Back in late October 2006, I planted daffodil bulbs in our front yard. I’m actually a tulip-kind-of-girl, but daffodils bloom earlier in the Northwest. After months of grey, rain and cold – and even during spring when it is still grey, rainy and cold – the flowers provide a welcome harbinger of the warm weather to come. So I picked a species that would come up early.
I was just barely pregnant with Junior #1 at the time of planting. As I planted, I imagined what I would look like when these daffodils bloomed.
A few weeks later, I miscarried. My OB confirmed this at my ultrasound after seeing a barely-there heartbeat.
I miscarried naturally and had nothing left of this so-very-much-wanted pregnancy. So I wrote a letter to "Junior" (our code for the embryo) and buried a copy amongst a nest of daffodil bulbs right by our front door.
As I buried the letter as one would a pet hamster, I said a few prayers. My first prayer was for Junior the Embryo. My second was that I would be pregnant again by the time those daffodils bloomed in spring.
By March 2007, the daffodils were up and the sun was starting to shine again every few days. I was not pregnant. At first, the blooms sagged and then the stalks grew strong. The daffodils flourished and looked delightful in our front yard.
March came and went. No such luck.
By mid-April, the blooms started to wither. "Great," I thought, "There goes that prayer." Yes, I am a horribly selfish person when it comes to religion (which I know is terrible and is something I have promised Him I will work on).
A week later I was out for a walk with a friend’s 6-year-old. She’s a flower fanatic, quite knowledgeable for her age about all kinds of flora. Returning from the walk, we surveyed our lawn and sighed over the dying daffodil blooms.
"But Ms. Planner!" screeched my charge, who has a habit of invoking really high little girl pitches in her voice, "Look, there are two flowers still blooming!" And indeed there were.
She desperately wanted to pick them for her bouquet of weeds we’d brought home, but I wouldn’t let her, because then Junior’s daffodils would be no more.
And, although it sounds mean, I am glad I didn’t let her pick the remaining blooms.
Because a few nights later, I got a positive HPT:
Junior #2.
My wish had come true. I was pregnant again with the daffodils.
Shortly thereafter, the remaining two daffodils faded. Almost as quickly as they faded, so did the pregnancy. My RE called it a chemical. My sweet OB said that any pregnancy is a pregnancy. And gave me another shot of Rho-Gam in my ass.
Late winter 2008 has brought a spate of warmish, sunny weather in the Northwest. Hence, Junior #1’s daffodil stalks are again pushing their way to reach what little sun is to be had during the day.
This year, I waddle past them every morning and say a thank-you to whatever powers that be that I am pregnant yet again. My wish did come true. Just a little later than I wanted. But it came true nonetheless.
For fleeting moments, I sometimes wonder about the almost ones. Junior #1 would be a chubby 9-month old today. Junior#2, an infant, who had hopefully just gotten into a schedule.
Today perhaps I will go to the store and buy a bouquet of daffodils for their little sister-in-waiting. My prayer these days is that I will have the chance to let her pick as many of those blooms as she wants from the yard.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
Housecleaning
I've done a little organizing on my blog.
When I first started reading blogs in the late fall of 2006, only one blog author that I faithfully read was pregnant. And she was just newly so.
By the time I started That Was The Plan in spring 2007 - after my second miscarriage - there were a handful of ladies, maybe three or four, who were on their way.
Undoubtedly I initially connected with blogs where I "felt" I had more in common with the author. Sometimes our commonality was recurrent miscarriage. Or maybe I sensed an author had similar life experiences to my own. Oftentimes, I just enjoyed the way a person wrote and could feel a personality that jibed with my own from her posts. Hence, I read more blogs of people still struggling than those who had already hit the jackpot.
Sometimes the disparity between those with success and those still struggling seemed downright futile. But I loved reading the success stories. It gave me hope.
This past weekend, I realized that almost one-third of the blogs I read are written by women who have stared down the barrel of IF and have come out still standing on the "other" side. Another third are well on their way.
What amazes me, too, is how different their paths are.
My college roommate (who does not blog) struggled with IF for 5 long years. The birth announcement she sent out last Christmas heralding the arrival of her son read simply, "Believe."
Trust me. Believing is hard to do when we've been conditioned through our experiences to not believe. I still struggle with believing.
Another friend asked me the other day if I was more relaxed now that I am in my second trimester. I told her I was starting to become more chill now that I was getting closer to the point where they would try to save my daughter if I delivered early.
You mean, you are still thinking that way? She wanted to know.
Her rhetorical comment made me realize that she just didn't understand. But I was okay with it.
So here's my deal:
For those who feel they have made it to the other side, I will continue to rejoice with you and help heal the wounds by understanding what you've been through.
For those still struggling, please know that I will stick by you until you reach your other side. On the days when you can't, I will continue to believe for you. Because I know in my soul that everyone will make it one way or another.
When I first started reading blogs in the late fall of 2006, only one blog author that I faithfully read was pregnant. And she was just newly so.
By the time I started That Was The Plan in spring 2007 - after my second miscarriage - there were a handful of ladies, maybe three or four, who were on their way.
Undoubtedly I initially connected with blogs where I "felt" I had more in common with the author. Sometimes our commonality was recurrent miscarriage. Or maybe I sensed an author had similar life experiences to my own. Oftentimes, I just enjoyed the way a person wrote and could feel a personality that jibed with my own from her posts. Hence, I read more blogs of people still struggling than those who had already hit the jackpot.
Sometimes the disparity between those with success and those still struggling seemed downright futile. But I loved reading the success stories. It gave me hope.
This past weekend, I realized that almost one-third of the blogs I read are written by women who have stared down the barrel of IF and have come out still standing on the "other" side. Another third are well on their way.
What amazes me, too, is how different their paths are.
My college roommate (who does not blog) struggled with IF for 5 long years. The birth announcement she sent out last Christmas heralding the arrival of her son read simply, "Believe."
Trust me. Believing is hard to do when we've been conditioned through our experiences to not believe. I still struggle with believing.
Another friend asked me the other day if I was more relaxed now that I am in my second trimester. I told her I was starting to become more chill now that I was getting closer to the point where they would try to save my daughter if I delivered early.
You mean, you are still thinking that way? She wanted to know.
Her rhetorical comment made me realize that she just didn't understand. But I was okay with it.
So here's my deal:
For those who feel they have made it to the other side, I will continue to rejoice with you and help heal the wounds by understanding what you've been through.
For those still struggling, please know that I will stick by you until you reach your other side. On the days when you can't, I will continue to believe for you. Because I know in my soul that everyone will make it one way or another.
Monday, February 11, 2008
The rock and the hard place
I realize that this blog has morphed from tackling loss, infertility and now pregnancy after loss/infertility. This past weekend I reached 22 weeks (5-1/2 months) of pregnancy. As such, I find myself making that inevitable transition between the this-one-may-also-not-work-out and holy-shit-I-better-get-my-ass-in-gear-because-it-looks-like-this-may-happen lines of thought.
Yesterday, I saw The Business of Being Born documentary at a community screening. (Warning: the link flashes to a trailer featuring pregnancies and babies, but you can quickly click off the trailer page to get more information about the film without seeing this.)
I don’t intend to write a review of the film – because it presented so much opportunity for discourse – other than to say that I am SO glad I saw it. I highly recommend those of you approaching a birth see it, too.
It really got me thinking about my journey thus far and the direction I want the remainder of the journey to take now that I’m midway through it.
If you had asked me a year ago, I would have been happy to have a child in my life by any means necessary. But now that I am actually knocked up with support of modern medicine – read: progesterone, early ultrasounds, CVS testing, etc. – I find myself wanting to reclaim a bit of "natural-ness" in this whole process. Seems a bit two-faced to me. But part of me wants to make up for the horrible, shitty anxiety and poking & prodding of the first trimester. And the other part of me wants to test myself physically and emotionally with the birth process, which may be my only opportunity in my life to do so.
I’m not going for a midwife-assisted home birth in a bath. But I am leaning toward trying to accomplish this by more natural means than pitocin and an epidural.
A few years ago I rock climbed the East Buttress of Mt. Whitney with a friend. At 14,800-feet, Mt. Whitney is the tallest peak in the Lower 48. The ascent and descent took 16 hours of long, physical effort. It snowed on our first pitch and proceeded to get colder and grayer as we ascended. The weather kept the handful of other teams off the rock. But both my friend and I hate rappelling with a passion and by the time the weather got bad enough to make it miserable, we had climbed too far to warrant a rappel.
My friend forgot the guidebook and we got lost en route. We found our way back to the right pitch but it took over an hour of route finding while I sat on a tiny belay pitch at 14,000 feet. I was tied in, legs dangling over a sheer face. I couldn’t communicate with my partner. It was freezing. Every part of my body hurt as I alternated between feeding out rope and holding the rope in brake position. I felt utterly alone, scared and beyond sore. Climbing big walls is a lesson in isolation and self-reliance. You see your partner for a handful of minutes as you make the transition onto the next pitch. Mostly it is all about you. And your demons. And your effort. And your confidence in yourself. And your pain.
We finally made it and the clouds cleared miraculously to give us a grand view of the Southern Sierras. We took a few minutes to eat a Clif Bar and re-rack our gear for the descent, which was a 2000 foot hike down a craggy 50-degree route comprised of small granite boulders that required us to scramble. Getting lost earlier on the wall meant we were losing sunlight fast.
And I had forgotten my headlamp.
The descent sucked more than the climb up. I dislike downclimbing. Period. The sun was almost completely gone as we made it to the steepest part of the descent. My only light was a tiny hand-held LED light in my bail out kit like the kind you keep on a key ring, which lit up when I pinched it between my thumb and forefinger. We descended slowly. Partly because we were exhausted and sore. And partly because it was so dark that our lights only illuminated the next 10 feet in front of us and we didn’t want to head over a boulder with an 8-foot drop on the other side.
A few teams at base camp saw our lights blinking down the route. They lit lanterns so we could find our way back to camp. It should have been gratifying to see those lights, but they were so tiny and seemed so far away. My fear got the best of me and I found myself between a rock and a hard place – literally and figuratively. I was scared to go on and thought seriously about parking myself on a rock ledge about 2 hours above base camp, shivering all night long while I waited for the sun to come up. That would have taken hours. The other option was to keep going through the cold ache, the exhaustion and the utter fear of a painful or deadly mis-step in the black darkness. Keep going just 2 more hours to base camp, with its bliss of a cup of warm soup and my zero-degree down sleeping bag.
I kept going. And it sucked. But I made it. And had one of my best nights of sleep ever that night. The high I had for the next several days didn't fade either. Even when we hoisted our 50-lb. packs on our aching backs for another 5,000-feet of steep singletrack to the cars.
Climbing that bitch – and making it down in one piece – is one of my proudest achievements to date (forgetting my headlamp notwithstanding).
So while the pain of labor is sure to be more intense than the pain I felt on this climb, I think the emotional response may be similar. I’ve pushed myself physically – on more than one occasion – to the point of the rock and the hard place. Scared to go forward. Scared to go back. It is that space of utter isolation, fear and pain that I think women are most scared of when in labor. That and that something might happen to the baby.
But, as this movie points out, for the vast majority of women who have the confidence that they can get through labor without drugs, everything works out okay for them and the baby. And the result far outweighs the pain they went through.
I know the premise of this film is not for everyone. And we all know there is no one-size-fits-all when it comes to family building. But – for me – I really think I can do this without drugs. And I want to give it a go.
Yesterday, I saw The Business of Being Born documentary at a community screening. (Warning: the link flashes to a trailer featuring pregnancies and babies, but you can quickly click off the trailer page to get more information about the film without seeing this.)
I don’t intend to write a review of the film – because it presented so much opportunity for discourse – other than to say that I am SO glad I saw it. I highly recommend those of you approaching a birth see it, too.
It really got me thinking about my journey thus far and the direction I want the remainder of the journey to take now that I’m midway through it.
If you had asked me a year ago, I would have been happy to have a child in my life by any means necessary. But now that I am actually knocked up with support of modern medicine – read: progesterone, early ultrasounds, CVS testing, etc. – I find myself wanting to reclaim a bit of "natural-ness" in this whole process. Seems a bit two-faced to me. But part of me wants to make up for the horrible, shitty anxiety and poking & prodding of the first trimester. And the other part of me wants to test myself physically and emotionally with the birth process, which may be my only opportunity in my life to do so.
I’m not going for a midwife-assisted home birth in a bath. But I am leaning toward trying to accomplish this by more natural means than pitocin and an epidural.
A few years ago I rock climbed the East Buttress of Mt. Whitney with a friend. At 14,800-feet, Mt. Whitney is the tallest peak in the Lower 48. The ascent and descent took 16 hours of long, physical effort. It snowed on our first pitch and proceeded to get colder and grayer as we ascended. The weather kept the handful of other teams off the rock. But both my friend and I hate rappelling with a passion and by the time the weather got bad enough to make it miserable, we had climbed too far to warrant a rappel.
My friend forgot the guidebook and we got lost en route. We found our way back to the right pitch but it took over an hour of route finding while I sat on a tiny belay pitch at 14,000 feet. I was tied in, legs dangling over a sheer face. I couldn’t communicate with my partner. It was freezing. Every part of my body hurt as I alternated between feeding out rope and holding the rope in brake position. I felt utterly alone, scared and beyond sore. Climbing big walls is a lesson in isolation and self-reliance. You see your partner for a handful of minutes as you make the transition onto the next pitch. Mostly it is all about you. And your demons. And your effort. And your confidence in yourself. And your pain.
We finally made it and the clouds cleared miraculously to give us a grand view of the Southern Sierras. We took a few minutes to eat a Clif Bar and re-rack our gear for the descent, which was a 2000 foot hike down a craggy 50-degree route comprised of small granite boulders that required us to scramble. Getting lost earlier on the wall meant we were losing sunlight fast.
And I had forgotten my headlamp.
The descent sucked more than the climb up. I dislike downclimbing. Period. The sun was almost completely gone as we made it to the steepest part of the descent. My only light was a tiny hand-held LED light in my bail out kit like the kind you keep on a key ring, which lit up when I pinched it between my thumb and forefinger. We descended slowly. Partly because we were exhausted and sore. And partly because it was so dark that our lights only illuminated the next 10 feet in front of us and we didn’t want to head over a boulder with an 8-foot drop on the other side.
A few teams at base camp saw our lights blinking down the route. They lit lanterns so we could find our way back to camp. It should have been gratifying to see those lights, but they were so tiny and seemed so far away. My fear got the best of me and I found myself between a rock and a hard place – literally and figuratively. I was scared to go on and thought seriously about parking myself on a rock ledge about 2 hours above base camp, shivering all night long while I waited for the sun to come up. That would have taken hours. The other option was to keep going through the cold ache, the exhaustion and the utter fear of a painful or deadly mis-step in the black darkness. Keep going just 2 more hours to base camp, with its bliss of a cup of warm soup and my zero-degree down sleeping bag.
I kept going. And it sucked. But I made it. And had one of my best nights of sleep ever that night. The high I had for the next several days didn't fade either. Even when we hoisted our 50-lb. packs on our aching backs for another 5,000-feet of steep singletrack to the cars.
Climbing that bitch – and making it down in one piece – is one of my proudest achievements to date (forgetting my headlamp notwithstanding).
So while the pain of labor is sure to be more intense than the pain I felt on this climb, I think the emotional response may be similar. I’ve pushed myself physically – on more than one occasion – to the point of the rock and the hard place. Scared to go forward. Scared to go back. It is that space of utter isolation, fear and pain that I think women are most scared of when in labor. That and that something might happen to the baby.
But, as this movie points out, for the vast majority of women who have the confidence that they can get through labor without drugs, everything works out okay for them and the baby. And the result far outweighs the pain they went through.
I know the premise of this film is not for everyone. And we all know there is no one-size-fits-all when it comes to family building. But – for me – I really think I can do this without drugs. And I want to give it a go.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Coming Out
One of my favorite business trips of the year is a trade show whereby all the retailers of outdoor gear come to buy next year’s products from the manufacturers – a veritable "Grown Ups Toys-R-Us." In my ten + years in the outdoor sports industry, I’ve made several lifelong friends most of whom come to this show. It’s like an annual high school reunion.
A few of the women in this circle knew of my struggles to start a family.
I kept this pregnancy under wraps from most of them. I just didn’t want to write those emails if it didn’t work out. This past trip, however, their genuine joy over my obvious belly was a wonderful thing to see.
Except for one woman. I met her last year. Over the phone. She wanted to hire me for a great job in Colorado. She wanted things to move fast, explaining that she just really needed a break from the pace she was keeping.
I knew from a colleague that this woman had struggled with miscarriages and a failed IVF. She is a few years older than me. We are similar in that we believed wholeheartedly that we could easily start families in our late-30’s only after netting the grad degree, the spouse, the house and paying it all off with a management-level position. (Suckers).
In one of our final conversations last fall, she had all but hired me and bought our plane tickets to Colorado when I put on the brakes.
"The truth is, I’m a stirrup queen," I admitted over the phone, "And I don’t think I can fairly commit the time and energy you need for this position right now because I’m struggling to start a family."
With that, we launched into an hour-long discussion about our fertility struggles.
She admitted that she had scheduled IVF #2 for the fall and wanted to reduce the stress and the level of hours she was keeping before embarking on round 2. She cautioned me not to wait to try IVF and even offered up a referral to her RE in the Denver-area.
It was the strangest and most satisfying interview I’ve ever had. It was also the first time I publicly put my personal life before my work. I declined the offer. A few weeks later I found out I was pregnant with Missy.
Flash forward to January. I would see her face-to-face at an event where it would be too difficult to dodge each other. I hoped that she, too, would be pregnant.
I knew her cautious and detached "congratulations" all too well as she stared at me in disbelief. Had the shoe been on the other foot, I know I would have behaved somewhat similarly. I felt so bad. I wanted to give her a hug. And apologize for getting pregnant when she had not.
After a bit, she warmed up and then peppered me with questions. What had I done? Had I used acupuncture? Herbs? A traditional Chinese medicine diet?
When asked, I’ve always been open about my journey. But this conversation really forced me to think about and articulate why this time might have been different from the others. Aside from whatever mystical connection to the universe or God’s "Plan" or whatever, what had I done or not done to contribute to this pregnancy’s success?
In a nutshell:
Yoga. Each of my BFPs was preceded by a spate of dedicated yoga practice. Even after "experts" told me that Ashtanga was contributing to my lack of progesterone issues, I never got pregnant when I wasn’t practicing Ashtanga yoga regularly.
Progesterone Supplements. Even with Missy, who by all accounts is healthy, I had falling progesterone levels. My thoughts on low progesterone and pregnancy are so long-winded that I will save it for a separate post, but I firmly believe that the three suppositories a day saved this pregnancy.
Diet. I did follow a TCM yang-deficiency diet for several months before this pregnancy. And after I got pregnant and was weaned off progesterone, I nearly ate a pint of ice cream to make up for it all.
Chinese Herbs. I ditched using these 2 months before becoming pregnant this time. I think they were hampering my emotional state.
Acupuncture. I ditched this 2 months before becoming pregnant this time. However, I did resume acupuncture for recurrent pregnancy loss right when I found out I was pregnant and continued weekly treatments until the end of my first trimester.
Work stress. While I don’t advocate quitting one’s job if you truly love it, but it is pretty ironic that we achieved a successful pregnancy on the first cycle where I wasn’t imbibing in a daily dose of sadness and stress as my company prepared to move to another state.
Letting Go. Yeah right. Someone with the blog moniker "Ms. Planner" can never just let go. But I had resigned myself that this was our last month of trying before moving on to IVF or adoption. We would never have timed sex again, I promised us.
Clear Blue Easy Fertility Monitor. Fuck those OPKs and obsessing if I was one of those women who ovulated 12 hours or 48 hours post-positive stick. I brought out the big guns and discovered that instead of being a CD 13 & 14 girl, I’m a CD 14 & 15 girl. Now that I think about it, we always got pregnant if we timed things for the evening of CD14 instead of morning. I never was a morning person anyway.
That is my journey. But everyone’s journey is different and uniquely their own. I borrowed a little from my intuition, a little from Western medicine, a little from Eastern medicine, a little psychotherapy. And crafted my own little Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang of a fertility vehicle. Thank heavens it didn’t sink this time.
At the end of our conversation, the woman who wanted to hire me held out her hand and asked me to pass some baby vibes her way. I don’t believe in that baby dust hooey but I extended my pinky finger and gave her a pinky good luck shake. I wished her all the luck in the world on her journey. I hope she finds what will work best for her, physically, emotionally and spiritually soon.
I hope that for everyone.
A few of the women in this circle knew of my struggles to start a family.
I kept this pregnancy under wraps from most of them. I just didn’t want to write those emails if it didn’t work out. This past trip, however, their genuine joy over my obvious belly was a wonderful thing to see.
Except for one woman. I met her last year. Over the phone. She wanted to hire me for a great job in Colorado. She wanted things to move fast, explaining that she just really needed a break from the pace she was keeping.
I knew from a colleague that this woman had struggled with miscarriages and a failed IVF. She is a few years older than me. We are similar in that we believed wholeheartedly that we could easily start families in our late-30’s only after netting the grad degree, the spouse, the house and paying it all off with a management-level position. (Suckers).
In one of our final conversations last fall, she had all but hired me and bought our plane tickets to Colorado when I put on the brakes.
"The truth is, I’m a stirrup queen," I admitted over the phone, "And I don’t think I can fairly commit the time and energy you need for this position right now because I’m struggling to start a family."
With that, we launched into an hour-long discussion about our fertility struggles.
She admitted that she had scheduled IVF #2 for the fall and wanted to reduce the stress and the level of hours she was keeping before embarking on round 2. She cautioned me not to wait to try IVF and even offered up a referral to her RE in the Denver-area.
It was the strangest and most satisfying interview I’ve ever had. It was also the first time I publicly put my personal life before my work. I declined the offer. A few weeks later I found out I was pregnant with Missy.
Flash forward to January. I would see her face-to-face at an event where it would be too difficult to dodge each other. I hoped that she, too, would be pregnant.
I knew her cautious and detached "congratulations" all too well as she stared at me in disbelief. Had the shoe been on the other foot, I know I would have behaved somewhat similarly. I felt so bad. I wanted to give her a hug. And apologize for getting pregnant when she had not.
After a bit, she warmed up and then peppered me with questions. What had I done? Had I used acupuncture? Herbs? A traditional Chinese medicine diet?
When asked, I’ve always been open about my journey. But this conversation really forced me to think about and articulate why this time might have been different from the others. Aside from whatever mystical connection to the universe or God’s "Plan" or whatever, what had I done or not done to contribute to this pregnancy’s success?
In a nutshell:
Yoga. Each of my BFPs was preceded by a spate of dedicated yoga practice. Even after "experts" told me that Ashtanga was contributing to my lack of progesterone issues, I never got pregnant when I wasn’t practicing Ashtanga yoga regularly.
Progesterone Supplements. Even with Missy, who by all accounts is healthy, I had falling progesterone levels. My thoughts on low progesterone and pregnancy are so long-winded that I will save it for a separate post, but I firmly believe that the three suppositories a day saved this pregnancy.
Diet. I did follow a TCM yang-deficiency diet for several months before this pregnancy. And after I got pregnant and was weaned off progesterone, I nearly ate a pint of ice cream to make up for it all.
Chinese Herbs. I ditched using these 2 months before becoming pregnant this time. I think they were hampering my emotional state.
Acupuncture. I ditched this 2 months before becoming pregnant this time. However, I did resume acupuncture for recurrent pregnancy loss right when I found out I was pregnant and continued weekly treatments until the end of my first trimester.
Work stress. While I don’t advocate quitting one’s job if you truly love it, but it is pretty ironic that we achieved a successful pregnancy on the first cycle where I wasn’t imbibing in a daily dose of sadness and stress as my company prepared to move to another state.
Letting Go. Yeah right. Someone with the blog moniker "Ms. Planner" can never just let go. But I had resigned myself that this was our last month of trying before moving on to IVF or adoption. We would never have timed sex again, I promised us.
Clear Blue Easy Fertility Monitor. Fuck those OPKs and obsessing if I was one of those women who ovulated 12 hours or 48 hours post-positive stick. I brought out the big guns and discovered that instead of being a CD 13 & 14 girl, I’m a CD 14 & 15 girl. Now that I think about it, we always got pregnant if we timed things for the evening of CD14 instead of morning. I never was a morning person anyway.
That is my journey. But everyone’s journey is different and uniquely their own. I borrowed a little from my intuition, a little from Western medicine, a little from Eastern medicine, a little psychotherapy. And crafted my own little Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang of a fertility vehicle. Thank heavens it didn’t sink this time.
At the end of our conversation, the woman who wanted to hire me held out her hand and asked me to pass some baby vibes her way. I don’t believe in that baby dust hooey but I extended my pinky finger and gave her a pinky good luck shake. I wished her all the luck in the world on her journey. I hope she finds what will work best for her, physically, emotionally and spiritually soon.
I hope that for everyone.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Back home
I am back from my work travels. Tired and with a bit of a cold. I worked 14 days straight at two back-to-back trade shows in two of the U.S.'s most diverse cities in which to be pregnant: Salt Lake City, Utah (the nation's most fertile state with its youngest population) and Las Vegas.
Being 5 months pregnant in Salt Lake just means that most people assume I'm on baby #6. Pregnant women (umm, really girls - they all look so damn young) and small children abound here. Infertility sucks in itself but to be infertile and living in Salt Lake would be a double burden to bear. Fertiles are everywhere.
Las Vegas. A completely different story. Being obviously pregnant in Sin City is tantamount to being a circus freak.
I don't even like Vegas. It is so opposite my style to begin with. Suffice it to say that being pregnant + Vegas = majorly no fun. For instance:
Men obviously staring at my chest and then my belly. I felt like I was on display.
No sushi at Nobu. Sigh.
No Maker's Mark and ginger ale at AJ's Steak House.
No Hard Rock Casino for people watching - as a general rule I don't gamble. Too much second hand smoke.
One night I attempted to rally and go to the Mix, a fabulous nightclub that looks out over the Strip on the top floor of the Hotel with some colleagues. Okay, it was crowded but I swear the bouncer took one look at my pregnant belly and informed us it would be at least an hour before we would even be let into the bar.
Apparently no one wants to disturb the carefree vibe that is the very lifeblood of Vegas with a visible reminder of a knocked up gal.
Thank goodness for the Bathhouse spa and pedicure. And room service.
In the end, I am glad that I was fortunate enough to be dealing with those minor inconveniences. Missy handled the long days like trooper. Now, we rest for a few days. And do the laundry.
Being 5 months pregnant in Salt Lake just means that most people assume I'm on baby #6. Pregnant women (umm, really girls - they all look so damn young) and small children abound here. Infertility sucks in itself but to be infertile and living in Salt Lake would be a double burden to bear. Fertiles are everywhere.
Las Vegas. A completely different story. Being obviously pregnant in Sin City is tantamount to being a circus freak.
I don't even like Vegas. It is so opposite my style to begin with. Suffice it to say that being pregnant + Vegas = majorly no fun. For instance:
Men obviously staring at my chest and then my belly. I felt like I was on display.
No sushi at Nobu. Sigh.
No Maker's Mark and ginger ale at AJ's Steak House.
No Hard Rock Casino for people watching - as a general rule I don't gamble. Too much second hand smoke.
One night I attempted to rally and go to the Mix, a fabulous nightclub that looks out over the Strip on the top floor of the Hotel with some colleagues. Okay, it was crowded but I swear the bouncer took one look at my pregnant belly and informed us it would be at least an hour before we would even be let into the bar.
Apparently no one wants to disturb the carefree vibe that is the very lifeblood of Vegas with a visible reminder of a knocked up gal.
Thank goodness for the Bathhouse spa and pedicure. And room service.
In the end, I am glad that I was fortunate enough to be dealing with those minor inconveniences. Missy handled the long days like trooper. Now, we rest for a few days. And do the laundry.
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