My new friend from Still Passing Open Windows tagged me to share "Six Non-Important Quirks" about myself. After last week's imperfect-day post, it is high time for a light-hearted antidote.
Below are the rules for the meme:
1) Link to the person who tagged you.
2) Post the rules.
3) Share six non-important things / habits / quirks about yourself.
4) Tag at least three people.
5) Be sure the people you tagged KNOW you tagged them by commenting what you did.
Six Non-Important Quirks About Me
#1. The undergarments I wear on a given day must match in color. No beige bra / black panties combo. All black or all beige.
#2. I pre-wash the dishes and silverware in soapy water before putting them in the dishwasher.
#3. More dishwasher anal-ness: I load it a certain way and have been known to re-arrange dishes if they don't pass organizational muster. Insane, I know.
#4. I cannot stand litter and pick up pieces of trash in my neighborhood as I walk Gus.
#5. I own more pairs of trail running shoes than street shoes.
#6. I always buy a package of Swedish Fish when I shop at IKEA. I know they sell them at Target and other stores, but - for some reason - they don't taste the same to me.
I realized after reading the first four quirks that I sound a lot like Bree from "Desperate Housewives." Oh well. It is what it is.
Now I tag:
Precious Little (hopefully this will provide momentary respite during your 2WW)
Waiting Amy (to see how well she is going to fit in with life in L.A. - ha!)
Weebles Wobblog (because I am sure they will be entertaining to read)
Now I am off to work on my St. Patrick's Day limerick. Pity I can't use "Nantucket" in it.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Friday, February 29, 2008
Of loss on this imperfect day (Feb. 29, 2008)
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.
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.
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.
Friday, January 18, 2008
18 week ultrasound
"You two do good work."
That was the report from the doctor at our 18-week anatomical scan today. I technically hit the 19-week mark this weekend. Can you tell I want time to fly?
I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Although I realize that things can turn on a dime, this felt like one of those big hurdles cleared.
Missy was moving all over the place but ended up cooperating for the important shots - including what I called the sitting-on-the-photocopier-shot, which proved that she definitely is a little girl. "Don't EVER do that when you are big," I admonished her, eliciting chuckles from Cowboy and the male ultrasound tech. I feel slight movements nearly every day, which is the most reassuring pregnancy "symptom" I've had so far.
Our ultrasound tech was terrific. He told us at the end of the ultrasound that he was glad he had us as patients and that everything was okay. He had had two patients earlier in the day that he discovered "really bad news" on their ultrasounds. My heart just went out to those women and men. Cowboy and I went to a late lunch afterward and I felt guilty sitting there all happy with my prospects when there were two couples out there who were staring down the barrel of one of the worst weekends of their lives.
I wish them some peace wherever they are in P-town.
On Monday I leave for a two-week long business trip (apologies in advance if I am not posting or checking up too often). I've promised myself that the real planning will begin when I return: 529 college plan, a will, crank up the life insurance policy and - maybe - some nursery furniture sourcing.
On another cute note, Cowboy is definitely prepping for the baby in his own cowboy way. He was the one who researched ALL the 529 plan information so now we just have to decide on which route we will go. And last weekend - when I was at the baby shower - he went to the mountain where there happened to be a junior ski competition. He made sure he watched the girl's race.
That was the report from the doctor at our 18-week anatomical scan today. I technically hit the 19-week mark this weekend. Can you tell I want time to fly?
I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Although I realize that things can turn on a dime, this felt like one of those big hurdles cleared.
Missy was moving all over the place but ended up cooperating for the important shots - including what I called the sitting-on-the-photocopier-shot, which proved that she definitely is a little girl. "Don't EVER do that when you are big," I admonished her, eliciting chuckles from Cowboy and the male ultrasound tech. I feel slight movements nearly every day, which is the most reassuring pregnancy "symptom" I've had so far.
Our ultrasound tech was terrific. He told us at the end of the ultrasound that he was glad he had us as patients and that everything was okay. He had had two patients earlier in the day that he discovered "really bad news" on their ultrasounds. My heart just went out to those women and men. Cowboy and I went to a late lunch afterward and I felt guilty sitting there all happy with my prospects when there were two couples out there who were staring down the barrel of one of the worst weekends of their lives.
I wish them some peace wherever they are in P-town.
On Monday I leave for a two-week long business trip (apologies in advance if I am not posting or checking up too often). I've promised myself that the real planning will begin when I return: 529 college plan, a will, crank up the life insurance policy and - maybe - some nursery furniture sourcing.
On another cute note, Cowboy is definitely prepping for the baby in his own cowboy way. He was the one who researched ALL the 529 plan information so now we just have to decide on which route we will go. And last weekend - when I was at the baby shower - he went to the mountain where there happened to be a junior ski competition. He made sure he watched the girl's race.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Welcome to the other side
Back in June, you might remember that I co-hosted a baby shower with a friend for our third friend. The three of us went to MBA school together and ended up in the same town post-graduation. We just happened to get married in the same year. And in a moment of silly, pre-IF glee, pledged to co-host baby showers for each other when - not if - the time came. Stupid, stupid girls-night-out, second apple martini.
This past weekend, I co-hosted a shower with the third friend (the new mom) for our second friend – who is due end of March. It was much more fun for me than the first baby shower because (a) I wasn’t recovering from a recent miscarriage and (b) I was well on my way to being a real live pregnant lady.
But life on the other side is still so weird to me.
There is nothing like sitting around a dinner table full of 8 new moms to make you want to slink into the kitchen to load the dishwasher and soak the wine glasses.
I felt like a bona fide fraud. And nervous, like I was going to be punished by losing Missy if I behaved as if I was a normal pregnant woman at the shower.
On one hand, I am angry that I have let my past experiences so negatively taint my expectations toward this pregnancy. On the other hand, I remain grateful for my experiences. With them I feel like I view this pregnancy with much more objectivity and realism than almost anything else I have faced in my life.
I guess it is true that failure can be a wise instructor.
My friends are starting to ask me about the nursery (don’t I have it decorated yet!?) and my birth plan. WTF! I wanted to state in a loud, emphatic voice: “Look people, I am JUST finally accepting that I might actually have this kid.” So, no, I haven’t decorated the nursery and absolutely do I not have a freaking birth plan.
As a side note, of all the people who I know who have given birth recently, only ONE has had the birth go according to her plan.
My other baby foray this weekend was to take dinner to my friend who was pregnant with twins on my same due date for Junior #2 around Christmastime. She was originally carrying twins but found out one of them had anencephaly, so she had a reduction toward the end of her first trimester.
The new baby only sleeps while on someone’s chest. I am sure this would eventually be no fun to a new mom whose husband is gone on a 48-hour shift and who has a rambunctious 3-year old. Consequently, my friend seemed annoyed with the new baby and wanted to spend more time with her 3-year old.
So I got to hold the new baby for hours. It felt fabulous. At first, I remembered Junior #2 and felt a little sad. But then I couldn’t wait for Missy to get here so I can hold her.
I know I shouldn’t be wishing my life away but a big part of me just wants it to be June already.
This past weekend, I co-hosted a shower with the third friend (the new mom) for our second friend – who is due end of March. It was much more fun for me than the first baby shower because (a) I wasn’t recovering from a recent miscarriage and (b) I was well on my way to being a real live pregnant lady.
But life on the other side is still so weird to me.
There is nothing like sitting around a dinner table full of 8 new moms to make you want to slink into the kitchen to load the dishwasher and soak the wine glasses.
I felt like a bona fide fraud. And nervous, like I was going to be punished by losing Missy if I behaved as if I was a normal pregnant woman at the shower.
On one hand, I am angry that I have let my past experiences so negatively taint my expectations toward this pregnancy. On the other hand, I remain grateful for my experiences. With them I feel like I view this pregnancy with much more objectivity and realism than almost anything else I have faced in my life.
I guess it is true that failure can be a wise instructor.
My friends are starting to ask me about the nursery (don’t I have it decorated yet!?) and my birth plan. WTF! I wanted to state in a loud, emphatic voice: “Look people, I am JUST finally accepting that I might actually have this kid.” So, no, I haven’t decorated the nursery and absolutely do I not have a freaking birth plan.
As a side note, of all the people who I know who have given birth recently, only ONE has had the birth go according to her plan.
My other baby foray this weekend was to take dinner to my friend who was pregnant with twins on my same due date for Junior #2 around Christmastime. She was originally carrying twins but found out one of them had anencephaly, so she had a reduction toward the end of her first trimester.
The new baby only sleeps while on someone’s chest. I am sure this would eventually be no fun to a new mom whose husband is gone on a 48-hour shift and who has a rambunctious 3-year old. Consequently, my friend seemed annoyed with the new baby and wanted to spend more time with her 3-year old.
So I got to hold the new baby for hours. It felt fabulous. At first, I remembered Junior #2 and felt a little sad. But then I couldn’t wait for Missy to get here so I can hold her.
I know I shouldn’t be wishing my life away but a big part of me just wants it to be June already.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
On The Road Again
We are back from our annual ski road trip. It was quite the adventure.
DEC. 23
Junior #2’s due date. I miscarried – or chemical pregnancied or whatever – at 5 weeks with this one. As such, we never had time to bond. As we drove through the high desert plains of Eastern Oregon, I wondered how I would have felt had I not been pregnant on this auspicious day. Bitter? Probably. Sad? Probably. This was the pregnancy that sent me to the RE. That got me help on this third pregnancy. And it makes me feel like Junior #2 was a little bit of a sacrificial pregnancy. While I was introspective on this day, I could not help but feel as if I were looking at the situation with a much more objective lens than on Junior #1’s due date.
TOW TRUCK #1
Sunday, 4 PM, Dec. 23. Hoss (our Ford F250 diesel pickup truck that carries the camper) loses his transmission three-quarters of the way up the hill to Schweitzer Mountain in Northern Idaho. The truck is dead. It is dark. And snowing. We are on a one lane each way, winding mountain road and the snow banks are deep and wide so there is no where to pull off. No less than 10 cars stop to ask us if we need help. Idahoans are SO nice. A grandfatherly tow truck driver tows us up to the RV parking lot at the mountain. It is the night before Christmas Eve and no garages are open for the next 2 days. Luckily we have 3 days provisions: food, water, gas for the generator.
And besides it dumps fresh snow the next 2 days so what do we care!
Missy (our new, feminized name for Junior #3) skis her first double black diamond. But it was by total accident. I swear.
TOW TRUCK #2
We are towed down the hill – camper and all – on Dec. 26 by another nice tow truck driver and his 14-year-old daughter in pajama bottoms and an oversized sweatshirt who is home from school on holiday break. Dec. 26-28 we spend 3 glorious nights at a cheap motel in Sandpoint, Idaho – a very cute little Western town where cars legally have to stop to let pedestrians cross (this is very rare in the West outside of West Coast towns; usually the bigger the vehicle, the more right-of-way applies). Our motel has 2 important amenities: hot showers and cable. We don’t have cable at home. So when we stay in hotel rooms we are prone to watch TV for hours – like zombies. One night we watched five hours of “Orange County Choppers” on TLC. That was the same night I threw up in the public restroom of a local diner. I don’t recommend throwing up in a public toilet. Ever. It makes you puke more. I wish I had run out and puked in the parking lot instead. Lesson learned.
SHOE SHOPPING WITH MY GAY DOG
One evening, I walked around shopping in said cute little Sandpoint town with Gus. Dogs are welcome in almost every store, so Gus had a blast being Mr. Social. I broke down and bought my first baby item for Missy. These things are indispensable for keeping warm in the camper. I bought the sandy color for her and have a pair just like them so we’ll match. Please don’t gag. I felt really weird buying them. Almost guilty. But they are so. damn. cute.
WHITE TRASH MOMENT
The day before we left Idaho, Cowboy dropped me off at the town Laundromat to do our wash while he retrieved the camper top. There I was, pregnant and being dropped off at the Laundromat by my husband in our pick up truck. Our dirty clothes were in Safeway plastic bags because I only had one tote bag and too much laundry. Totally country music cliché.
TOW TRUCK #3
Sat., Jan. 29, 4 PM. Three-quarters of the way up the mountain road to Big Mountain in Whitefish, Montana, the transmission line to the new $3,000 transmission blows. Hoss is dead again. It is 15 F degrees and snowing. Only 1 car stops to ask us if we need help. People in Northwestern Montana are not as nice. We find a Ford garage that is open so tow truck driver #3, replete with a mullet and a big wad of chewing tobacco, hauls us to the garage. We find another not-so-cheap motel with the most uncomfortable bed in the world. Seriously. Our camper bed is way more comfortable.
POWDER DAY
I don’t mean to complain. Really. I don’t. Normally I love powder days. I am not kidding when I say that I have had feelings akin to good-sex-satisfaction-feelings on powder days. However, skiing in deep powder + pregnant = not so fun. I’ll leave it at that.
NEW YEAR'S EVE
Hoss gets a fixed tranny line to go with his new tranny. We consider heading south to hit one more resort.
Cowboy tries to get on a cat skiing trip because Big Mountain is so freaking crowded with Alberta, Canada license plates. The asshats at Big Mountain reservations, however, don’t bother to pick up the phone when they say they are going to open. When we finally get through to them, they inform us that while the cats aren’t full, the time has closed to accept reservations for cat trips that day. In my opinion, the staff at Big Mountain suck! Don’t go there. Go to Schweitzer instead.
With this news on top of everything else, the wind finally goes out of our sails. Instead, we pack up and head home. We spend New Year’s Eve in a parking lot in Idaho. And go to sleep at 9 PM.
MANAGING EXPECTATIONS
We always start these trips with such great expectations. During last year’s trip, I was still recovering from miscarriage #1. While I was happy to escape into the mountains, I was unexpectedly sad and exhausted on some of the days.
This time, we just had so many mechanical and logistical challenges that - despite trying to be positive at the beginning - it ended up kind of breaking our spirits. I got stressed because I couldn’t get traction to find WiFi to check in with work – I had planned to work the week after Christmas – and we just got exhausted with how much money we were bleeding with unexpected lodging, food and rental car costs.
With gas, food and lift tickets, we usually spend $1,000 on this vacation. This year, we spent an additional $4,500 with the transmission, tow trucks, hotels, etc. Yikes.
I can only imagine what next year’s adventure will be like with a six month old in tow.
Good Lord, did I just say that out loud?
Before I start, I want to thank you each for your boundless comments of joy with our genetics and gender results. I cried so hard when I read what you lovely ladies sent to me. I could totally feel the love flowing. And I love each one of you back.
Maybe you've felt this kind of joy. Maybe you haven't yet. Here's what I know truer than anything: One day you will. And I can't wait to be there to pay it back.
I haven’t posted in a long while and I have all of these stories and thoughts that have been popping around my brain. Here’s a short synopsis of the major ones, the funny ones, the not-so-funny ones and the ones that seem to matter the most to me right now:DEC. 23
Junior #2’s due date. I miscarried – or chemical pregnancied or whatever – at 5 weeks with this one. As such, we never had time to bond. As we drove through the high desert plains of Eastern Oregon, I wondered how I would have felt had I not been pregnant on this auspicious day. Bitter? Probably. Sad? Probably. This was the pregnancy that sent me to the RE. That got me help on this third pregnancy. And it makes me feel like Junior #2 was a little bit of a sacrificial pregnancy. While I was introspective on this day, I could not help but feel as if I were looking at the situation with a much more objective lens than on Junior #1’s due date.
TOW TRUCK #1
Sunday, 4 PM, Dec. 23. Hoss (our Ford F250 diesel pickup truck that carries the camper) loses his transmission three-quarters of the way up the hill to Schweitzer Mountain in Northern Idaho. The truck is dead. It is dark. And snowing. We are on a one lane each way, winding mountain road and the snow banks are deep and wide so there is no where to pull off. No less than 10 cars stop to ask us if we need help. Idahoans are SO nice. A grandfatherly tow truck driver tows us up to the RV parking lot at the mountain. It is the night before Christmas Eve and no garages are open for the next 2 days. Luckily we have 3 days provisions: food, water, gas for the generator.
And besides it dumps fresh snow the next 2 days so what do we care!
Missy (our new, feminized name for Junior #3) skis her first double black diamond. But it was by total accident. I swear.
TOW TRUCK #2
We are towed down the hill – camper and all – on Dec. 26 by another nice tow truck driver and his 14-year-old daughter in pajama bottoms and an oversized sweatshirt who is home from school on holiday break. Dec. 26-28 we spend 3 glorious nights at a cheap motel in Sandpoint, Idaho – a very cute little Western town where cars legally have to stop to let pedestrians cross (this is very rare in the West outside of West Coast towns; usually the bigger the vehicle, the more right-of-way applies). Our motel has 2 important amenities: hot showers and cable. We don’t have cable at home. So when we stay in hotel rooms we are prone to watch TV for hours – like zombies. One night we watched five hours of “Orange County Choppers” on TLC. That was the same night I threw up in the public restroom of a local diner. I don’t recommend throwing up in a public toilet. Ever. It makes you puke more. I wish I had run out and puked in the parking lot instead. Lesson learned.
SHOE SHOPPING WITH MY GAY DOG
One evening, I walked around shopping in said cute little Sandpoint town with Gus. Dogs are welcome in almost every store, so Gus had a blast being Mr. Social. I broke down and bought my first baby item for Missy. These things are indispensable for keeping warm in the camper. I bought the sandy color for her and have a pair just like them so we’ll match. Please don’t gag. I felt really weird buying them. Almost guilty. But they are so. damn. cute.
WHITE TRASH MOMENT
The day before we left Idaho, Cowboy dropped me off at the town Laundromat to do our wash while he retrieved the camper top. There I was, pregnant and being dropped off at the Laundromat by my husband in our pick up truck. Our dirty clothes were in Safeway plastic bags because I only had one tote bag and too much laundry. Totally country music cliché.
TOW TRUCK #3
Sat., Jan. 29, 4 PM. Three-quarters of the way up the mountain road to Big Mountain in Whitefish, Montana, the transmission line to the new $3,000 transmission blows. Hoss is dead again. It is 15 F degrees and snowing. Only 1 car stops to ask us if we need help. People in Northwestern Montana are not as nice. We find a Ford garage that is open so tow truck driver #3, replete with a mullet and a big wad of chewing tobacco, hauls us to the garage. We find another not-so-cheap motel with the most uncomfortable bed in the world. Seriously. Our camper bed is way more comfortable.
POWDER DAY
I don’t mean to complain. Really. I don’t. Normally I love powder days. I am not kidding when I say that I have had feelings akin to good-sex-satisfaction-feelings on powder days. However, skiing in deep powder + pregnant = not so fun. I’ll leave it at that.
NEW YEAR'S EVE
Hoss gets a fixed tranny line to go with his new tranny. We consider heading south to hit one more resort.
Cowboy tries to get on a cat skiing trip because Big Mountain is so freaking crowded with Alberta, Canada license plates. The asshats at Big Mountain reservations, however, don’t bother to pick up the phone when they say they are going to open. When we finally get through to them, they inform us that while the cats aren’t full, the time has closed to accept reservations for cat trips that day. In my opinion, the staff at Big Mountain suck! Don’t go there. Go to Schweitzer instead.
With this news on top of everything else, the wind finally goes out of our sails. Instead, we pack up and head home. We spend New Year’s Eve in a parking lot in Idaho. And go to sleep at 9 PM.
MANAGING EXPECTATIONS
We always start these trips with such great expectations. During last year’s trip, I was still recovering from miscarriage #1. While I was happy to escape into the mountains, I was unexpectedly sad and exhausted on some of the days.
This time, we just had so many mechanical and logistical challenges that - despite trying to be positive at the beginning - it ended up kind of breaking our spirits. I got stressed because I couldn’t get traction to find WiFi to check in with work – I had planned to work the week after Christmas – and we just got exhausted with how much money we were bleeding with unexpected lodging, food and rental car costs.
With gas, food and lift tickets, we usually spend $1,000 on this vacation. This year, we spent an additional $4,500 with the transmission, tow trucks, hotels, etc. Yikes.
I can only imagine what next year’s adventure will be like with a six month old in tow.
Good Lord, did I just say that out loud?
Friday, December 14, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
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?
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?
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, November 12, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
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!
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!
Monday, November 5, 2007
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?
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?
Friday, November 2, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, October 29, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, October 19, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, October 12, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, October 8, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
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.
Friday, October 5, 2007
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?
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?
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
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?
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?
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
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.
So here I sit on the freakin’ fence. Again.
Only, today, loaded up on drugs.
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.
So here I sit on the freakin’ fence. Again.
Only, today, loaded up on drugs.
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