blogiversary.

Today marks one year since I started this blog.

It's kind of crazy to me just how much my life has changed in the past 365 days. I mean, I went from being this barren, bitter infertile to an expectant mother nearing her 31st week of pregnancy. After 4+ years of TTC, I'm finally (!) about to become a parent.

After such an epic journey, why do I still feel woefully underprepared?

Maybe it's because I'm about 5-9 weeks away from delivering and still do not have the nursery put together. Or maybe it's because I'm about 5-9 weeks from delivering and I haven't written out my birth plan, packed my hospital bag, met with the estate attorney, or any of the 500 other things I wanted to do before the Jellybean arrived.

The baby will come. He will come no matter how much stuff I have or haven't done. I know this. I know that Mr. Hope and I will be enough. Even if nothing is organized. Even if the crib still doesn't have a mattress.

We will love him and care for him. That is what he really needs.

Even though my BP is holding steady and my weight is down and my blood sugars are gorgeous and there is not even a spec of protein in my urine, today Dr. Direct informed me that if I do not go into labor prior to 37 weeks, or require an intervention before then, this is when she'd like to induce. I am not sure how I feel about this. Induction requires pitocin, most likely, which requires a constant IV drip (more fluids, yay!).

But also:

Shouldn't we wait until Jellybean is ready to be born?

I asked her about the delayed cord clamping today. She said if the baby is full term, delayed cord clamping is not recommended because it causes some disorder, the name of which I cannot remember. But I've read it's recommended no matter what the age of the baby. Who do I trust? Dr. Direct? Dr. Google?

So many questions. So few answers.

It's a little maddening, I tell you what.

I have about five blog posts started but not completed. Post about my surprise shower, about my meeting with the lactation consult they call the Breast Whisperer (no, I am not making that up), about Mr. Hope's and my first birth class, about the excruciating pain my hands are currently in.

All in due time.

For now I will say this:

It's been a year, and I would rather be where I am right in this moment in time - even in pain, even in uncertainty, even in mild fear - than where I was when I started this blog.

I'm grateful for the journey, but so so so excited about the destination.

the finger sticks begin.

On Friday, I went in for glucose meter training. Technically, I already knew how to use a glucose meter, since I had Type II diabetes for a couple of years before losing the weight and sending it into remission, but I thought I'd get the meter itself at the appointment. I did not. That got called into the pharmacy. And the nurse training me got very suspicious when she handed me the meter to try myself and I asked for an alcohol swab.

"You look like you've done this before," she said.

I smiled and nodded.

I don't talk to a lot of people about how I used to be diabetic. It's not something I'm proud of. And when I did have it, early medical interventions made things way worse; the first doctor to put me on insulin kept jacking up the dosage even after I didn't respond well, and I ended up putting on something like 40 lbs. in a single month. And even then, my sugars didn't get under control until I was put on a medicine that basically talked to my liver and told it to stop pumping out insulin.

I also don't talk a lot about my gastric bypass surgery, which I had almost 7 years ago. I don't talk about it because when I had it, I was at an all-time high weight that was the equivalent of four top-of-the-pyramid cheerleaders. To be fair, nearly 70 lbs. of that came from the insulin and fluid retention, but still. It was a dark time in my life and one I don't care to revisit. Plus, I never lost all of the weight after my surgery. I lost nearly 200 lbs.,  but that still put me at close to 100 lbs. over where the height-weight charts wanted me to be, and about 35 lbs. over my personal weight-loss goal.

When you still look like a fat girl and you tell people you've had gastric bypass, they either assume that you were unsuccessful at it or that you're one of the sad folks who's gained all of their weight back. Prior to this pregnancy, I did have some regain from time to time. but I always nipped it before it got too bad and took the weight back off. This is one of the main reasons the massive gain from Jellybean has me so unhinged. I'm terrified the weight won't come off again, And all of the health problems I had pre-surgery loss, they're all coming back - the apena, the edema, the sciatic lower back pain, the shooting numbness in one or both legs, etc.

Except, I think, for the diabetes. This is one pregnancy nasty I may have been able to avoid.

My very first stick - the one that made the nurse suspicious - was 114. "That's really good!" she remarked, shocked that my blood wasn't made of taffy. I left the training feeling unexpectedly chuffed. I was going to be fine! No gestational diabetes for me!

And then, that night, my post-dinner reading was 140 - 10 over where they like to see it. There had been a touch of cornstarch in the sauce we made, and I had about 1/3 cup of brown rice. A friend who has Type II told me she can't tolerate brown rice even medicated, that it always spikes her sugars, so I made a note on my log and moved on.

The next morning, my fasting bgl was 96 - about 7 higher than it should be. I'd indulged in a small piece of chocolate cake for a late-night dessert, and figured that was the culprit. Again, I made a note and moved on.

And then something surprising happened - my post-meal readings for the day were all stellar. After a lunch of spaghetti squash chow mein and grilled chicken, I clocked in at 78 - close to low! Last night's pre-bed snack consisted of a piece of Ezekial toast with natural PB and a small sliced banana. The fasting reading today? 89. And that's with the banana!

So while I'll likely have to pay attention to what I'm eating, and skip as much refined sugar as possible, it looks like my bgl is going to behave through diet modification alone. Of course, I need to track my finger sticks for two full weeks before someone will make that assessment, but still. Early data is promising.

Since that's the case, I think I'm going to experiment a little with foods to see what does/doesn't spike my sugar. I'm making some oat bran with blueberries and almonds for breakfast, just to see what that does. Yesterday I had a whole wheat English muffin with egg and cheese (homemade) and my post-meal reading was 114, which was well within the good limits. So we'll see.

I've been so terrified that I'm going to get pre-eclampsia that in my head I already have it. But this? This makes me wonder if maybe I'll somehow avoid it. When I checked my BP last night it was 122/78 - perfectly normal. Is it possible that I will get through the rest of this pregnancy without any major medical meltdowns?

I sure hope so.

edema, apnea, and other fun things.

It's been almost a month since I last updated. I'm sorry about that, especially since so many of you have emailed and left comments to check up on me. You're so sweet and I'm a complete toad. Again: apologies.

First things first: I'm barely okay(ish), but Jellybean is perfect. And that's what matters most. To me, anyway.

I fell off the blogosphere for a bunch of reasons, but here are the main ones:

• I was working a lot of extra hours to get ready for a weeklong business trip.
• I wasn't sleeping well, and therefore unable to get up early enough to do any AM writing.
• I was also so exhausted that I wasn't up to PM writing, either.
• I felt like all I was doing was complaining, and who wants to read that shiz?
• I left for the weeklong business trip, and it almost broke me.

But now I'm home, and I've really missed blogging. So, here's me attempting to get back into the swing of things.

The last time I updated I mentioned that I'd been snoring again and was terrified I'd developed sleep apnea again. I haven't had it in almost eight years, but I remember how awful it was. The not sleeping. The trying to sleep sitting up. The walking exhaustion. The diagnosis and treatment. The breathing machine they make you wear. Etc.

I went from only being able to sleep in bed a couple hours at a time to not being able to fall asleep in bed at all - sleeping exclusively on the couch, sitting up, in front of the TV. And I knew. I just knew that the apnea was back. It made a lot of sense - why my BP had gone crazy, why my weight was shooting up so quickly, why the swelling in my appendages seemed so much worse than normal pregnancy stuff.

I talked to Dr. Direct about this, and she told me to make an appointment with my primary to order the sleep study. It took almost a week to get that appointment. Then, it took another week to schedule the study itself. And even then, they initially told me they couldn't get me in until the end of August, at which point I played the pregnancy card and told anyone who would listen that I'd had a previous loss and I was terrified of losing this baby, too.

It worked. Turns out no one likes you insinuating that their lack of action could result in a loss of pregnancy. I got the sleep study for two days before I left for my business trip, and the apnea was bad enough that they titrated me that night. I spent the bulk of the next day crying to anyone who'd listen that I was about to get on a plane and needed my CPAP immediately so that I didn't lose my baby. It worked again; by 6:30 p.m., I was getting a lesson on how to use the new machine.

That first night, I wrestled with it. See, the way the CPAP works is by forcing air into you, so that you don't stop breathing in your sleep. I have to wear a full-face mask, too, because pregnancy has given me so much nasal congestion that the nose mask made me outright choke. So I've got this thing over my nose and mouth, and it's forcing air into me, and I feel overwhelmingly claustrophobic, like if I don't rip it off my face right that second, I'm going to die.

I think I made it 90 minutes with the mask.

On the trip, I continued to wrestle with the machine. One night I managed to get about four hours in, divided. But I couldn't just fall asleep with it on, stay asleep 7 hours, and wake up refreshed. There were a couple of nights I didn't even bother using it, but the last day of the trip I was like a zombie, so I went back to my hotel and took a 2.5 hour nap with the mask. When I woke up feeling human, I capitulated: I needed the machine, and I needed to get over my CPAP anxiety ASAP.

But then a new thing developed, and it's this: If I sleep on my left side for more than 45 minutes, my arm falls asleep. My hand goes numb. And then I wake up with pain shooting down my arm. So now, even though I'm finally getting used to the mask, I still can't stay in it long because I wake up in so much pain. Mr. Hope and I decided tonight that we'd set it up in the living room and I'd use the mask sitting up on the couch, so that I'd get quality sleep that was mostly pain-free.

Yep. This is what it's come to.

Can we talk about my hands and arms for a sec? Previously I'd reported carpal tunnel in both arms. This is still present, though the pain in my arms/wrists isn't as pronounced. No, now the problem is that my hands are swollen beyond belief. My fingers are like fat sausages. It's all fluid, too. They are so sore and stiff in the mornings that I can't even make a fist. Throughout the day they grown numb whenever I use them too much. It doesn't matter how much water I pound, I can't find relief for the hands. Not fully, anyway.

If I am on my feet for any significant amount of time, my feet and ankles swell. They look like Hobbit feet. I have pitting edema in both calves. But my favorite is the edema in my stomach. And no, that's not a typo. The lower portion of my stomach, which many plus-size women refer to as their apron, is hard with edema. The skin is so stretched that the pores are enormous. It feels leathery and looks like orange rind. And there's so much fluid collected there that my belly swings like I have weighted balls implanted, one on either side of my belly button.

The apron weight has started pulling on my back, and so now I'm getting twinges and numbness and shooting pains down my legs from time to time. I don't walk anymore so much as waddle. And I get breathless quite easily. So, really, most of the time I don't even look pregnant. I just look like a super-fat version of myself.

I look a lot like the me I was before I lost nearly 200 lbs., and it's totally fucking with my head.

When people ask me how I'm doing, I give them the real answer, which they don't really want. I will say, "As long as I get a healthy baby at the end of this, I can handle anything for a few more months." And it's true. I can.

But.

I am miserable a lot of the time, physically and emotionally. My self-esteem is in the toilet. There have been a couple of incidences of people being not-so-nice to me that have hurt me deeply. I hate the way I look in everything. I dread leaving the house. Etc.

On the plus side, Jellybean is, as I said earlier, perfect. We had our anatomy scan a week before I left on the trip. They couldn't get every shot they wanted (more on this later), but what they saw was exactly as it should be. The relief in knowing that my many ailments wasn't harming him in the least was so overwhelming I almost cried right there on the table.

I have a few days off and I hope to write a few more posts that have been percolating in my brain. Like about the anatomy scan, and how right up until the ultrasound tech pointed out Jellybean's penis, I was still - STILL - hoping there was a girl growing inside of me. I want to write about the torture and mental gymnastics involved in building my baby registry. About my crunchy granola chiropractor whom I love, and the mean girl co-worker whom I now loathe.

And I think I want to retroactively fill in my weekly updates, since I've found those useful in documenting this pregnancy. And I do want to document it, as miserable as I am, because hopefully when all is said and done I'll be holding a fat, happy baby in my numb arms. His life will be something to celebrate, no matter how traumatic his gestation was for his poor, unlucky mama.

the results are in...

...and if the MaterniT21 Plus test can be believed, we are having a healthy baby boy.

Why do I say "if"?

Well, I'm me, you know. Mrs. Agony, at your service.

When I got the call this morning, just as I was about to leave for work, I was a little shaky. Then the nurse told me that the test was negative for all of the bad stuff, and before I could even process that she said, "And it looks like - wait, do you want to know what you're having?"

"Yes," I said.

"The test is consistent with characteristics of a male."

I'd expected this, so it wasn't a shocker. In fact, I would've been MORE shocked if it had been a girl.

I called Mr. Hope, who'd left less than five minutes earlier. I told him the test was negative. Then I said, "We're having a [insert male name here]."

"No!" he said.

"Yep," I said.

"I guess we're going for a sibling then?"

"Let's get through this one first," I said. "Then we can talk about going again."

I got in the car. I started driving to work.

It's hard to explain what I was feeling. I'd spent most of the past week terrified that our baby would have a trisomy that was incompatible with life. It was all-consuming, thinking of this. It wouldn't matter if it was a girl if the baby wasn't meant for this world.

So there was overwhelming relief about that.

There was also a kind of flatness. I wasn't sad, or upset, or even disappointed. Resigned, maybe? I kept saying it was going to be a boy, because I wanted a girl so badly. That's just how things work in my world. So I'd been steeling myself for a boy.

"You want too much," Glam Coworker admonished me later. "After everything you've been through...just stop talking."

"Little boys are adorable," Fellow Preggo said. "Just wait. You'll fall in love the minute you lay eyes on him."

But that is not what this is about. It's really not. I am obsessed with Precious Pup. Obsessed. I know it will be worse with a tiny human. I know I will love this child with every fiber of my being.

When I think about why I wanted a girl, it's less about cute dresses and Barbie dolls and more about getting the chance to re-parent myself. I texted a couple of people about being disappointed that I wouldn't get the chance to be the mom I never had. But you will! they told me. But they weren't getting it. Because so much of that, psychologically, is tied up in getting a do-over for myself.

Is that selfish? I know that's one reason Mr. Hope wanted a boy. It can't be that uncommon.

So then I started Googling to see if there was any way the test was wrong about the sex of the baby. It's 97% accurate. Not 100%. There are plenty of stories of women who had the test tell them one sex and then on the level 2 u/s discovered they're having the other. And then I thought, "It would so be in the spirit of everything I've been through on this journey to get all excited about having a little boy and then, in week 18, discover that we're actually having a girl."

And then I went down the rabbit hole. If the test could be wrong about the sex, and could produce false positives for a bunch of different reasons, could it also produce false negatives, too?

I'm sure you can see where I'm going with this. But if not, the answer is yes. False negatives happen. Women think they're having perfectly healthy babies and give birth to ones who have heart defects that require weeks of surgeries once they're born.

The fear that gripped me as I was reading these things was overwhelming. You are never safe. Never. I thought this test would make me feel better, but really, all it did was make me feel like I have a false sense of security.

So now I want to call tomorrow and see if I can still get an NT scan in over the next two weeks. I want to do all of the noninvasive screenings that my insurance will cover. If no markers come up on any of those, I'll feel better. Maybe.

Glam Coworker told me not to steal Mr. Hope's joy. She told me I had no right to worry him with my anxieties and fears. But I am not good at keeping things from Mr. Hope. And he knows who he married.

So on the ride home from work I called and told him about the rabbit hole and my fears and how I wish I could stop feeling terrified all the time. How I hate being this person. I started crying.

He gets it. And he comforts me the best he can. But I still feel like this raw, gaping wound that just. won't. heal.

12w0d.

Baby's size: Plum.

Next appointment: May 19 (just a BP check - next OB appt. isn't until June 12!)

Total weight gain: 11.8 lbs. To be fair, a little more than four lbs. of that was added since yesterday, when I discontinued the HCTZ. This is exactly what I feared. I've read that after going off of it, people pack on up to 20 lbs. of water weight and that it can take them up to a month for that to start to come off. Yeah, this isn't going to fuck with my head at all.

Exercise: OB is encouraging me to walk. So I should probably start doing that.

Sleep: Crappy this week. Have been peeing a lot in the middle of the night. Then have trouble getting back to sleep. It doesn't help that Mr. Hope is a psycho-snorer.

Food cravings: None this week.

Food aversions: None.

Symptoms: My boobs are crazy sore. Like, so bad that I don't even want to release them from my bra at night. Also this bloating. MY GOD, THE BLOATING.

What I'm loving: Our families' reaction to the news. Also that we bought a crib. That's huge for me.

What I'm not loving: Where do I start? My anxiety level, the overnight water weight gain, waking up to pee 12 times a night, the fact that I still haven't gotten my MaterniT21 Plus test results (though my OB's nurse said I should get them today).

What I'm looking forward to: I am hoping that the test results are good and give me some peace of mind. Also that I don't keep packing on pounds of water weight. I literally drank 18 8 oz. glasses of pure water yesterday, plus another two of lemon water, two of decaf coffee, and 4 oz. of milk. So I was surprised by the scale this morning. I don't know what else I can do. Might just have to ride this out.

Best moment this week: I don't know. Maybe it was when I didn't freak out after Dr. Direct said she wasn't going to give us an ultrasound? I feel like if I get those test results and it's good news, then that would be what goes here.

'ultrasound dependence' and other fun things.

Mr. Hope and I had our first official OB appointment today. It was...an experience.

First of all, there was a long wait. Nearly 30 minutes before we got taken back to an exam room and another 15 before the OB showed up. We shall call her Dr. Direct, because as Quirky told me ahead of time, she's very no-nonsense - a real straight-shooter. (For the record, we like this.)

The first think Dr. Direct does is say, "I'm sorry they brought the ultrasound machine out. I'm not going to do an ultrasound today. I need to wean you from ultrasound dependence."

Of course, on the ride over, Mr. Hope and I were singing, "We gonna see our baby, we gonna see our baby..." So this made him pout. I wasn't thrilled, but I didn't put up a fight either.

We went over my meds. She told me I could stop the estrogen immediately, but she wanted me to stay on the progesterone until the end of week 12 (so, a week from Wednesday). My butt isn't happy, but I lose weight on progesterone and gain it on estrogen, so I was thinking, "Maybe when I get off the estrogen I'll take off a few pounds!"

But then Dr. Direct told me she wasn't happy that I am taking HCTZ. No one at the RE's office ever questioned it, but it's the second time someone at the OB's office did. She asked me why I was on it. I told her that 9 years ago, I had high BP. They put me on a combo pill. When my BP got under control, they took me off of it...and I bloated up with 13 lbs. of fluid in like two days. My stomach got hard from it and I thought I was having heart failure. Turned out my body just got addicted to the water pill, so they put me back on it. My BP is fine (or, at least it was). No fluid build up.

Now I have to stop taking the HCTZ, starting tomorrow. This terrifies me.

She wanted to put me on a different BP medicine. I asked her if we could wait a week, because my BP was always 120/70 until I started the estrogen. Today it was 144/88. So I go back for a BP check next week, and if my BP has come down, I don't have to start a new med. If it hasn't, I have to start one right away.

This also terrifies me.

I have to start weaning off the prednisone, too. Five days at 10 mg, five days at 5 mg, and five days at 5 mg every other day. Remember what happened the last time I stopped the prednisone? MORE TERROR.

But okay, all of this is doable.

Then Dr. Direct tells us she thinks that we shouldn't go public until 14 weeks, maybe longer. Say wha? We shouldn't have sex for a couple more weeks either. Could we wait until our level 2 u/s? Um, that's not until JULY. Okay, 14 weeks it is.

(Mr. Hope is pouting at this point. Dr. Smiles had said we were released earlier to have sex, but we decided to wait until 12 or 13 weeks. Lately we've both been really randy, so it's been a lot of "Thursday, baby. Just wait until Thursday." Now, no nookie for 2+ more weeks. I. Am. DYING.)

She tries to find the baby's heartbeat with doppler. It's still early and I am "fluffy," she tells me. She'll do a quick scan to assure us the baby's okay.

So we got an u/s after all. It was over the tummy, not transvag, and the images weren't super clear. She didn't tell us the CRL or FHR, just that the baby looked great and had a strong heartbeat. She pointed out its jaw. She pointed out the umbilical cord. Yay, Jellybean!

I told her that Mr. Hope insisted we get a hand-held doppler. She told me I shouldn't use it until I was 20 weeks. If I bring it to my 18-week appointment she'll show me how to use it. Okay, we can handle this.

The results from our MaterniT21 test aren't in yet. When I got home, I called Sequenom, the people who make the test. They couldn't tell me the results, and they couldn't tell me if the test had been completed, but they did call the OB's office to ask them to tell me the results should be ready tomorrow.

What does this mean? Is my baby okay? Why is it taking so long?

I Google a little. It takes most women a week to 10 days to get the results. I stop panicking. But I can't help but feel like something might be off. I have no reason to believe things aren't okay but I need to know that for sure. I JUST WANT TO KNOW.

Other than the BP check next week, I don't go back to the OB until 4.5 weeks from now, on June 12. It feels like an eternity.

And I'm totally stressing about MaterniT21, and my high BP, and pre-e and GD and whether or not I have an incompetent cervix. I just want to feel CALM. How can I get there? How can I *stay* there?

Despite everything I like the new OB. She won't BS me. She read my chart carefully. She asked good questions. She let me ask questions. She spent a lot of time with us.

But.

I am so ready to get these test results. I need want reassurance that the baby is healthy. I've been doing a pretty good job at keeping my anxiety in check, but today it flared up again. Big time.

Does it ever get any better?

10w0d.

Baby's size: Kumquat (other sites say prune).

Next appointment: May 4.

Total weight gain: 6 lbs. So, up another 3 lbs. from last week. I honestly don't understand, because I've been even MORE conscious of what I'm eating. And I've been less hungry, too. Really hoping this turns out to be "Agony is on too many artificial hormones and so is packing on the water" weight.

Exercise: I am off restrictions! But Dr. Smiles was clear about me being "intelligent" about what I do, so I'm still not lifting anything over 10 lbs., and if I'm carrying anything I won't take the stairs at work (but will if I'm not carrying stuff). I just want to get out of the first trimester and then I can think about adding in some walking.

Sleep: I've been averaging about 8.5 hours a night. Pre-pregnancy, I was a solid 7 a night girl. There was one night I wanted to go to bed at like 8:30, but was afraid I'd get up in the middle of the night and mess up my whole schedule. In other words, I'm flipping TIRED.

Food cravings: Milk. I know that's technically a beverage and not a food, but I've been drinking at least one glass of milk a day.

Food aversions: None this week, though I've definitely not been eating salty/crunchy stuff like I typically do. Just haven't wanted it.

Symptoms: Pretty much the same. Barely any nausea, intermittent heartburn, vivid dreams. My boobs swing wildly from hurting so badly I want to cry to nothing at all, when I can mush them in my hand and don't feel a thing. I'm getting used to not having typical preggo symptoms.

What I'm loving: My anxiety level, which has been remarkably lower lately. I still get anxious the night before an ultrasound, but for the most part, I've been able to feel a little more normal.

What I'm not loving: The scale. I saw Quirky yesterday and we talked a lot about body image issues and food issues and weight issues. Her point was that if I'm eating mostly healthfully but having a peanut butter cup here and there (her words, not mine, though I do love me some PB cups), then I shouldn't be panicky. She said, "If you're eating 40 peanut butter cups in one sitting, then you have a problem." So I am trying not to freak out, especially since I know my body is very sensitive to the hormones and if the placenta is starting to produce estrogen and I'm still on estrace 3x/day, that could totally pack on fake weight that will hopefully start to come off once I'm off the meds. (Can you tell I think about this stuff a LOT?)

What I'm looking forward to: Graduation! Monday is my last appointment at Posh Clinic, and even though I love Dr. Smiles and his staff, the hour-long drives up and back have been wearing on me. Also: Supposed to get the MaterniT21 test drawn on Monday (though OB forgot to put my DX codes on the lab order, so GRUMBLE).

Best moment this week: That delicious little wave Jellybean gave us on Monday. I can't stop thinking about it. It was just the cutest thing.

last-minute anxiety.

The night before my next ultrasound, I start to get really panicky about the baby. Like, I can be motoring along fine, and then WHAM! Instant fear. Why don't my boobs hurt as much as they did on Friday? Why haven't I had heartburn today? Where did the nausea go? Etc.

I hate this part of the process. I hate how one minute I can feel like a semi-normal pregnant woman and the next I'm playing out scenarios in my head, like how will I tell people that I've suffered a second miscarriage? Will they make me do it at home again, or can I ask the new OB for a D&C? And then I get mad at myself for being so morbid, which makes everything that much worse.

On the upside, I had a pretty good weekend. I finally finished Phase I of my freelance project (the relief of that was so intense I almost cried when I sent it off to the project manager, no joke) AND we had a great visit with Mini-Hope, too - only two threatened pouting sessions that she reeled back in rather quickly. So there's that.

I have to go into the office after this morning's appointment, so won't have time to update right away. But I promise I'll report back tonight so as not to worry anyone.

why does feeling good end up making me feel bad?

Got to see our little Jellybean yesterday. At 8w5d, she was measuring 18 mm, up five from five days ago (perfect). FHR was 161, and our favorite u/s tech, K, pointed out her head, her arm buds, her leg buds, and her itty bitty body. After a minor-league panic attack on Monday, after my nausea and heartburn had all but disappeared, this was all very reassuring.

Here's the weird thing: lately I've been feeling good about this pregnancy. My gestational sac is huge (as it should be). The amniotic sac is this perfect little bubble around Jellybean. The yolk sac, while still present, isn't enlarged like last time. My hormone levels seem to be good, the u/s have all been good, and except for that pesky little SCH (which, unfortunately, had grown a bit since Thursday), everything looks great.

But what happens is that I start to worry about feeling too good. I go on Pinterest and start pinning things like unique birth announcements and recommendations for nursery gliders to my secret "Future Baby" board, then think: am I getting too far ahead of myself?

Yesterday, when Dr. Smiles told me that the bleed had grown 5 mm since Thursday (in length, not width - it's back to looking like a skinny crescent shape), he said, "I'm sure you're probably terrified." But here's the thing: I wasn't. I haven't been bleeding red, and the spotting is so minor it's barely there. When he said that, though, all I could think was, "Should I be terrified?" And then he said, "Everything's going to be fine," but him saying that made me question whether or not it was.

Do you see how my brain works?

I had a prenatal counseling appointment with a nurse at the OB's office on Friday. Due to my weight and history of high BP and diabetes (type 2), both of which have been resolved for years, I have to do a series of 24-hour urine tests. This will check for pre-eclampsia and diabetes throughout the pregnancy. I think this first on was supposed to be like a baseline, but honestly, they didn't tell me much. In fact, I thought this was something all preggos did until I asked my friends and they were all, "I don't know what you're talking about."

If you don't know, the 24-hour test works like this: they give you an orange-brown jug in which to put your pee, and a "nun's hat" to catch your pee in the toilet. When you wake up, you flush your FMU, then catch everything after that. I drink a LOT of water, and I pee pretty frequently even when I'm not pregnant, so guess what? Filled that gallon jug after just 12 hours. Put it in the fridge and got prepared for them to tell me I'd have to redo the test later. (They didn't - turns out 3000 ml was enough pee to do the test.)

Taking the test got me thinking about all of the bad things that could happen after the first trimester. Gestational diabetes I'm not as worried about - you just have to be super careful with carbs, which I am to a certain degree already. But pre-eclampsia? One of the women on my secret FB group is dealing with that now and had to get induced at 34 weeks. It's so scary. And when you start reading up on the 24-hour urine test, you end up learning more about things like HELLP syndrome (one of the women in my old Resolve support group lost a baby at 24 weeks to HELLP).

It makes me think that you're never safe. That until you strap that baby into the car seat, your pregnancy could still end at any time.

And yet.

I feel this totally un-Agony-like calm right now. Like everything is going to be okay. I don't have God in my life, so this isn't the result of prayer. It's not even the result of being a super-chill person (obvi). I just feel like this time it's real. This time I'm going to get my take-home baby.

And the minute I articulate that, I think: OH, SHIT. HUBRIS IS COMING FOR YOU. DUCK AND COVER.

Why can't I just feel good? Why can't I stop feeling bad?

Will I ever be okay?

plodding along.

I should have written this update Monday, after I got back from seeing Smiles. I know there are a few lovely people who've been following my story and I honestly didn't mean to worry anyone by not reporting back. I am very sorry. 

Here's what's been going on:

Went back to Posh Clinic on Monday. They took me back for blood work while Mr. Hope was still parking the car. I see a piece of paper on the top of my file with an hCG number. It was in the 67k range. I don't  know if this was from Wednesday or Friday, as I had blood draws at the satellite clinic both days. But I do know the number is low, especially since the previous Monday it had been in the 56k range. Immediately feel sick to my stomach.

In the waiting room, start running numbers through a doubling calculator on my phone. I know at this stage that it's normal for it to take up to three and a half days to double. If the 67k draw was on Wednesday, it had a doubling time of seven and a half days. If on Friday, fifteen days. Neither one looks good.

I look at hCG ranges by week. I'm still in a great range, number-wise. Even my chart had a "HIGH" flag on it. But I'm less concerned with the overall number than I am doubling time. I know this is because my numbers never doubled properly with the last pregnancy - that it's now an anxiety trigger for me. I figure I will ask Smiles about it when I see him.

We go back for the u/s. As I'm pulling down my pants I tell Mr. Hope that I have a bad feeling. He asks me why. I tell him I don't know; I just do. He gives me sad face. My heart is racing. I'm sure it's over. I am "sure" it's over before every u/s, but this time I'm really sure.

K, our favorite u/s tech, gets right down to it. Within seconds, we see Jellybean's heartbeat. I blurt out, "OH THANK GOD," and Mr. Hope squeezes my hand. I start asking questions. "Give me a minute," she says, not unkindly. 

Heart rate is 137. I panic for a second before she assures me this is a great number for where we're at. The crown-rump length is 10 mm, only one off from where they'd predicted last Monday. These are all good things.

The bleed has gotten slightly bigger and changed shape. It's no longer a pencil eraser but a long, skinny banana. Like a crescent, or the back end of parentheses. K tells us that it's in a good place for a bleed, behind the baby and not on top of it. This is reassuring.

We don't wait long to see Dr. Smiles. I am still a ball of nerves. When I walk into his office I say, "You know I'm about to lose my shit, right? You know this is happening." (Have I mentioned how much I love my doctor?)

He goes over my meds with me and decides to discontinue the lovenox (blood thinner) to see if it will help. Then he tells me that I'm still on bed rest.

I say, "Can we talk about this for a second? What are the advantages of full bed rest over modified?"

"None," he says. 

Um, okay.

He tells me that he's sure I've Googled enough to know that bed rest can't prevent a miscarriage, but to him, resting when there's a bleed seems intuitive. I ask about sitting with my feet up so I can work. He didn't realize that I can work from home, and when he does, he says, "If you're telling me all you're doing is moving from the couch to a chair with bathroom breaks, I'm fine with that." No standing too long, no cooking, no lifting, no walking the dog, no anything other than laying on the couch or sitting in a chair or using the potty.

This is an enormous relief to me, because the stress of not being able to work wasn't doing me a damned bit of good.

I ask about the hCGs and how they're not doubling any more. He tells me he doesn't care about that, because they plateau at a certain point anyway. But he didn't care about my ridiculously low hCG last time around, and we all know how that ended.

So then I say, "Be straight with me. What are the chances that this baby is going to make it?"

He chews this over for a second, then says, "Ninety-eight percent." 

"Really?" I say. "You're that confident?"

"Yes," he says. "I am."

As we leave the clinic, Mr. Hope says, "Those are really good odds." And he's right; they are. If someone told me I had a 98% chance of winning the lottery, I'd buy a ticket, no questions asked.

And yet the broken part of my brain thinks, "How can he be so sure?" and "What if I'm in the other 2%?" and "Why am I still terrified I'm going to lose this kid?"

At home I log onto my work laptop and see that I have 550+ emails backed up. This is with me checking sporadically on bed rest. We have a big event scheduled for the next day and I dive right in. Initially I think I'll work for two hours and then rest, but I don't. I work for five hours straight before feeling so exhausted that I have to lay down on the couch. 

I figure I'll update my blog in the morning. But when I wake up, the day of the event, I log on early and just never get off. I work steadily, with only a short break for a therapy appointment with Quirky and another to talk to Mr. Hope when he gets home for work, until eight o'clock. Seriously, it was 8 p.m. when I finally logged off. I got on the couch and was passing out within a couple of hours. 

So that brings us to today. Tomorrow morning, it's back to the clinic for another scan. I will say that I've had less discharge the past two days on modified bed rest than I did on the four and a half days of full bed rest. I hope this means the blood is reabsorbing or working its way out. I can handle modified bed rest, but during my session with Quirky I apparently talked without breathing for 20 minutes (I know she was thinking MANIC). I think this is because I went from working in an office where I'm in meetings with different people all day to being at home all by myself for most of the time. I think I miss interaction.

I'm starting to catch up on day job but am still behind on the freelance project. The project manager is getting antsy. She knows my history and I told her about being on bed rest but now being on modified. Her response was "Great! How far have you gotten?" Since I lost almost a full week, and went on bed rest literally the day after she asked for the last status update, the answer is NOT BLOODY FAR. But I didn't really say this. I just told her I was plodding along.

This is kind of how I feel about my life right now. I am plodding along. I get up, I do some stuff, I go to bed. Waiting for something to happen, or to not happen. Time moves slowly and quickly all at the same time.

I don't know what it will take for me to feel comfortable with this pregnancy. I felt good for two days after we saw the heartbeat and then I gushed red. So now I feel like nothing is guaranteed, it could end any second, and feeling comfortable just means setting yourself up for disappointment. It's not healthy, but it's where I am.

Tomorrow I will be eight weeks. We lost Nugget between weeks 8 and 9, but the weight week ultrasound already showed a slower heartbeat and signs of lagging growth. The gestational sac was too small, the yolk sac too big. All of my sacs are appropriately sized right now. So, maybe tomorrow. Maybe if the growth is appropriate and the heart is beating strong and there's no sign that Jellybean is going the way of the Nugget, maybe then I'll feel better?

Maybe?

the big bleed.

I'm attempting to write this post on my iPad, since I'm currently confined to prone positions not conducive to using a laptop, so apologies in advance for any formatting errors.

Let me start by saying that I have been overdoing things. I take responsibility for this. When I went out of town for Easter, I did a lot of walking. I did it slowly, without raising my heart rate, but it was more than I should have been walking. When I cart my company-issued laptop back and forth to work, I'm carrying well over my 10 lb. limit. I feel dumb taking the elevator to the second floor at work, so on Wednesday, I did the stairs three times.

Then, around 12:30, I was working at my desk, coughed hard, and felt a gush of wetness. To be honest, I thought I may have peed myself a little. So I went to the bathroom, even though I'd just gone  maybe 10 minutes prior.

In the stall, I pulled up my skirt and pulled down my underwear. That's when I saw it: The crotch soaked through with bright red blood.

It was one of those strange, out-of-body experiences. I remained very calm. I took wads of toilet paper and cleaned myself up. I put another big wad in my underpants as a makeshift pad. I stood up and saw that there was blood on the toilet seat. I spit on more TP to clean it up. Flushed again, washed my hands thoroughly, checked the back of my skirt for a spot, found none.

I walked into my office, shut the door, and called the RE's office. "I need to speak with a nurse or Dr. Smiles," I said. The receptionist asked if she could take a message. I told her I was bleeding bright red, enough to soak through my underpants, and I didn't know if I was supposed to go to the ER or what. She put me on hold. When she came back on the line, she told me that they wanted to see me and could I come in?

I put on my Out of Office message, shut down my laptop, and started packing up. Calmly filled my empty water bottle. Climbed into my car. Took a quick work call. When that was over, I started to cry.

I'm skipping steps here. I messaged Mr. Hope, of course. We talked briefly. I messaged the BFF and Gumbo. I let a couple of close coworkers know what happened. I had to email Quirky, too, as I was supposed to be meeting with her the same time I ended up driving to the clinic. I took a towel from my trunk and put it on my seat before I got into the car, to make sure that I didn't bleed through. We just bought the damned thing, after all. Haven't even put a thousand miles on it yet.

Halfway into the hourlong drive, I started to feel crampy. I hadn't had cramps before then. I felt wetness. I was convinced this was the end. Sure, it could've been a subchorionic hematoma (SCH). I knew from my FB group that they're common in IVF pregnancies. But there was a lot of cramping. Too much cramping. It was over. I could just feel it.

This is how convinced I was: When I arrived at the clinic (one of Posh Clinic's satellite offices), I had to pee. I always have to pee. I asked where the rest room was. Then I leaned in and said, "I'm bleeding and cramping. Can I have a specimen cup in case something comes out?"

There was some fresh red on my makeshift pad, but only a watery pink when I wiped. I took a pad from the clinic's supply and put it in. Still no spot on my skirt. This felt reassuring.

They took me back for the ultrasound pretty quickly. It was a tech I'd never worked with before. She was very straight-faced, no emotion showing whatsoever. She stuck the probe in me and very quickly found the heartbeat, strong as it was on Monday. Jellybean had grown 2 mm in two days: perfect. I started sobbing on the table, enough to make it hard for her to do the scan. I kept apologizing, but I couldn't stop crying. I had been so sure it was over.

There was a bleed. A small one, the size of a pencil eraser, on the outer edge of the gestational sac. Not far from the yolk sac. It hadn't been there two days ago, at least not that they knew of. I asked if it was an SCH. She said no.

When I saw Dr. Smiles, I started crying again. He calmly handed me tissues. He told me that the bleeds were really common. That the endometrial layer bled easily. There was a lot going on, what with the placenta attaching and all. "I'm not nervous," he said.

"I'm glad YOU'RE not," I said.

And this is when he put me on bed rest. I was surprised. I asked about sitting in a chair with my feet up, thinking that I could work from home. "No," he said. "I need you laying down."

I let Mr. Hope know that this was the plan. I told him I'd need a babysitter. There was the dog to contend with. I was really freaked out. If I'm being put on bed rest, it must be serious, right?

I talked to Quirky on the way home. She was confused that the u/s tech had said it wasn't an SCH. Like me, she thought it was the very definition of an SCH. She was surprised that Dr. Smiles had put me on bed rest. Typically, she says, doctors will just tell you to take it easy.

We talked a lot about my anxiety. About how I was completely certain that I'd lost the baby. How my infertility PTSD has pretty much fucked my ability to enjoy any part of this pregnancy. She told me again that my intellect is my worst enemy. That I needed to stop Googling things. That I had to stop seeking data to try to figure out what's going to happen next.

"There's no way to know," she said. "Your numbers were great but that doesn't guarantee anything."

TBH, the whole conversation bummed me out. Mostly because I knew she was right.

I drove home. I got on the couch, laying on my left side. I asked my boss to call me. He did. "I didn't want to have this conversation yet, but I'm 7 weeks pregnant...."

"First of all," he said, "congratulations."

"Oh. Right. Thanks."

We talked about some logistics. I'm supposed to be going on a work trip this week, just a one-day thing into the city, but we both assumed (correctly, as it turned out) that I wouldn't be able to go. We talked about a longer trip scheduled for this summer. No, I wouldn't be too far along then. I could still go. (Knock on wood.)

The next day, the BFF came over to Agony-sit me. It was so sweet. And so appreciated. We talked. We laughed. She picked up a banging lunch. She walked Precious Pup. I made a couple of conference calls. Most of my meetings had gotten canceled, courtesy of the boss. Glam Coworker said, "He's worried about you. He doesn't want anyone bothering you." It was sweet, but at the same time, a little disturbing. I really don't want anyone thinking that I can't do my job.

I hadn't had any red blood since I'd gone to the clinic. Until about five minutes before the BFF was scheduled to leave, that is. It was just one smear of bright red, but it was enough to make me feel sick to my stomach.

The next day, after a glorious shower, I resumed my couch position. I watched something on the DVR that made me think of my mom. I bawled my eyes out. I was convinced that when we went back to the clinic, I'd find out Jellybean was gone.

Right before 11, the BFF showed up. I drove to the clinic. The closer we got, the more terrified I felt. I had her come back with me for the u/s. It was the same poker-faced woman from Wednesday. I pointed out to the BFF what I thought was Jellybean. The u/s tech corrected me. "That's the yolk sac," she said. "I don't have the embryo in focus yet."

But then there was Jellybean, heart still beating. And there was the tiny hematoma. I'd really been hoping it would have resolved itself.

The baby had only grown 1 mm in two days. It should have grown 2 mm. When the tech didn't give me a print out of the u/s, I started to worry. Was the yolk sac enlarged? Was something wrong?

"Everything looks beautiful," Mini Smiles told me when I saw her. The bleed was really small, she said. Nothing to worry about. I asked Dr. Smiles if it was an SCH. "It's sort of the same," he said. But not entirely. It has something to do with the placement. Like, a true SCH has to be under the placenta or something. Whatever you call it, it was keeping me benched for a few more days.

I've been riding the couch all weekend. And have been trying to write this post for literally days. On your side isn't a great angle for typing on the iPad. And Blogger's mobile site kind of sucks.

Tomorrow morning we go back for our fifth ultrasound. I haven't had fresh red since that one small smear Thursday night, but I am still spotting tanish brown with a little dark brown from time to time. I thought the spotting would have stopped once they took me off of the progesterone suppositories (I now take 200 mg of oral progesterone each night before bed). Is it from the hematoma? Is it from something else?

I know that symptoms come and go in early pregnancy, but my symptoms have been practically nonexistent. My right boob is sore, but my left one isn't. I used to have heartburn but don't really any more. I feel a little sick when I'm hungry. I am hungry, like, all the time right now. The past few days I've been stuffing my face and not gaining any weight. First real pregnancy bonus, but not a hardcore symptom.

So of course I have all of this anxiety about tomorrow. Will Jellybean have grown appropriately? What will the heart rate be? No one's measured it yet, just said it was strong. Will the bleed be resolved or will it have gotten bigger? Why am I still spotting? Can anyone tell me if this baby is going to make it? Seriously, Smiles, just pull out your MD crystal ball already.

Sometimes I start to cry out of nowhere, because I'm so convinced that this will end in loss like the last one. That I will never be a mother. That maybe I'm not meant to be a mother.

I know these are self-destructive thought patterns, but I don't know how to stop them. Plus, hi, bed rest is so dead boring. All I do is watch TV, read, or think. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Sigh.

houston, we have a heartbeat!

Today we went back for our second ultrasound. I'm 6w4d, so I knew they were expecting to see a heartbeat. I'm not going to lie; I was nervous. I'd been Googling things like "high hCG no heartbeat" because I was convinced we weren't going to see one. This is me, I kept thinking. Of course it won't work out.

Okay, so that makes me sound insufferable. And I'm sorry for that. It's just - and I'm sure a lot of you reading this can relate - when it comes to my fertility, nothing has ever worked out the way it was supposed to. Like, ever.

So, yeah, I was nervous. Mr. Hope was, too. This is like the perpetual state in which we live these days. It ranges anywhere from mild twitchiness to deep-seated panic. It's awesome (not).

When K, the u/s tech came into the room, she said, "Oh, you're nervous, aren't you?" Normally I would've made a joke. This time I didn't. I just said yes. She asked me if I was bleeding. I told her about the brown spotting, said I knew that was normal, and then added, "You know what we've been through."

"Yes," she said. "I do."

She got right down to it. And there it was: the blinking light of a heartbeat. Too small for the machine to measure, but K assured me it was strong.

"I've been doing this for years," she said. "I'd tell you if it was slow. I wouldn't want to give you false hope. That is a strong heartbeat. Things are looking good."

I cried on the table.

Mr. Hope kept saying, "I can't believe it looks like a jellybean! It really is a jellybean!" It's true. The "gorgeously sized" gestational sac is shaped like a freaking jellybean.

The Physician's Assistant, Smiles Jr., was the one who called it gorgeously sized, after I mentioned how that was one of the markers last time around. I have to say, I like Smiles Jr. She knows I'm a freak but she doesn't make fun of me or dismiss me or anything. She's very patient. She's learned from Dr. Smiles. He's kind of like that, too.

But anyway, before we saw Smiles Jr., K left the exam room and I got up, shaking, and sobbed into Mr. Hope's shoulder. I don't think I realized how scared I was until that point. I sincerely was expecting bad news.

So then I got dressed and we went into another little waiting room. There are like three on the physician side. All were filled, but we snagged seats in the one you usually sit in before you get your u/s done. A woman and her mother came in. The women was blond and looked younger than me. She was also really upset. She got called back for a scan and didn't understand why. When she came back, she was saying all of this stuff to her mom about how she should've canceled this cycle and why is this happening to her and she really wants to use intralipids next time and she hopes they'll let her.

I knew she'd just had a miscarriage. I could just tell. And her mother, while trying to be well-meaning, kept saying all of the wrong things. It made me itchy. I felt so horrible for her. I wanted to say, "It gets better, I swear."

Instead, I went to the bathroom and when I got back, I dragged Mr. Hope to the third waiting room, the one that had been too full before. "That was so sad," he whispered to me, once we got there.

"I know," I said. "I'm sorry, I just couldn't sit there. It was too hard."

Finally, we saw Smiles Jr. She gleefully told us that with today's heartbeat our risk of miscarriage dropped to 5%. She told me that they weren't going to give me my hCG results any more, because they were so high last time that now they really only needed to pay attention to the u/s. (For the record, I knew it needed to be between 65,187 and 130,390, though the odds of a 48-hour doubling time with a number this high is unrealistic.) They'd only call if there was a problem.

Guess what? The office is now closed and I didn't get a call. So, yay!

I asked Smiles Jr. why I haven't had really bad nausea. I know a lot of women who are currently pregnant or were recently pregnant, and they ALL have horrible nausea. Is it because I tend to have lower estrogen? Or what?

Smiles Jr. said it had nothing to do with my E2 and that it was more likely to be caused by hCG. Some women just don't get sick, she told me. You should be thankful. It's really awful when it happens. She also said that sickness isn't correlated to how healthy or unhealthy a pregnancy is. "I've seen women miscarry and stay sick as dogs because of the amount of hCG in their system," she said.

I've had fleeting nausea, but honestly, it mostly feels like hunger. Like when you haven't eaten in too long and you feel sort of queasy and sick, and then you eat and an hour later you feel better. That's what I get. I even have that right now, as I type this. It's been about four hours since I had lunch so that makes sense. But thus far I haven't felt so sick that I couldn't eat anything. I tend to be a grazer anyway, and eat a lot of protein and healthy fat (like avocado), so maybe my diet itself is helping the nausea?

Of course, on the way to checking out and making our next appointment, I bumped into Dr. Colleague, the one who did my final egg retrieval and helped me through my miscarriage. She asked how I was doing and I told her we were six and a half weeks. "You don't look six and a half weeks," she said. When I made a puzzled face (because really, who shows this early?), she explained, "Usually you're green around the face at that time."

I thought Smiles Jr. was going to deck her. After all, she'd JUST gotten me calmed down.

But it was okay. I am okay. I made my next appointment and we drove home. I updated everyone who needed updating. And then I did a little bit of work, made a quick trip to the grocery store, and then passed out on the couch for a much-needed nap.

So, there you have it. Still pregnant, and it looks like this one might stick around for a while.

running the numbers.

This morning I go back to Posh Clinic for our first ultrasound and more blood work. Because I am a crazy person, I spent some time plugging numbers into a doubling calculator so that I could know what I'm looking for today: a number between 7,867 (doubling time: 72 hours) and 17,665 (doubling time: 48 hours).

As for the u/s itself, I know I should see the yolk sac and fetal pole, as I will be 5w5d, but it's unlikely that we'll see a heartbeat, as you usually can't until at least 5w6d.

Right now I'm just hoping I see SOMETHING. Yesterday I had cramping like the kind I get at the start of my period. Front cramps, not lower back ones, which is different from anything that happened last cycle. And my smidgeon of brown-tinged mucus became more of a smudge - not in my undies, only when I wiped, and always brown, but still. It reminded me of CD1, right before I started to get full flow. And it was totally freaking me out (still is, to be honest).

I have so much anxiety about this appointment. Of course I do. The day of my first u/s the last time around was the day that I got my first bad beta, the one with a doubling time of 110 hours. The one that made me cry for hours. The first hint that I would become a member of the miscarriage club.

Mr. Hope is going with me. He is a ball of nerves, too. All I can hope is that we are wasting energy on this anxiety stuff. That the ultrasound reveals at least one healthy little jellybean, with all of the genetic material she needs to help her become our take-home baby.

Guess we'll find out soon enough.

the tragedy of an addiction to POAS.

Let me start by saying that I know I'm crazy. I know this. I've never said anything different.

I bought one final box of FRER. I ordered it from Amazon, the day of my strong beta, when I used my last one. It arrived on Thursday and come Friday morning, I peed on it. Well, peed into the cup and dipped it, but you get my drift.

It looked very similar to the last one I'd taken, three days prior. Too similar. I had a moment of OH SHIT, IT'S OVER, I'M NOT DOUBLING PROPERLY. This was compounded by the smidge of brown-tinged cervical mucus I saw when I wiped. When I say smidge, I mean it was the width of the tip of a Sharpie marker. Seriously small. But it was enough to make my stomach clench.

I spent the day busy at an offsite meeting for work. When I did think about the tinge of cervical mucus or the FRER that seemingly stopped darkening, I tried to tell myself that I could be panicking over nothing. For one thing, my cramps were of the implantation variety, coupled with the pressure above my groin. I had heartburn like a mofo. My nips were super sensitive. Etc. I yelled at myself for peeing on something and ending what had been three solid days of Nofreakout. For an anxiety-ridden person like myself, three days of Nofreakout is a big deal. So, why did I have to ruin it? Why couldn't I just revel in the land of Nofreakout? 

When I came home I posted to another super-secret Facebook group that's focused on infertility and anxiety/depression. I confessed what I'd done and was instantly reassured by the Captain, a veteran of infertility and embryo adoption who is always there for someone in need. She'd been in the same place I was - knowing she was pregnant but still POAS for reassurance. Like me, there was a time a few weeks in where she thought if she took a test, the test line would be strong enough to steal all of the dye from the control line. Like me, she didn't get a test like that, and like me, she too thought it was over. (It wasn't. In fact, that's the cycle that gave her and her husband their precious daughter.)

The Captain told me to stop peeing on things. The tests can mess with your head. I knew she was right, but it was kind of like when you know you want to start eating healthy but have a full box of Oreos in the cabinet. You can either throw them away, give them to someone else, or hurry up and eat them to get them out of the house so you aren't tempted anymore. 

I'm sure you can guess which option I typically choose.

So, yes. At 5 p.m. to peed in a cup and dipped the FRER and was surprised and relieved to see that the test line did indeed steal almost all of the dye from the control line, even after I'd been pounding water all day.

The one on the top is with FMU. The one on the bottom was taken with diluted pee late in the afternoon.

Here's what I think: I think my hCG levels have gotten to that weird point where the chemical sensors are getting confused. So really diluted urine gave me what I was looking for, but concentrated urine did not.

I have one FRER left. I'm not going to use it. I've decided I'm going to hold on to it to remind me that I need to STOP PEEING ON THINGS. Today, I am pregnant. Nothing has happened that would lead me to believe that this pregnancy is doomed like the last one. I need to stop looking for tragedy where none has occurred.

The only real tragedy is my POAS addiction. It ends up adding to my fear and robbing me of my joy. So, I'm stepping away from the sticks. 

I'm ready to move on.

out of my hands.

I feel a little sick.

Yesterday, I told Cycle Buddy, "I'm scared but also wondering if I just need to fake it until I make it. Like, instead of dreading miscarriage - which is what I did the first time around, even before my first bad beta - I'm going to operate under the assumption that this baby is going to make it. Or babies, as the case may be. (Could I be so lucky? I don't know)."

The answer? Not fucking likely. 

Full disclosure: Today's FRER is from a new box , which means a new dye lot. The control line on this one is way less vibrant of those from the last pack. But.

Today's line is lighter. And if not fully lighter, it's at the very least a similar intensity to the one I took yesterday. Definitely a lot lighter than my test from 7dp5dt last time around.

Even if they agree to do the beta draw today, I won't have definitive answers until I get the second beta drawn. With my work schedule, that won't be until Friday unless they let me get it drawn at a local lab.

Yesterday I actually felt pregnant. I was getting hot flashes at work. My energy level crashed around 2:30. I left work a full 15 minutes early so I could take a nap. I hardly ever leave work early. I almost never nap.

I dumped my FMU so that I couldn't waste another test from the other new box I have. I'll just have to wait until tomorrow, to see if another test from the same lot grows any darker.

This sucks on so many levels, I don't even have the words.

UPDATE: I may have been hasty. As the stick dries, the bottom one starts to get a wee bit darker. Not enough to make my racing heart slow, but enough that I don't feel a thousand percent doom and gloom right now.

Here's hoping they run my hCG today.

3w4d.

Went to bed earlier than usual last night. Kind of like a kid on Christmas Eve - "The earlier I go to bed, the quicker Santa can get here and bring me my presents!" Only in this case, the present would be a darker FRER (hopefully).

Seven and a half hours later, Santa came to town:

Yesterday's test was so light that I only texted pictures to three people: the BFF, Gumbo, and Cycle Buddy (the woman in my FB group who transferred the day before I did and is also pregnant). But today's was clear enough that I felt comfortable sharing it with a few of my IF friends, too.

It feels both real and not real. I have been "officially" pregnant for what? Two days? My mind runs through the possibilities. Chemical. Blighted ovum. Early miscarriage. Etc.

Tomorrow I have my mid-2WW hormone level check and I'm going to see if they'll run the first beta just so I don't have to be all panicky between now and next Monday, when my OTD is. My second pack of FRER arrived Saturday and I have a third on the way (don't judge). Even though I know I'll be peeing on things between now and then I still want to see a strong beta - and, more importantly - a properly doubling beta.

This is the next big hurdle. The first major milestone I missed last time around.

The good news is that I'm not really obsessing (yet). Yesterday I blew off half the stuff on my to-do list BUT it was so I could rest after a marathon grocery shopping session (three stores, all of which were jam-packed with people).

This, I suppose, is my top goal for the next few weeks. To take it easy. To rest when I need to. To not stress the eff out, no matter what else is going on in my life - including the looming deadline for my freelance project. Everything will get done when it gets done, and nothing is life or death except this baby burrowing in for what I hope will be a long, long haul.

transfer day mishaps and more.

I'm not someone who puts a whole lot of stock in bad omens. That said, it's not like I don't recognize them, either.

We left for our transfer about five minutes later than I wanted to, which is to say: not really late at all. But we started to hit traffic pretty early on. Thick traffic. Traffic that made my GPS tell me we were going to be 6 minutes late, then 8, then 10. I tried not to stress. I cranked up the volume on the audiobook I've been listening to. It was Gone Girl. Not the most uplifting choice, but still.

When we finally emerged from the traffic, which had been caused by road construction, Mr. Hope was so engrossed in the audiobook that he was driving about 10 miles an hour slower than he normally does. Which is to say: really fucking slow. At times, he was doing less than 60 on a 55 mph stretch of road. While we were running late. 

I said, "I should've just driven."

He said, "Maybe you should have."

It was a little tense.

When we get to the clinic, we wait. Long enough for all the pre-transfer water I pounded to start to build up in a semi-painful way. Eventually they call us back and we go over the post-transfer meds instructions with the nurse. Next, the embryologist comes in.

She hands us the picture of our two embies and right away I know something is off. The one on the left is kind of uggo. There looks like there's fragmentation and the cells don't seem very uniform. The one on the right looks a little better but it still doesn't look like the two we transferred last time.

The embryologist starts telling me that the embryos are still quite compacted and that they'll continue to expand in my uterus. Then she says, "Any questions?" 

She hasn't mentioned grades. So, I ask about them.

The uggo is a B-. The other is a B.

I am confused. The embryo we had leftover from last cycle was an A when it was frozen. What happened? Which is which?

It's the uggo that used to be my A. The one on the right is the new donor's. I find out that it had been frozen in 2010. 

I ask about variances in grading. Most of the women in my FB group get grades like 5AA or 3AB. She explains that my clinic grades them differently, that they characterize the trophectoderm (the outer cells that eventually form the placenta) as "fair" or "good," and not with a letter. Then she says (sounding mildly annoyed), "The only reason I gave that a B- is because some of the cells look damaged from the thaw."

"But it's still viable or we wouldn't transfer it," she tells me. "Any other questions?"

I feel like I should note that even though she seems mildly annoyed and/or uncomfortable, she's not unkind. She is the second embryologist I've meet who seems like she just doesn't like talking to people. She's probably an introvert, as am I, and is sitting in this cramped conference room thinking, "Can I just get back to my little lab now, please?"

At any rate, here's what I am thinking:

• Last time we transferred two Bs.
• I got pregnant with a B.
• I miscarried with a B.
• I cannot deal with another miscarriage.
• This cycle isn't going to work.
• Why do I know all of these people who get A embryos and I keep getting Bs?
• Do I need to get my embryos from some other place?
• Is it time to switch clinics?
• How much money will that cost?
• I can keep hemorrhaging money.
• Will we ever be successful?
• Will I ever have my baby?

These thoughts all occur inside of the thirty seconds it takes from me leaving the conference room and going into the changing room to put on my hospital gown. There was a quick kiss to Mr. Hope in the middle, too.

(Later, when researching embryo grading on Google, I read several things that say Grade AA embryos are extremely rare. Yet, I know SO many women who've transferred them. I think, "Could this be a case of grade inflation? Are their clinics grading on a curve?" I don't know the answer, but it does make me wonder.) 

Inside the changing room, I see that they haven't pulled the larger size gown for me. I say something to the nurse. She goes to look for one but they don't have any. They've always had them in the past so I'm confused. She says, "Just put this one on and you can wrap yourself in the blanket." 

I say, "Really? That's so humiliating!"

She says, "No, it's not. I'm the only one back here today."

I clarify: "It's going to be really uncomfortable."

"I know," she says. "I'm sorry." Then she eyes up my t-shirt. It's one of Mr. Hope's that I decided to wear on a whim, so it's baggy and long. "Just wear your t-shirt," she says. "And wrap the towel around your waist."

This is a good compromise. After I get my hairnet on I take a selfie and send it to Mr. Hope. 

In the room, there is more waiting. We're now about 20 minutes behind schedule. I have to pee badly. The nurse asks if I want to let a little out. I say no, then change my mind. She gives me a cup with a line drawn on it and tells me I can't let out more than that amount. I end up letting out half of what she tells me I can let out, feel like I can handle the remaining pressure, and go back onto the table.

Finally, Dr. Smiles arrives. He doesn't seem as cheerful as he normally does. I think, "Is he unhappy with the quality of my embryos, too?" 

He puts in the wrong speculum. See, I always require the long, skinny speculum, not the standard one. The first transfer I had, I told him this. The second transfer, I reminded him and he barked, "I know what kind of speculum you use!" So on the third transfer, I didn't remind him and he used the right one. This time? No. And it hurt. 

I hear him ripping open the package for the right speculum. Then he inserts it but it hurts a little. It's stabby. It hadn't hurt the two transfers prior. I wince and he tells me to settle my bottom. I'm trying. There is some crankage and that hurts too. I feel the catheter. I haven't felt the catheter the past two transfers. What is happening?

He starts to pull the speculum out and I feel relieved. Then the nurse says, "He's got to reposition it, so he can get a better view."

I say, "Are you kidding me? Really?"

The nurse says, "I know, I'm sorry. He needs to use a stiffer catheter, too."

I say, "Jesus Christ, okay."

Dr. Smiles cuts in, "I'm right here, ladies. I may be dumb, but I'm not deaf."

This is him joking. He has a dry wit. It makes me laugh. 

I tell the nurse I might need a bedpan after. There's a lot of pressure and pushing on my bladder throughout all of this. I don't know if I'm going to make it. I ask if anyone's ever peed during the procedure. 

"It happens," the nurse says. "Not often, but every once in a while."

I promise Dr. Smiles I won't pee on him. "Thanks for that," he says in his trademark deadpan way of his.

He finishes up and leaves and the nurse tells me to lay on the table for 15 minutes. She asks if I need the bedpan. I say, "I'm going to try to tough it out." She tells me she'll check on me in a few.

When she comes back, I say, "How much longer?" 

"Nine minutes."

"Okay," I say. "I can wait nine minutes."

It is excruciating.

I start to pull my legs off the stirrups right at the nine-minute mark. Then the nurse comes back and I run across the hall to the bathroom to let it out. 

I'm feeling kind of numb as I get dressed. Nothing had gone right, or at the very least, right enough. In my head, I start mentally preparing for the next cycle.

I am convinced there will be a next cycle.

As Mr. Hope and I walk back to the car, I tell him that I do not feel confident in the least. I lay out my reasons why. I tell him about the transfer mishaps. 

I say, "What are we going to do?"

It's a somber ride home. 

When we get to the house, I immediately start making the Indian-spiced lentil soup that I refer to as implantation soup. Only, the lentils don't get tender enough, so it cooks forever. Finally hunger wins out. I think I darken the spices too much. The soup looks weird. It doesn't taste like it did the last time.

Another thing that didn't go right.

I check out a website that offers embryos. There's a set still available that was available in September. I've kind of had my eye on them. There are a lot of embryos in the set. The features match up. Why hasn't anyone claimed them? The donors are Jewish. That could be a black mark against them in the Christian-dominated field of embryo adoption. Also, they've been accumulating storage fees for years and they want money. It's probably a lot of money. I close the page.

I update my FB group. I update my friends. I feel flat. I feel defeated.

So, this is where I am. Terrified I won't get pregnant. Terrified I will and face another miscarriage. Terrified that I will never get my take-home baby.

I want to be hopeful. I want to be positive. Yesterday afternoon, when I felt a series of twinges that were like the implantation cramps I got last time around, I emailed Mr. Hope to let him know. He wrote back, "Maybe they'll stick around after all!"

Maybe.

mistakes, I've made a few...

Something you should know about me: I am med compliant. I always have been. If a doctor tells me I need to be on something, I take it. The only exception to this is if the doctor tells me to take something and it doesn't do good things to me, like a blood pressure medicine I got put on more than a decade ago that left me with a constant tickle in my throat, as if I'd always just swallowed a hair.

But my point is, I take my  meds and I take my vitamins like the good girl that I am. I even have a really elaborate old-lady pill calls that I dutifully fill with said meds and vitamins each Sunday afternoon, so I can keep track of what I'm taking and when.

So it doesn't make sense to me that I have so many issues with the fertility meds. When it comes to them, I screw up a lot. It's not because I don't want to be taking them, or because I disagree with what I'm being given - though I did get really pissed at a nurse on the phone yesterday, who insists my treatment plan calls for 1 cc of PIO every other day and not every day. It's honestly fueled by sheer forgetfulness. 

See, the meds I mess up the most are the ones I'm supposed to take right before bed. I don't go to bed at the exact same time every night. If i'm really exhausted, I'll turn in by 10 or 10:30. If I'm not, I'll push it another 30 to 60 minutes. How careful I am about my pre-bedtime routine often depends on how loud and insistent my inner monologue is. It wasn't so many years ago I required an anti-anxiety medication to be able to shut that inner monologue down. Now I can mostly manage on my own, though I did spend a few weeks post-miscarriage on the ol' Klonopin, trying to get some quality sleep.

Anyway.

Last cycle I missed a few doses of the progesterone suppository. Usually, when this would happen, I'd bolt out of bed with a gasp, either in the middle of the night or first thing in the morning, and shove that puppy up inside me as quick as can be. I'd get so angry with myself. YOU HAVE ONE JOB RIGHT NOW, AGONY: KEEPING THAT BABY ALIVE AND HEALTHY.

This cycle, I've fucked up so many things I'm almost ashamed to admit them here. There was the day I had an appointment at Posh Clinic and completely forgot to take my Lupron in the AM. I didn't end up shooting up that day until almost noon, four hours late. I spent a week thinking I'd ovulate through the drug.

There was the day I discovered an Estrace tablet on my kitchen table and didn't even know which dose I'd missed. When they had me start shoving the Estrace up my lady businees, I forgot exactly twice and was convinced I was going to lose my lining.

I didn't start my doxycycline the right day because I didn't realize until the evening of the day I was supposed to start that the nurses had forgotten to order it for me. I had to page Dr. Eyeore on a Sunday and have him call it into the pharmacy. This turned out to be not catastrophic, since I ended up pushing my transfer back a day, but still. 

The day I was supposed to start my Medrol dose pack, I forgot until dinnertime. So I was already four pills behind. I ended up slamming them two at a time in about a six-hour period. 

Quirky would say that this is understandable. That I am under an enormous amount of pressure with my job, with the freelance project deadline, etc. and that it's only natural that I would make some mistakes. Some being the operative word. I've made more than "some." I've made a ton.

Which brings us to this morning, when the alarm went off and I woke up with a weird pounding in my head. I think to myself, "This reminds me of the headaches I got when I stopped the prednisone."

Cut to me bolting upright with an "oh, fuck!" 

Yep. Forgot my bedtime does of Medrol. Which means I also forgot my bedtime does of Estrace. The nurse told me not to take any Estrace before my transfer, only after, so by the time I'm allowed to take it, I will have gone almost 15 hours between doses. 

I took one Medrol first thing and will likely take another before transfer, even though I'm really only supposed to take one this AM and will be allowed to take a 20 MG tablet of prednisone afterward. I already packed the Estrace and prednisone in my purse and will take that as soon as I'm able. I also packed my Lovenox and an alcohol wipe because typically I do that shot in the AM, too.

I'm trying not to panic. My lining was "gorgeous." My hormone levels were perfect as of last week. I have one Grade A embryo and one Grade B embryo ready to transfer. At least, that's what they were graded at the time of freezing. I won't know what they are now until the embryologist shows us the little picture just before transfer.

This transfer - I need it to work. I mean, I know we all need every ART procedure to work. But as I said to Mr. Hope the other night, "I've never failed at something for four straight years and kept going." I want a baby so badly - to add a tiny human to our family full of love - and at the same time, I don't know how many more cycles I have left in me. I've had three failed IUIs. Two failed IVFs. One miscarriage.

I know women who've lost so much more. Who've been through so much more. I don't know how they do it. 

People often tell me that I am stronger than I think. I kind of want to cry bullshit. I'm pretty sure I know exactly how strong I am. Which is to say: strong, but not unbreakable. 

Today, after transfer, we'll either head straight home or stop for a protein-rich restaurant meal, depending on how hungry we are. Then we'll come home and watch some comedies. At some point, I'll make the lentil soup I ate a bunch of times last transfer, when I was sick. It has coconut milk and turmeric in it and I jokingly referred to it as "implantation soup," because it was warm and comforting and full of anti-inflammatory ingredients. I won't do any day job work, but I will have to put in a little time on the freelance project (nothing stressful). And Mr. Hope and I may take the dog for a short walk, because I no longer heed the doctor's advice about 24 hours of bed rest (it just doesn't make sense to me).

Tomorrow I'm back to work, and the day after that I leave for my work trip. It's a lot. I'm not going to lie. I thought about packing for said trip last night, because packing tends to stress me out, but ran out of time. Also I still have yet to prep the decks for my three presentations, though I'm going to be recycling parts from previous presos so it hopefully it won't be as heinous as I fear.

Maybe this will all be a good lesson in learning how to manage my stress. A girl can hope.

where I've been, part 2.

Let's not bury the lede here:

I am in a cycle. Not only that, I'm literally three days from my first FET. More on that in a bit.

But first, here's how I got here. Let's do the elevator version.

2/3: First post-miscarriage follow-up at Posh Clinic. This is the appointment where Dr. Smiles says my uterus never looked like it was pregnant.

2/10: Return a week later to confirm ovulation. Yep, I ovulated. Am told to start Lupron the next day and return for baseline after I get my period.

2/11: Start Lupron, 5 units in the AM and 5 units in the PM.

2/18: CD1. 

2/20: Baseline appointment. Everything looks as it should. Lupron reduced to 5 units in the AM only. 

2/21: Start estrace, 2 mg three times a day (2 by mouth, 1 by vag). 

3/1: Am convinced that I ovulated through the Lupron due to ovulation-type pains and gushes of cervical mucus. Also, have not returned to EZ Diet as previously planned, so additionally convinced that I have blown the whole cycle.

3/3: Lining check. I did not ovulate. Lining is a fluffy 11.8 with a triple stripe. Fave NP calls it "gorgeous." Decide to do transfer 3/10 due to work obligations on 3/9. New meds protocol issued; today is last dose of Lupron (yay!).

3/5: Still taking the estrace 3x/day, but all by mouth. Add in 1 ml of PIO and 1 progesterone suppository in the PM. Will continue suppository each night but PIO currently every other night. My butt is happy but my head is all, SHOULDN'T WE BE TAKING THIS EVERY DAY? 

So that brings us up to speed.

What is NOT in the elevator version is all of the anxiety I've been feeling about this cycle. Despite best intentions I have not gotten off white flour/sugar. I didn't even quit caffeine until 3/5, and that's mostly because I used my last caffeinated Keurig pod on 3/4. I haven't worked out since 2/8, after I pulled that thing in my thigh. I didn't even eat my half of avocado yesterday.

Because of these things I've been grappling with feeling like this cycle is doomed to fail. I wrote in my FB support group: 

There is a part of me that says I'm being ridiculous, that my body has shown us the issue is more likely embryo quality than my inability to carry a child, but how do you know? You do know what actually helped last time around and what is just old wives' tale/voodoo/wishful thinking/placebo affect? HOW DO YOU KNOW?

Quirky says that this is all about control and my need to have it. That research and empirical evidence show us time and again that what we eat has little impact on our ability to get pregnant. "How else can you explain heroin addicts that get pregnant and carry babies to term?" she says. And I get it, I do. But I am an overweight woman. I'm actually 15 lbs. up from my last cycle due to the post-miscarriage depression eating, aforementioned lack of working out, and the Lupron/estrace double whammy. 

Yesterday I wrote in an email, "If I get pregnant from this cycle it will be a miracle."

It doesn't help that there's so much going on right now. Work is insane. I've been pulling 45/50 hour weeks and still not digging out from under. The past two weeks I've struggled to keep up pace on the freelance project for which I've already received an extension. 

Plus, I have three presentations to prep for a conference that I need to drive to literally two days after my transfer. Last night I realized I might not have a ton of control over my meals since I'll have an almost four-hour car ride down and back and will be at the mercy of hotel food and whatever's nearby said hotel. It's only 36 hours but those could be super-crucial hours for all we know. The day after I get back will be 4dp5dt and likely the first time I will POAS. (I've already ordered two three-packs of FRER, but skipped the Wondfos this time around because they gave me so much freaking anxiety.)

And yet I'm pressing forward. I'm in it. I've been in it. I suffered through the Lupron. I returned to the pain that is PIO. I took 3/10 off from work and cleared my schedule accordingly. If I don't do the transfer this cycle, I'll just be prolonging the anxiety, not alleviating it.

Wish me luck.

where I've been.

Forgive me, Readers, for I have sinned. It's been almost three weeks since my last confessional post.

There has been a lot of wallowing in Agony land. Or, more accurately, had been a lot of wallowing. The first two weeks post-miscarriage were, in short, horrible. Not just emotionally but also physically, and in ways I didn't expect.

The headaches started immediately. Really bad ones, the kind that hurt so bad they'd wake you up from a sound sleep. This I attributed to the shifting hormone levels. Within a couple of days the headaches were accompanied by sinus pressure and, ultimately, goopy eyes, so this led me to believe I had some sort of infection. When my psoriasis flared up big time - like, deep cracks forming in the palm of one hand and on the soles/heels of both feet - I figured it was time to drag my ass to the doctor.

So, a week ago Monday, I went to see  my primary. I filled her in on the failed pregnancy and subsequent miscarriage. I told her that I was having trouble functioning because of the headaches and sinus pressure. Oh, and I wasn't sleeping. I could fall asleep just fine, but the pain would wake me up and then I couldn't get back to sleep. In the previous three days, I'd logged about 16 hours total, and it was taking a toll.

I told her that I wasn't sure of the culprit: infection? fluctuating hormone levels? anxiety? depression? stopping the prednisone cold turkey?

Her head shot up so fast that if we'd been in a movie, you would've heard a record scratch. She was like, "Say what now? "

When I miscarried, Dr. Smiles told me to stop all of my meds. He didn't give me specific instructions about the prednisone, but I'd been taking a 20 MG dose since transfer. So, almost seven full weeks. Stopping that without tapering off was apparently Bad (capital B intended).

My primary looked at my ears and nose and saw that yes, there was something ucky going on up in there. Her theory was that stopping the prednisone threw my body completely out of whack. You can Google it but basically when you take prednisone for an extended period of time, your body stops producing cortisol. When you quit cold turkey, your adrenal glands don't have time to catch up and resume natural production.

So, she ended up putting me back on the prednisone with a tapered dosage: four days at 20 MG, four days at 10 MG, four days at 5 MG. She also had me increase my Wellbutrin by adding an extra 100 MG in. And, since she was convinced my inability to stay asleep was due to anxiety/racing thoughts, she asked me to temporarily take .5 MG of Klonopin each night so that I could get some rest.

Within a day or two, I was feeling much better. More functional, at the very least. So there was that.

Last Tuesday I had my first post-miscarriage follow-up with Dr. Smiles. I wasn't sure what the ultrasound would reveal, since I'd had some serious EWCM and ovulation-type pains over the weekend. Sure enough, the ultrasound tech saw a follicle that was about to pop. Remember, this is two weeks and a day after I passed Nugget.

When Dr. Smiles and I talked, he said, "Your uterus looks like you were never even pregnant." He apparently meant this as some sort of compliment, but hearing the words was like another kick in the gut. THIS NEVER HAPPENED. SEE? THERE'S NO EVIDENCE THAT YOU EVER HAD A BABY IN YOUR BELLY.

Because my body bounced back so quickly - way faster than Dr. Smiles had expected - the whole timeline for my next cycle shifted up a bit. I go back today to confirm ovulation. If I have, indeed, ovulated, then I will start my lupron today. After I get my next period, I'll start the estrace and officially be in cycle.

I wrote out the $2600 check for the new cycle, which includes a new donor blastocyst. Just one, made by a 34-year-old woman. I don't love that part. We were given the option of two 2PNs, the mother of which was just 26 years old, but there were no guarantees we'd even end up with one blast there. So.

The following day I had an appointment with Quirky, my infertility counselor. She was horrified by the prednisone thing, too. Her best guess was that Dr. Smiles forgot I was on it, since it's not a standard protocol but something I requested preemptively. We also talked about my stress level, which was sky high due to a variety of factors - work, home, cars, dog, money, and this massive freelance project I'd fallen completely behind on and would never in a million years be able to deliver by 2/15.

Quirky made me go through the list and pull off everything that was nonessential. Blogging was one of the things that I'd stopped doing because I couldn't pull it together enough to sit down and write. But what else could I do? Could I, a classic type-A overachiever, pull back at work? Give it an A- effort versus an A+? Could I stop cooking dinner every night and allow myself some takeout until I was feeling better? Could I talk to the person to whom I owed this massive freelance project and ask for an extension?

This was the big one. The elevator version is that years ago, I was doing a different freelance project for this woman that I never completed. Mr. Hope went through some rough times (different post for a different day) and it affected me deeply and I just stopped doing freelance work all together. I was worried that asking for an extension - especially the long one that I needed - would make the project manager think that I was flaking on her.

The good news is that the PM and I were friendly outside of our working relationship. Like, Facebook-friendly. Also we knew some details about each other's lives. I knew that she conceived her two littles through IVF, for instance. She knew we'd been struggling with infertility. When I knew my pregnancy was likely to end in miscarriage, I let her know. And when I lost Nugget, I let her know that, too.

We ended up talking on a Friday, because a mutual colleague passed away unexpectedly earlier in the week. He'd actually been the one to introduce us, so we wanted to connect. We talked about him and shared memories.

And then I did it. I told her how far behind I'd fallen - how the second my life started to implode I pretty much stopped working on the project.

She asked me if I was okay talking timelines and I said yes. She looked at the schedule and saw that we had wiggle room. I was given an extension until April/May. She understood that I wasn't flaking. She knew I was committed to the project. She cared about me and wanted to make sure I was okay.

The relief I felt at that moment was so overwhelming that I thought I would crumple to my floor and pass out right then and there. I'm not even exaggerating. I felt safe and sleepy and like everything was going to be okay.

Dealing with that stressor changed EVERYTHING. The next day I got caught up on paying the bills and updating my budget. I cleaned off my desk. I cleaned off the dining room table. I did a ton of dishes and wiped down the kitchen. I did the meal planning for the week and made the grocery list. I ran to Walmart with Mr. Hope to pick up things we needed. I met a friend at Panera where I worked on my freelance project for two and a half hours and knocked out twice my daily goal for getting the project done. I came home and had sex with my husband since the first time before my last cycle. I made dinner. I snuggled with Mr. Hope and Precious Pup.

I felt good.

The following day, I got up early and worked out for the first time since the beginning of my last IVF cycle. I made a healthy breakfast. I sent Mr. Hope off to work and knocked out some more of the freelance project. I had a lot of baking to do for a work function, so I started busting that out, too.

Crossing things off my to-do list felt good. Hell, before Saturday I'd stopped keeping a personal to-do list all together.

So I'm starting to feel like me again. The tapering off the prednisone has been amazing; currently the only pain I'm feeling is from the surrenders I did during Sunday's AM workout. My muscles hurt so badly that I couldn't work out again this morning as I'd planned - the last time I tried to push through pain like this I injured myself. But it's okay; I know WHY I can't work out today, and I know that tomorrow, when I should be way less sore, I will get back to it.

If all goes well today, I'm looking at transferring the first week of March. Which is, like, right around the corner. Crazy, right?

I have a lot of fears about this next cycle, the biggest of which is that I won't get pregnant at all. Or that if I do get pregnant, I'm headed for anther miscarriage. I want so badly to be on the other side of this whole process.

I am so ready to be a mom.