 was "very good" for where I am in my cycle. And they like anything over 20 on the progesterone scale. I don't know. Shouldn't my progesterone be higher? I am to continue with 200 mg of progesterone suppositories 2x daily.

I go back in on Friday morning for another beta and will update. I couldn't make it any earlier because I will be in Salt Lake City.

Also went to a new acupuncturist today. She is a naturopathic doctor who is also a licensed acupuncturist specializing in OBGYN issues. I liked her because she had read my medical file from my RE (unlike my previous shaman who said she wouldn't even understand a Western doctor's medical notes. WTF!?). This new one also does not do herbs, which I like because I think the herb concoction made me a bit looney. I haven't taken herbs since August and honestly feel like everything is a little bit clearer without them.

The new acupuncturist/ND gave me a quick treatment used for recurrent miscarriage. I felt okay, a bit relaxed, but not blissed out. She wants me to come back once a week but I don't dare schedule an appointment beyond one week's time.

So Plan A lives to see another day. The next part of the plan is to make it to Friday at 4:00-ish PM, which is when Dr. Stretch's crew will call with beta results.

I remember I once wrote that getting pregnant was just half my battle. Now I am battling like my life depends upon it.

Please, please, please let it be a good result on Friday.

Plan A & B

Two lines. 13dpo. Second one is thicker and darker than yesterday. Since you asked, here are the pics. 12 dpo is on the bottom.

No one knows but you. And Cowboy. Who congratulated me on my, well, pee. We're both so cautious right now.

Woke up at 5:18 AM this morning. That would be on a Saturday. To POAS. Lame.

Plan A and B are squarely on my mind. Plan A is calm elation. Just get through today only. Pregnant. Plan B - engaged if the line goes away - is to go for a long trail run. Followed by yoga.

After two miscarriages in less than a year, I can't believe I feel this, umm, well, okay right now. Perhaps I think I have the confidence that I can get through whatever happens this time. I've done it before. And I've watched those who have faced much, much worse get through the really bad parts, too. Maybe we don't return to our old selves. But we survive.

I will POAS tomorrow and Monday. If I still have 2 lines by Monday, I will call my RE's office for a beta. If I don't, I will call my OB for a shot of RhoGam. That is the plan. That is as far as it goes right now.

A Hypothetical Situation

So, hypothetically speaking, of course:

If one were to see 2 lines on - for instance - 12 dpo but one of them was pale pink, does it count?

Or would that just be, say, getting one's hopes up only to have them squashed in the gutter?

Early for October, eh?

Oh my, is it October already?

Travel for some of my work projects has gotten the better of me the past week-and-a-half. And I am still running at a breakneck pace.

Big news in my neck of the woods is that there is a REAL LIVE snow advisory in the Cascades. For serious. Up to a foot of early season snow. Yeeeeeee! Cowboy and I are going to buy our season passes soon. 'Cuz then I will for sure get pregnant, right? I can handle the valley rain as long as I know it is snowing in the mountains. I have to drive to the east side of the mountains later this week and never, ever have I packed snow chains this early in October. As I said earlier, "Yeeeee!"

Yoga. Been back at it for about 2 months now. I go in the mornings but have started practicing at 6 A.M. instead of 5 A.M., which makes all the difference in the world in terms of how much energy I have at the end of the day. Here's a big middle finger to my former acupuncturist who warned that Ashtanga was not so good for my fertility issues. Yeah, and not doing Ashtanga was not so good for my mental stability. So there. Gosh that feels so mature. Suffice it to say that despite that last comment, I am in a much. better. place.

Tag Sale. Last Saturday, held my annual tag sale (garage sale), a tradition that I love and look forward to all year. Am trying to decide what to do with the proceeds. Rule of thumb is that the money goes toward one or two "investment" items. In past years my tag sale has funded (1) everyday dishes, (2) a Karastan Oriental rug and runner and (3) an antique pine armoire for our house. I try to stay away from clothing, shoes, accessories because I know that I will usually end up selling them in another tag sale someday and it will make me feel like my purchase that year wasn't such a good investment. Any suggestions? Oh, sadly, I didn't make enough to come close to funding an IVF or adoption.

Cycle. Three days to go in the Summer of Love. Although I am not expecting to be pregnant because I made a deal with the-powers-that-be-up-there that I would forego a BFP if it meant that Von would get one instead.

By the way, nothing makes the 2WW fly by than a spate of travel and a tag sale to boot.

Anyway, that's my random life. Props out to my best gal JZ for letting me stay at her house in Colorado. I heart you!

Boo! to my friend from the wedding who emailed pictures of her 9-week sonogram to announce she was, yes, in fact, expecting. In all fairness, she did call me in advance of the email to tell me the news. Which was very nice for her to do. But, c'mon people. Is nothing sacred?! Maybe I am just too old fashioned about stuff like that? It is one thing to share early sonogram pics with someone who asks or a caring community, but to email them out to a dist list? Seriously.

Do You Believe in Magic?

Cowboy: So is it the magic time right now? Said without a trace of sarcasm.

Me: I don't know.

Cowboy: Come on, you know.

Me: No, I honestly don't. I haven't checked the monitor yet this morning, so I don't know. (See, I really did kick my BBT and charting habit).

Hours later, I still can't get it out of my head that after a year-and-a-half of trying to conceive and two miscarriages, my husband still manages to believe there is something slightly "magical" about trying to have a child.

And if you know anything about cowboys, you also know that the word "magic" generally isn't in their vocabularies.

What would I do without his unflagging optimism?

I'm Starting to Get Splinters on My Ass

We are in the last cycle of the Summer of (DIY) Love.

Fitting, that I actually used the seat heaters in my car this morning on the way to the dentist. For gum surgery. Blech. Which means I am writing this pumped full of Vicoden.

I know I promised that I would focus on DIY and nothing else during the Summer of Love. Last Friday, however, I caved. I researched a bunch of international adoption agencies. And now have some packets on the way to our house. Must remember to get the mail first over the next few weeks.

There are scary things about international adoption. But I am tired of being so damn scared all of the time.

We’ve been hiking once a week in the Columbia Gorge. You can get a lot of steep vertical in the Gorge (its goes from 90 feet in elevation to 4,000+ feet in a few short hours). It helps get our legs ready for ski season. It is also amazingly therapeutic for us to be in the outdoors.

I spent the time on the trail last Sunday confronting all of my fears about the international adoption route. I made my peace with each and every one of them. By the end of the hike, I felt less afraid and more at peace than I have in months.

Until this morning. When Cowboy woke up and told me he had a dream that I had a baby – a little girl. Our second child. And she had a really deep voice.

Just like Cowboy’s.

It hit me how much I really love him. How I haven’t yet made my peace with the fact that I might be giving up on making something from us without really trying our last remaining option: IVF. With PGD.

And all because I am scared of failure.

My husband is so classically handsome. A big, rugged Western American guy. With twinkly blue eyes. An athletic frame. A strong chin. And a deep voice, like John Wayne.

His mother once told me he’s had that voice since opened his mouth to cry. How she could hear him on the playground without seeing him because that voice was so unmistakable.

And even if a daughter had that voice. Pity the poor little darlin'. I would love it all that much more, because her voice came from him.

So here I sit on the freakin’ fence. Again.

Only, today, loaded up on drugs.

Book Tour # 6: Love & Other Impossible Pursuits

Hot freakin’ damn! It is my first Stirrup Queens book club. Many, many thanks to Mel at Stirrup Queens & Sperm Palace Jesters for organizing the book club.

The book for this tour was Love and Other Impossible Pursuits by Ayelet Waldeman. I was so happy to read something other than an infertility or miscarriage self help book, that I read Love in less than two days. Below are my answers to some of the thoughtful questions the blogsphere posted about the book.

First a message from our main sponsor:

Hop along to another stop on this blog tour by visiting the main list at http://stirrup-queens.blogspot.com/. You can also sign up for the next book on this online book club: Happiness Sold Separately by Lolly Winston (with author participation!).

And now back to another episode of Ms. Planner tries to find ways to talk about herself:

Question #1. Throughout the book my feelings towards Emilia were conflicted. If you felt that way too, why did you also feel that way?

When I first began reading Love and Other Impossible Pursuits I felt so sorry for Emilia. No one understood her; for me, even her husband didn’t support her when her stepson, William, babbled about putting the baby’s belongings on eBay. I had so much sympathy for her that I wanted to spend the afternoon holed up in her apartment with her, bemoaning how no one understood what a loss like this does to a woman.

By the Walk to Remember, my response to Emilia had changed. It seemed like her sadness had turned to rage. And she did not know how to handle it, so she lashed out at everyone else whether they deserved it or not. If you think about it, Carolyn (the ex wife) had every reason to despise Emila for the situation that she had a large role in creating. And I especially thought the way Emilia treated her mother – the one person who it seemed was always on her side – was most rude. Emilia thought her suffering gave her carte blanche to be a complete bitch.

Toward the end of the book, I was back on Emilia’s side. I think she was very fearful that being a caring stepmother to William was her "consolation prize" if she couldn’t have Isabel. And she didn’t want something to replace her being a mother to Isabel. In the end, facing this fear allowed her to focus on being what others in her life – mainly her husband and her stepson – needed her to be: an engaged stepmother. I think that new focus helped her disengage from her own grief.

Her transformation made me reflect on my own myopic grief over my recurrent miscarriages. Here's the part where I get to talk about myself. I had let myself wallow in my sadness so much that I began to act like a spoiled child. I cried if others (namely my husband) didn’t understand me. I felt the world "owed" me something. I didn’t like what I was becoming.

Strange, but being a third-party objective observer of Emilia’s fictional character ultimately helped me reflect more closely on my own behavior.

Question #4: Emilia often describes the intense physical and emotional connection between she and Jack. She often refers to him as her bashert. But after the loss of Isabel, and Emilia's spiral into solitary despair, that connection is damaged. This alteration is noted by Emilia when Jack declines her first offer of physical intimacy since their daughter's death. She becomes "terrified that I have become like Carolyn, cold to sex, unmoved by my husband, uninterested in the passion that once meant everything to me." What sort of relationship do you have with your significant other? Do you feel he/she is your bashert? What effect has IF/loss had on your emotional and/or physical relationship?

My husband’s blog nickname is Cowboy. We’ve been together for almost eight years. Married for almost three. I knew he was going to be the man I would spend the rest of my life with from the moment I met him, which was in a strip bar. See this post for the real story.

I call him Cowboy (and have long before I started to blog) because he truly is the essence of a cowboy. If we lived in an earlier time, I have no doubt that he would have been a real life cowboy out on the lonely range with a horse, a dog, a few changes of clothes and a good book. As such, he has a steeled composure that rarely lets you see how deep he can hurt. And this was hard for me to understand after my miscarriages. He never grieved openly so I thought he didn’t care. Of course he cared that his wife was hurting, but I thought he didn’t care that we lost our "children." And I held that against him for a long time, which didn’t cultivate a healing atmosphere in our marriage.

We started going to couples therapy after the second miscarriage. Actually, it was originally supposed to be therapy for me and he was going along to be supportive. In the end, we both were talking. And, more importantly, listening. Having that safe, neutral ground to talk through the pain, fear and hurt helped us find our deep connection again. Seeing a shrink together remains the best money we’ve spent during our TTC journey.

Physically I had a difficult time after both miscarriages. I am one of those lucky gals who has never had trouble with the ‘Big O’ in a physical relationship. After my first miscarriage, I suddenly found myself not being able to, well, you know. It was disconcerting for both of us. Me, I seriously thought my bajingo was broken in some way. And I think Cowboy took it a little personally. Like he wasn’t performing up to par. After a session of discussing this issue with the aforementioned therapist, I realized that I was approaching intimacy with an I-just-need-to-get-pregnant-again-right-away-and-this-will-be-fixed mentality, which was hindering my ability to, well, you know. Additionally, this approach put way to much pressure on Cowboy and he would withdraw from any intimacy. It was a vicious cycle of very little and not-so-fulfilling sex. I am so thankful we’ve gotten past that. By the way, discussing your inability to orgasm with a therapist in front of your husband makes the embarrassment of getting dildo-cammed on CD3 look like a cakewalk.

Question #8: For those of us who have suffered loss, the Walk to Remember maybe raises some feelings and issues. Emilia meets another woman who lost a child after birth. "It's a terrible way to lose them. However it happens is bad, but SIDS is the worst. I mean, of course I'd think that, but I know I'm right." Emilia feels out of place amongst the women mourning early losses "I realize, with a vertigo that almost knocks me off my feet, that this woman has named her miscarriages...I know it is unfair to feel disgust...I have no right to condemn her just because she has given her miscarriages middle names." Is there a hierarchy of loss? Do we share more than divides us? Can we get support and solace from others regardless of their exact experience... or do we seek out those whose experience most closely parallels our own?

I hated it I read Emilia’s thoughts on this subject. I physically felt myself get warm with rage. And then I was embarassed because I gave a first name to my first miscarriage. For a long time, I considered a loss a loss. It didn’t matter if the baby was 8 weeks in utero or a few days old. And then I started reading Niobe's Dead Baby Jokes blog. And my perception began to change.

I also recently attended an exhibit called BodyWorld’s that solidified my new way of thinking about miscarriage versus stillbirth versus infant death. It features a gallery of human fetuses from 5 weeks to 40 weeks. The exhibit is as tasteful and scientific as such a thing can be. Imagine a semi-circle of glass displays, serenely and elegantly lit. Focusing on each embryo, fetus and baby as if it were the most precious gem. And it really, really hit me that my losses, which were in the first few glass displays, were truly so much less in the scope than those in the last few display casements. It really put it in perspective for me.

So while there is a hierarchy, what we share, however, is the loss of the promise of a future with our child(ren). I will never get to hear my 8 week old in utero "child" laugh in some future day the same way that Emilia will never hear 2-day-old Isabel laugh. The same way that someone who hasn’t achieved pregnancy yet hasn’t had the chance to feel the light that fills you when you see the first positive pregnancy test. I believe strongly we can find common ground in those kinds of losses.

As my blog muse, Watson, once commented: "…either way, the journey is NO fun." Amen to that, sister.

To Every Season...

I have a love-hate relationship with fall.

On the love side, fall always feels like the start of something new for me. New school year (I loved school. I know: lame), new school supplies ready for all that planning and organizing, and the like.

This season, I am starting my own company. My primary job is I am a contractor to my old job – how is that for poetic justice? – plus I’m picking up a few freelance market research projects as the fall rolls around. So I’ve been busy.

My business also treated me to 2 new office supplies yesterday: (1) my favorite Uniball fine point black ink pens, which I discovered in grad school and (2) Ms. Planner’s favorite new business accouterment: a new academic school year calendar. Squee!

At my old job, I tried valiantly to be an electronic-only MS office kind of gal. Really. I tried. But to no avail. I ended up printing out the calendar by months, scribbling appointments and ‘to do’ lists in the margins.

Back in grad school I kept an old-school, spiral bound calendar with each page full of commitments, assignments, meetings and mid-terms. I went to business school full time, was a graduate teaching fellow and worked part-time at an REI store. I still have my calendar from second year as a testament to how much one person can cram into their schedule and still have a life. Sad, but keeping that schedule and pulling Dean’s List is one of my proudest achievements to date. I’d like to supplant that proudest moment with becoming a mom, but that’s another post entirely.

I also bought one new planning device for fall.

After getting aced out of a couple of eB*y, I splurged and bought it brand-spanking-new:

Hello Clear Blue Easy fertility monitor.

Good bye cashmere sweater fund.

And since it recommends starting on CD4 or 5, I’ll be breaking it out tomorrow. One cycle to go in the Summer of Love.

Which brings me to my hate relationship with fall. Fall sucks in the Northwest. It gets dark earlier with at alarming pace. It rains. A lot. It is cold and damp. There is not yet enough snow in the Cascades to act as the silver lining to rain in the valley.

Last fall, I was pregnant so I had a bright and cheery look on fall – until, that is, I miscarried in November. This fall, I am anticipating a slog.

I can only hope that I get pregnant this cycle while the sun is still shining. There I go again, silly me. Hoping and all.

Lessons Learned

What has your journey through infertility taught you? A degree from Dr. Google, notwithstanding.

I’m compiling a list. And while I won’t copy anyone’s answers, I often read things in these blogs that really get me thinking.

What I have learned so far:

Patience – I don’t have much of this but I like to think that I have acquired more patience over the past year. It is not like I am totally comfortable with the constant waiting, but I have become less insane over how long this is taking.

Humility – When I was pregnant the first time I went to the store to buy an assortment of interesting cheeses for a luncheon. The nice, older lady at the counter asked me what kind at which I announced, "no soft cheeses please because two of us are pregnant." She gave me this shocked look (actually, she looked a little sad). Today I think about this and feel like an asshat for feeling so self-important because maybe she struggled with infertility and my cocky statement took her back to that dark place. Anyway, just an example, but I feel so very humble about my body these days.

Sensitivity – I still slip here, but I believe I am more sensitive to the personal plights of others. I try not to say or do things that will hurt other’s feelings. Like gushing about my husband when I might be talking about someone who doesn’t have a special partner and wants one desperately or misses one dearly.

Being okay in an uncomfortable position – Infertility hurts. Wanting to hold your baby and not being able to hurts like hell. My first instincts with this uncomfortable-ness was either fight (I would get mad at something else) or flight (that’s it, I’m never having a baby and I better get over it – even if I wasn’t being honest with myself). There are yoga positions that challenge me this way – I am bound up and feel constricted in a not-so-good way -- so I don’t know if this skill is fertility related or acquired from yoga. But I feel less anxious about handling things that are uncomfortable.

Expecting everything to go according to plan is both futile and grandiose (and not in a good way) – I don’t think I need to elaborate here. The title of this blog says it all.

Here is a short list of things I am hoping to learn more of:

Forgiveness – forgive others because they get pregnant easily or say hurtful things without meaning to hurt me. Forgive Cowboy and me because we waited to start a family. Forgive myself for the financial and emotional burden that this desire has placed on us. Forgive my body when it fails cycle after cycle.

Staying positive no matter what life throws your way – This is my hardest lesson of all. I feel like a shell of the person I was a mere 12 months ago. I wish I could say that this struggle and heartbreak has demonstrated how resilient and tough I am, but I can’t. Some days the constant losing battle really gets to me and I know I am battling the foggy darkness. I see people who deal with much more and they seem so positive. I admire them and want to be like them. Today, I am not.

I know there is stuff that I have missed. Am taking any and all suggestions from you as jumping off points to think about what is learned from this journey so far.

Thanks in advance. The deep thoughtfulness of this community is truly amazing.

Stalker

I am stalking Clear Blue Easy fertility monitors on eB*y.

Because I need a new strategy.

The no chart way is working well for my sanity but not for the Summer of {DIY} Love. Is is Labor Day already?

This cycle I used OPKs for many days in a row and always got the same pale blue second line. I gave up on CD 15 or 16. I don’t think I even ovulated this month. My body does this after a stressful spate of work and travel. It pisses me off but I think it is my body just asserting herself.

I don’t know, she says, hand on hip. How do you expect me to pump an egg out of your old ass when you work for, like, four weeks straight through with barely any exercise while subsisting on lunches of chocolate kisses and Clif Bars? And let’s not even bring up ALL that stress about your job ending. Yes, your job is ending! We all KNOW that. My goodness, when can we just get on with being normal again?

See, while I am kind-of-sorta on a “break,” it is more a break from having my whole existence revolve around my fertility. I just want to go to yoga, run, not swallow nasty herbal tea twice daily, not shell out a hundi every 2 weeks for acupuncture, thus not raise my hopes that this month I might get pregnant naturally (shocker!). But I still want to be cognizant that Cowboy and I are at least giving it a shot.

Gross, I just realized what I wrote. No pun intended.

It is like I am in this weird, quasi-limbo of IF-land.

Is it denial that we have an issue, hence the new-to-me monitor?

Is it impatience with this process? And why do I accuse myself of impatience when plenty of others I know – both older and younger than me – get pregnant so easily?

Or is it that I am done and I am ready to move on to the next step? And deciding, really deciding, on what that next step may be? I may talk all tough about going straight to adoption but I am scared. to. death to take on the cost of IVF w/ PGD with no guaranteed outcome.

And, lastly, is it acceptable to take a prenatal vitamin with a slug of red wine?

Many thanks to Liz at Missed Conceptions and Amy at So When Will You Have Kids? - 2 of my favorite daily reads - for nominating That Was the Plan for a Rockin' Girl Blogger award.

I always wanted to rock. Seriously. My younger sister was the cool, alternative rocker girl in high school. If we didn't live on different continents, I would still be stealing her clothes.

Instead, I've always been, hmm, much more

this.

But - at least for today - I rock!

And so do you:

Von at Murphy is a Bastard. Von has an amazing gift for articulating the emotional rollercoaster of IF via a carefully-cultivated collection of photos, poems and quotes that always give me a moment of peace and comfort.

Erin at The Vicious Cycle of Cycles. Erin is hilarious. Her posts and comments have an amazing combination of thoughtful honesty and delightfully-wicked humor. She once singlehandedly brought me out of a funk by commenting that has there is child out there somewhere for parents who met in a strip club.

The Oneliner was one of the first bloggers I read when I found this wonderful invention that is infertility blogs. Her posts are smart and sassy - just like I imagine she is. Though she is a veteran now, she started her blog kind of early in her journey, hence her archives are a must-read for anyone just starting to deal with this.

Carrie at Precious Little... poignantly writes about how she is emotionally dealing with her infertility struggle. Her posts reveal the awesome sense of fear we often face along with the quiet courage that helps us pick up the pieces and keeping going on with life and TTC.

Sarah & Andy at Sarah & Andy Go to Kaz*. After a failed IVF and lots of years struggling to start a family, this couple is currently experiencing insta-family as they internationally adopt a young brother and sister. Their blog gives me hope and a glimpse of what may be our path to parenthood.

*Unfortunately, their blog is password protected for the moment as they are - at this very minute - going through the final phases of their adoption and need to keep things on the down low as they go through the final waiting period. But, trust me, their blog rocks.

There are many other blogs that I love to read and connect with on a daily basis. If I leave comments on your blog, then you know who you are. I also noticed that some of you also received RGBs from other readers so I wanted to spread the love.

For those of you duly mentioned, go forth with your rockin-ness and nominate others. Because it feels kind of good to get a nod.

Oh No She Di' int

We went to the wedding of one of my very good friends from b-school and his darling bride on Saturday. It was a mini-reunion of sorts, as he is the kind of person who stayed in touch with a good many of our classmates. I, for one, was ready to celebrate.

Hair done up, channeling Audrey as Holly in the famous movie featuring an equally famous jewelry store, I was determined to make this a night of happiness. I feel so full of sadness and disappointment lately. I didn’t want to bring my baggage into the wonderful night of a lovely couple and their lovely ceremony. I was so over myself.

The wedding was a bit modern with a cocktail reception pre-func before exchanging vows. My second good friend in our triumvirate gal pals was there, too. She started TTC in July. In fact, I gave her my copy of How to Get Pregnant Fast (Naturally) a few months ago thinking I was being so helpful and all.

I haven’t seen her since a coffee date in July when she announced that she was, at that very moment, ovulating and that they had done the deed three days in a row. Ick.

I froze then and I froze again last night when she was freaking sipping on water at the cocktail reception.

My pregnancy radar went off.

Her excuse was that she didn’t want to drink while they were still trying. I get that. I didn’t drink for months when we first started TTC. I told her was sorry that it didn’t work out for her this time and by the look on her face after I made the comment, I just knew.

I get it. It is your pregnancy. Own it. Don’t let others force you to take it in a direction you aren’t ready to go. Like telling someone you are pregnant in the middle of a wedding reception filled with dozens of classmates.

So I would have left it at that. But then she had to say that she was “a little bit past the two week wait and I’ll leave it at that.” And if she has any announcements to make, she will be ready to do so when we have lunch at the third friend’s house in early October.

I went numb.

So much for my glorious night.

It wasn’t so much that I am bummed she is pregnant. I was just so hurt that she wanted me to play a part in her fantasy pregnancy announcement to her dearest friends. Over an intimate lunch. Just the three of us. And the other friend’s new baby. And the stupid smile plastered on my face hiding the bitter lump in my throat.

What disturbs me, too, is that this is the friend with whom I have shared some of my deepest, saddest thoughts with after both of my miscarriages. She’s been there for me. I should be happy for her. What’s wrong with me? I wouldn’t wish infertility on anyone, but why can’t I get it out of my brain that this is so not fair. Why can’t I be the one blessed with a baby? Why is it easy for virtually everyone around me? Just not me.

She says she has prayed for me and thinks of me often. And I believe her. But if she thinks I am going to be party to a public announcement after which I will wind up sobbing in my car on the way home, then once again, I’ve been let down by yet another friend who claims to understand what I am going through. But who very clearly doesn’t.

I HATE what not being able to have a baby has done to me. I absolutely hate the mixture of emotions that course through my soul at this moment. I can barely write this without seething at myself.

Then I detach. I go through the motions. I smile brightly through the wedding reception. I give her a hug. But I can barely look her in the eye. And I hate myself for that, too.

I have never been so thankful that I splurged on an up do for the occasion because at least I had fantastic looking hair that night.

The next day Cowboy asks me if I am upset. I lie and say no. Later on, he asks me if her husband is going to quit his job and stay home to take care of the baby. I say I don’t know.

The sad thing is that she is my friend but I don’t care to know. Because I just can’t care right now.

I’m afraid of the thoughts I might uncover if I think about it too much.

Left Behind

I have the acute feeling lately that I am being left behind.

It all sounds very melancholy and woe-is-me. Suffice it to say that this feeling – the one of being left behind – is not my style. I hate it, actually.

It’s not that I always have to run with the pack. That’s never been my style either. I’ve always felt like a bit of an outsider, even in the most tightly-knit groups.

Call it taking the long way. Or my own way. Whatever.

But standing still is not my gig.

I just completed a big work project. One of my last. Several of my old colleagues and new employees were involved in the project. I realized at its completion, that these people were forging ahead with new adventures, new lives, new jobs, new homes. And I was not.

Not that I wanted to be establishing a new life in that new location. But at least their lives had momentum. Mine feels like I’ve slammed on the brakes.

Same goes – and please, please forgive me for these sentiments, but this is a place to get out my feelings – with all of the BFPs. I do not begrudge anyone their success. God knows, there has been enough suffering and this good news is so hard won and so deserved. But each one represents the gift of forward progress. Actual, physical and emotional forward progress.

The same with the Cyclesisters out there. I cheer for you. I have my fingers crossed. I send positive thoughts your way. But I am a small person because I am a little bit jealous because at least you are doing something.

And all of a sudden, this blog, which was my safe place, is also making me feel left behind.

Left behind because we are just trying naturally. Again. For the 16th, 17th, 18th, 19th, 20th cycle. Rinse. Repeat. It is becoming clear I don’t have any momentum here either. And even once we get to the result of that 20th cycle in October, there is no plan as to what to do next. We agreed to discuss it when we got there.

I admire and am incredulous that there are folks out there who are in this revolving door with no acceptable exit for 5 or 6+ years. I couldn’t, I can’t do it. I so wish I could be that strong.

Instead, what I need is a break. A break from the acupuncture, the herbs, the TCM diet, the meditation and the no-rigorous-exercise ban. I’ve been trying it this way religiously for 6 months. If it hasn’t worked by now, I’m betting it isn’t going to.

I don’t know if this is giving up or just acceptance. I believe that it doesn’t matter what I do. I can’t expect that this is going to happen naturally for us. Or at all, for that matter. We’ll still be parents someday but it just won’t involve me getting pregnant.

If I can’t move forward, then I might as well go back. Back to important parts of my old life. This new one, quite frankly, blows.

My old life is the one where I took as many yoga classes a week as I wanted. And weighed 10 pounds less. And could run whenever I wanted. And wasn’t sad all the time, because I had faith that I was healthy and that this was something we could do.

There will be new things in my "old" life. Like contract marketing jobs where I can work from home. With my dog asleep under my feet. Keeping them warm because my kidney yang will re-surface and they’ll get cold all the time again. And being able to practice yoga whenever I want. And skiing on a good powder day, even if it happens to be Tuesday. And being so much closer to Cowboy after all of this.

Does going back (even a little bit) ever equal forward progress?

Investment Strategy

Driving home from the lake yesterday, Cowboy and I discussed where we were going to “put” my retention bonus. Retention bonus. Sounds like an oxymoron to me.

Cowboy is a commercial financier. From Texas. I have learned in our marriage that these things to him are as essential, as natural and as unemotionally discussed as if we were deciding what to have for dinner.

Too bad housing prices haven’t dropped much around here, he said. We could use it as a down payment on a rental.

How about we invest it in an adoption, I said.

Well, darlin’, that’s not really an investment. (Duh. We went to the same b school).

Yes it is. An investment in my sanity.

About that job thing

They packed up our office today.

I worked right through it. A lot of people, well, the people who haven’t moved on or haven’t moved to the new state where my company is setting up shop, left for the day. I worked at my desk with its gorgeous view of the Willamette River and Forest Park and tried to ignore the movers.

It has been almost a year since the governor of another Western state stopped into our booth at a trade show and announced, "Welcome to (insert state here)!"

Those of us who witnessed it had to keep our mouths from dropping open.

We’d been told in June of 2006 that our company, which was purchased by a new parent firm in 2005, was staying in our hometown.

The official announcement of our company moving did not come until Friday, Oct. 13. The day before the business section ran a front page story announcing the decision. And the day before I received our first BFP.

We all worked and waited diligently for the next month, wondering who would get move packages, what would they look like, when would the move happen, what would the severance packages be? It didn’t help that it was our busy season. After weeks of anxiety, we were worked in more ways than one.

I had BIG things on my mind. I didn’t breathe a word of my news to anyone in the office. My company is great. It is very family-friendly. If, by family-friendly, you mean that you are guy with young children and a cute stay-at-home wife. In sales and marketing, where I work, there are exactly two working moms. There were a lot of women during my six year tenure who became mothers. They just no longer work there.

I was petrified that they would put me on the severance package track if they learned of my news. That they would make my decision for me. Not that I wanted to move. But it mattered that I was invited to go.

At one time this job was my dream job. It is in sports. Very cool sports. A vocation that is as much about lifestyle as anything else. I couldn’t believe I had landed such a sweet gig right out of graduate school. More times than I care to admit, I put this job before everything else. Once, while on a flight to Europe, we started counting how many weekends we had worked that year. We had to stop at April because it started to make us bitter.

It was demanding and challenging and – more often than not – beyond fun. Until this whole move thing happened. And then it got all fucked up.

A month later, you are sitting in your boss’ office. The door is closed. He has been meeting personally with your whole department, one-by-one, all day long. It’s 5 o’clock on a Tuesday. It is dark out. He is glassy-eyed. You wonder if he is stoned. Or just holding back tears.

He is talking about how they haven’t made any decisions about what the marketing department will look like in the new structure. How they want to keep you in the organization. But they have no offer to give yet. He is sorry. He knows this has been a tough time for everyone.

You don’t really hear much, because you are having deep, painful cramps.

The day before you had gone to your first pregnant lady appointment. The OB asked how you were feeling. Cheerily you said, fine. "Sometimes I don’t even feel like I am pregnant."

With that she pulled out the dildo-cam. Junior was measuring small for the gestation period. At that moment, you have no idea how bad that is. What that means. She chalks it up to a last-menstrual-period calculation error. You told her you chart. You use OPKs. Your chart dates are spot on. She shrugs and orders a more powerful ultrasound for the following week.

And now you are cramping. In a chair. In your boss’ office. With your back to the river. And it is taking all that you have not to cry. To smile. To say it is okay, you are patient. You understand that these things take time. December for a definitive answer on your role in the new organization? Before Christmas? Sounds great. Thank you for explaining the situation so thoroughly.

You walk back to your desk. Calmly tuck the cell phone into your pocket. You walk quickly to the bathroom. There is red.

You take a free tampon from the dispenser in the women’s room. You wash your hands. Still you are not crying lest someone walks into the bathroom. You work in an office with mostly guys. In sports. Beyond everything, you do not cry in the office. Instead, you dash into the stairwell across the hall and call Cowboy.

I don’t have a move offer. No, I don’t have a severance package either.

When will you know.

I think I am miscarrying. (Begin crying.)

Hang up the phone, your husband says, and get home now.

Later that night you lay in bed cramping. And bleeding. And crying quietly so you don’t wake your husband. You don’t take aspirin or Advil for the pain because you are, after all, pregnant. But you know. Though they haven’t said it, you feel like you have lost your job. And though they haven’t confirmed it, you are pretty certain you are losing your baby, too.

In 3 days the cramps and bleeding stop. You go to work every day. You take Advil now to control the pain.

Four more cycles, Christmas, New Year’s, a month where you are home for only four days out of 30 and Valentine’s Day go by before you receive word of a promotion, a new job and a move package.

By then, you don’t really care anymore.

And so you elect not to get on the bus going to the new state. A majority of your colleagues decide the same. A new regime. A new mission. You stop getting meeting requests for next year’s planning sessions.

It feels awkward. You could leave. But the retention bonus and severance package are good. And, by the time it starts to really suck, you feel that you have earned every bit of them.

After the movers left. I walked around the empty office. The framed magazine covers of athletes are packed. All of the products scattered around that I write marketing plans for are gone, too.

I start to cry. But it is OK this time. Because no one is around to see me.