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.

the aftermath.

By the time I got to the doctor's office on Monday, the bleeding had slowed considerably. It was maybe a light period (if that). We sat in the waiting room almost 25 minutes before being called back. I had an insulated lunch sack with two flat ice things and my glass dish. This I happily handed over to the assistant as I told her how upset I was with Dr. Smiles for not preparing me. She's normally one of the front-desk people but I guess they'd been slammed that day so she was helping out. We turned the dish over to the nurses and I felt lighter instantly.

"Do you want your husband to come with you?" the assistant asked. I told her no, that I didn't want to put him through this. He was in the waiting room with the BFF; that's where I wanted him to stay.

There's only one ultrasound tech (that I know of) at Posh Clinic. So the woman who first showed me Nugget's heartbeat was the same one to confirm that yes, I passed her that morning. There was still a small clot that I'd be passing but most of it was gone. There was no need for the D&E.

"Looks like you saved yourself a procedure," the tech said.

I'd hear variations of that phrase half a dozen times that morning, and all of them made me feel angry and upset. I DIDN'T WANT THIS. This is the only thing that kept running through my mind. I DIDN'T WANT THIS.

I got dressed and went back to the small waiting room until it was time to see Dr. Smiles. For this, I did call Mr. Hope back. We sat together, holding hands, until a nurse took us to see the doctor.

I'm pretty sure one of the first things I said to him was, "Why didn't you prepare me for this?" Only, in his mind, he had. He said, "I told you there would be bleeding and that there was a 50% chance you'd miscarry at home." Both Mr. Hope and I assured him that no, he didn't. We kind of argued over it for a couple of minutes but I was tired. I didn't have a lot of fight left in me. And when Dr. Smiles confessed that he'd just gone through the same exact thing with his wife not even three months ago - and that he was with her when she miscarried their nine-week fetus into the toilet - my heart broke that much more.

Dr. Smiles had told me that in the long run this was better for me. "Better for you," I'd said. But he insisted that the best procedure was the one I didn't need to have. Even though the D&E was perfectly safe, there's always a possibility of scarring or infection and now I'd have neither of those.

And even then, my head was clear enough to see that I'd been relatively lucky. Emotionally, the whole thing was appalling and traumatic. But physically, I'd just had some really bad cramps. Hell, I think I slept through the worst of it. You read stories of women who have actual contractions during a miscarriage. Not to be crass, but all I had to do was fart.

I mentioned to Dr. Smiles that I hadn't heard back from the UnproRepro about our next match. He asked if we wanted to be proactive and talk to her while we were there. Mr. Hope and I looked at each other. Typically he doesn't come to my appointments - at least, he hadn't until there were ultrasounds - so we figured what the hell. We were both there. Let's talk to her.

We ended up in one of the meeting rooms for almost another 40 minutes. The first ten to fifteen minutes the door was open. Dr. Smiles' office was right next door. You could hear everything.

First he walked down the hall to meet some obnoxious woman's twins. I say "obnoxious" because Mr. Hope told me she'd brought the twins into the main waiting room and struck up conversations with other women. Women who were NOT there with twins. There are signs in the office that specifically ask that you not bring children with you out of sensitivity to other patients. On the sign it actually says that if you'd like to bring your kids back for a visit to call the office and they'll arrange for you to do it outside of normal business hours.

So we heard him cooing over the twins. And then we heard him talking to a woman he was releasing to her OB. Clear as day, I heard him telling her how perfect her hormone levels were, how right on target the baby's growth was. Milestones I hadn't hit. Milestones I'm terrified I will never hit. When he said, "I can't wait to meet this baby," I felt like I'd gotten kicked in the gut.

Eventually the UnproRepro came into the room and talked to us about a blast she had. One blast to add to the one we have on ice. We asked if there were any other sets that maybe had more embryos at 2PN. She had a set of 2PNs we could have but there were only two embryos total, which meant having to grow them out. No guarantees of any blasts there.

She handed us the profile of the blast and then said she'd go pull the 2PN one so that we could see it, to, We told her we weren't trying to be difficult but we were hoping there'd be at least the possibility of genetic siblings. "That's unusual for donor embryo," she told us. But it's not, not really. The matches that many of the women in my FB group have made have been with larger sets. One woman was given eight! And she went through a regular clinic like we did, and not through a larger program like the ones at NEDC or FIRM.

We asked about donor egg. Not so that we could mix it with Mr. Hope's sperm but so that we could maybe make our own double donor embryos. Frozen eggs are $2,000 a pop. For $8,000, we might end up with four embryos but more likely we'd end up with two.

I felt frustrated, like the UnproRepro may have actually had better things in her database but was just this super-strict gatekeeper who didn't like me very much. But it's more likely that my clinic just doesn't have a ton of embies. Especially not now that word about donor embryos is growing. I think the wait lists are going to get longer and longer.

Anyway.

Something was wrong with the UnproRepro's computer and she couldn't print the other profile but promised to send it to us later over email. So, we left the office around 12:30 and headed off to lunch with the BFF as a thank you for all of the love and support she'd given us.

Then we drove to Quirky's office for a counseling session. She was very concerned about how matter-of-fact I was about everything. She keeps telling me that it's almost like I disassociate from my body - that I am hovering above the situation, reporting on what's happening down below. This, she thinks, is my defense mechanism. She's probably right.

I did break down at one point - I can't remember why - but honestly? I haven't cried a ton though this. I cried when I realized I would likely lose the baby at home. I've had a few jags here and there. I almost lost it on my trip at an exhibit commemorating 9/11. But for the most part, I still feel kind of numb and flat and blank.

Quirky's concern is that I process my  miscarriage before jumping into another cycle. But I'll be honest: If I could start that next cycle today I would. Yes, I'm grieving the loss of Nugget. I will always grieve that loss. But I am so ready to be on the other side of this. To have a healthy, successful pregnancy. To deliver a healthy, happy baby. To be a mother. Is it any wonder why I want to press the fast forward button to get there?

I'm back to work today and I wish I wasn't. I'm definitely not 100% ("okayish" is the word I've been using). I'm functional but I wish I had the luxury to not be functional, if that makes sense. But life goes on and things at my job are blowing up and I need to be in the office doing my part. It's just the way things are.

Also: I'm sorry that I haven't responded to the sweet comments some of you have left. I'm getting there, I promise.

confessions of a bitter infertile.

Yesterday I had my eighth solo appointment with Quirky, my infertility counselor. I first met her over two years ago, when she came to speak to my Resolve support group about tips for getting through the holidays. She doesn't take insurance and is out of network, and at the time I wasn't in a good financial position to start seeing her. But, once we made the decision to pursue donor embryos, I called her to see if I could work through some of my anxieties and fears with her. Turns out she was able to do our requisite pre-donor counseling session as well.

I like Quirky - a lot. And I like working with her. I have been seeing therapists fairly continuously since I was 17 (I have struggled with depression and anxiety since I was very young). Chance, who started as Mr. Hope's and my family counselor, started seeing me one-on-one about a year and a half ago. In the beginning, he was just the kick in the ass I needed to start making some serious changes in my life.

But after a while, the one thing I needed to talk about most in therapy was my infertility. Plucky, the therapist I was seeing prior to chance, had this bad habit of comparing my infertility to that of Julianna and Bill Rancic, as that was literally the extent of her knowledge. Hence one of the reasons I stopped seeing Plucky, because hi, really? Julianna and Bill?

But Chance isn't much better when it comes to the babymaking blues. In fact, lately I've been considering taking a break from therapy, since I haven't been getting much out of my sessions with him for months. He had Mr. Hope and me come in together on Christmas Eve, to make sure we were okay with everything going on, and I sat there for half an hour recounting what had been happening before he sent us home. In the parking lot I turned to Mr. Hope and said, "Is it me or was that a colossal waste of time?"

Quirky, though...Quirky gets it. (In)fertility is her bailiwick. Pregnancy, loss, adoption, donor gametes - you name it, she covers it. And yesterday she really took me task.

My appointment with Quirky was for 2 p.m. Yesterday was the first day I'd been home alone in a week. It was the first day without holiday craziness or house guests. I was supposed to get up, work on my freelance project, do some laundry, make some soup, and balance the checkbook. Instead, I sat on the couch and binge-watched an old sci-fi show on Netflix, drifting in and out of sleep as I did.

Before my appointment I had to drive to my office to pick up my bottle of vitamins. I'd run out at home and Mr. Hope was freaking out that one day off prenatals would be enough to do Nugget in. On the way there I listened to a sweet, country-flavored pop song on repeat and, out of nowhere, started crying. In the car. While listening to Taylor Swift. (The song is "Stay, Stay, Stay" if you're interested.)

Then I had to pick up an audiobook at the library. More tears. More frustration about getting stuck behind old people and people on their phones and generally crappy drivers.

So when I arrived at Quirky's office, I wasn't doing so hot. I was still sniffling back some tears. I was wearing zero makeup and my hair may have been slightly wet from the shower I took before I headed out.

"Talk to me," she said. "What's going on?"

I told her about watching What to Expect When You're Expecting.

"Why would you do that?" she asked immediately.

"Masochism?"

"Maybe," she said. "Or maybe you needed to cry."

"More likely masochism."

I told her that I realized right after Mr. Hope left for work that my boobs had stopped hurting entirely. I mean, there was nothing. I could mush them with my hands and there was not a single spot of tenderness. I told her that I knew then I'd lost the baby.

She said, "You realize it doesn't work like that, right? Even in a normal pregnancy, symptoms come and go like that. When you lose a baby, your symptoms don't disappear that quickly. It takes a while for your body to catch up."

I shrugged. I did a lot of shrugging yesterday.

(Side note: when I got back into my car after the appointment, and buckled my seat belt, I winced. Guess what? Boob tenderness back with a vengeance.)

I talked to Quirky about what a horrible person I was, because the weekend with Mini-Hope was so rough. I told her that 80% of the time I don't even like Mini-Hope, and this makes me wonder if I'm even fit to be a parent.

Quirky said, "I don't believe you think that at all. You know you're not a horrible person. How old is Mini-Hope? Ten? She's not going to be likable a lot of the time. And it's okay to feel this way. Why are you being so hard on yourself? Why aren't you giving yourself any love right now?"

So then I proceeded to outline all of the reasons why I am a piece of shit not deserving of self-love. And she proceeded to tear down my reasons one by one.

We talked about a lot of things yesterday. About how part of my devastation over this miscarriage limbo is due to the fact that this could be Mr. Hope's and my genetic child. When I found out only one embryo implanted, I was convinced it was the donors'. When the embryo stopped hitting benchmarks, I became convinced it was ours. Mr. Hope has said he doesn't care whose it is, and that we'd only be testing after birth to make sure we had the right medical history. But that's his feeling, not mine.

My feeling is this: we wanted a biological child. We were unable to have one. We decided we wanted to be parents, period. We decided to pursue the use of donor embryos. But it's not like that was ever our first choice. That was our backup plan. Our only realistic path to parenthood.

It's not that I would love a baby created from donor embryos any less. And if Nugget pulls through and it turns out she isn't made from our DNA, who the fuck cares? It's a baby. OUR baby.

But I feel weird saying these things, even to Quirky. About how donor embryos are our backup because we couldn't make the genetic thing work. About how deeply saddened I am that there might never be a tiny human that's half Agony and half Hope. About how I see these rah-rah donor embryo women in my super-secret FB support group who are all snowflake this and snowflake that, and how I wish I could be like them but I'm not.

I am grateful that embryo donation is a thing. I know it's given a lot of infertile couples a gift they never dreamed they'd have. We may be one of those couples.

But the whole snowflake thing is just a little too precious for me. There, I said it. In the FB group, there was this 10-day stretch of women posting any little thing they found on Amazon that had a snowflake on it. Jewelry, t-shirts, socks, Christmas lights, etc. It's winter and it's Christmas, so yeah, there's a lot of snowflake shit out in the retail world right now. Do we need to post all of it?

I know there are women who embrace the snowflake thing 100%. I get it. I do. The embryos are frozen, see. They're unique. Just like little snowflakes.

I feel like I should add a disclaimer here and say that I don't look down upon anyone who digs the snowflake thing. I really don't. I kind of wish I could be part of this particular sorority, but I'm too fucking bitter and not nearly adorable enough.

So.

Quirky's whole thing was this: "Why are you censoring yourself in here? You need to be honest with me. You need to say what you think and what you feel."

But I'm a good girl. I always have been. I go out of my way to not hurt people's feelings. I have trouble saying no. I hate it when people are angry with me. I don't want anyone to think I'm a bad person. Ever.

In the spirit of being more honest, though, there's this:

I hate being out in the world and seeing women with cute little baby bumps. I will never have that bump, even if I have a pregnancy that sticks. Fat women don't get bumps - they just look fatter.

I hate being out in the world and seeing women with babies who look annoyed to have babies. Or who yell at their toddlers in stores. Or who threaten to spank them when they misbehave. Why can you have a fucking child and I can't? I would never hit my child. Never.

I get irritated by women who get pregnant easily. I get irritated by most pregnant women in general, actually. Unless I know they've struggled with infertility or suspect they have. Then you get a pass, because you had to work really hard for that baby. You, I like. You, I not only tolerate pregnant, but am actually happy for.

I hate the way my stepdaughter is being raised and hate even more that Mr. Hope and I are powerless over it. I hate that she's turned into such a spoiled brat. I hate that she only seems to like me when I say yes to her and give her what she wants. I don't do that very often, so she doesn't like me very often, and this makes me like her even less. I hate that Mr. Hope doesn't nut up and be more of a father when it comes to her, even though I understand where that comes from. (Elevator version: he didn't even know about her until she was almost five, so he missed out on all of those early formative years.)

I still feel responsible for my infertility. I'm too fat. I smoked when I was younger. I waited too long to have kids. I rushed the surgery to remove my dermoid cyst instead of waiting to find a doctor who would've tried to save my ovary.

I'm broken. I can't do the one thing a woman was built to do, even with donor gametes in my body.

I hate that I'm going to lose this baby, and I hate that there's a part of me that doesn't believe I'm going to lose this baby, even though all evidence says otherwise.

At one point yesterday, Quirky said, "I'm concerned that you've already decided how this is going to turn out, when you might not even be going down that path. And you will have wasted weeks being miserable and waiting for something that might not happen."

I said, "So, what? If Nugget makes it and I wasted the first trimester feeling miserable, oh well. I will have a baby. Who cares if I missed out on the joy of pregnancy if I end up with a baby?"

I'd give anything for Nugget to make it. To become a healthy baby in my arms. Boy or girl - ultimately I don't give a shit. C-section? Who cares? Cut me open. Get that baby out.

My birthday is coming up. I'm going to be 39. In fertility years that's like 104, especially if you're DOR like I am. Quirky says it doesn't matter when you're using donor gametes but you know. I'd like to not be on Social Security when this kid enters high school. And god forbid we decide to go for a sibling. I'll be like the only kindergarten mom with an AARP membership.

One last thing: I think my theory on the weight gain was spot-on. Only one day of eating mostly (and not entirely) healthy and I've already dropped almost three pounds. So that's a minor relief.

Got to get ready for Ultrasound #4. Expecting the worst but hoping for the best. (Dear god, please - PLEASE - surprise me.)

the other 5%.

Mr. Hope and I went back for a second ultrasound yesterday. We had no idea what we were walking into, and my anxiety level climbed the closer we got to the clinic. But at least we didn't have to wait long after we got there. Before I knew it I was stripping from the waist down and climbing up on the Table of Doom.

We had the same ultrasound tech from Wednesday. She said, "I see a pregnancy that's grown." She told us she saw the yolk sac. I chimed in, "Do you see the fetal pole?" She said, "Give me a second! The whole thing is the size of a pencil eraser." (She said this teasingly, not meanly.)

She zoomed in on the screen. Then she said, "I see a heartbeat. You won't be able to see it - it's just a flicker - but I see it." She told us the baby was measuring 2 mm. I asked her what the heart rate was and she said, "Oh, no, it's too soon for that. We should be able to count next week, when it's a little bigger." 

She said, "The baby's only 2 mm. So it's basically all heart."

When she told me she saw the heartbeat, I started to cry immediately. Just one little tear that fell from my right eye. I turned to Mr. Hope and said, "I read something recently that said happy tears start in your right eye and sad tears start in your left. I thought it was bunk but I literally just started crying from my right eye."

The ultrasound tech said, "You have smart tears."

I got dressed. We sat in another little waiting room. Not even two minutes later, I heard Dr. Smiles calling my name.

We went back to see him. He said, "We have a heartbeat!" He was practically giddy. He told us he didn't really care about the numbers so much as what the ultrasound says. He told us that seeing the heartbeat meant that we had less than a 5% chance of miscarrying. 

I asked again about the low beta. He waved me off and said he's seen women with betas that don't rise for weeks and still manage to have healthy pregnancies. This, to me, sounded like another installment of Fairy Tales for Infertiles. That wild, wacky hope that EVEN THOUGH EVERYTHING SAYS THIS PREGNANCY IS GOING TO FAIL, IT MAGICALLY DID NOT, BECAUSE I AM SPECIAL. I AM THE EXCEPTION.

Mr. Hope reminded me to ask about the cookies. So I told Dr. Smiles that I'd given up flour and sugar and potatoes and bananas and yogurt during my cycle but I'd eaten cookies when we'd done some holiday baking, and I was worried that I'd hurt the baby. He shook his head and said, "Nothing you do or don't do is going to affect this baby." 

He said, "Your uterus is doing exactly what it's supposed to be doing. This is good information to have." 

He said, "If the baby's heart stops a couple of weeks from now, we'll know this was always part of the plan." Meaning, if I lose the baby, the baby wasn't strong enough to make it in the first place.

His enthusiasm was catching. He was thrilled for us. He wasn't worried. He wanted to see us back next Monday, and he wanted that baby to be 9 mm. 

I had to stick around for blood work and to get some meds reordered. Then we got back in the car and started driving home. 

The two of us were stunned. Relieved. And maybe a little bit excited. We didn't have the labs back yet, but Dr. Smiles said he didn't care about them. We were free! We had a heartbeat! Nugget was going to make it! Dr. Smiles seemed to think so, anyway.

I wasn't over the moon, but I certainly felt better. I updated my group of people who needed updating. I went home. I packed up my laptop. I went into work.

I'd been scheduled to take my team out for our holiday lunch, so almost as soon as I got into the office I left again. I thought about telling them. I've been missing so much work. What if they thought I was looking for another job? Or had cancer? I would be missing more work for more ultrasounds.

At the end of the lunch I said, "I wasn't sure if I should tell you this but...I'm six weeks pregnant." They all got crazy excited. I gestured with my hands to keep it down. I told them that my blood levels last week were troubling, but that today we saw a heartbeat. I told them I was cautiously optimistic. I tried to keep their expectations in check. I think they could tell that I wasn't filled with unfettered joy.

Later, I had to apologize to a coworker who needed to reschedule a meeting to accommodate my ultrasound appointment. I went into her office and blurted out, "I'm six weeks pregnant, but my blood levels are worrisome and I had to go back for another ultrasound. They saw a heartbeat but I'm waiting for a call about my blood results and they might call during the meeting so if I run out in the middle, that's why."

Even as I was telling her, I kept thinking, "Why? Why are you telling her? It's just another person you'll have to tell if something happens."

I went to the rescheduled meeting with my phone in my pocket set to vibrate. It never vibrated. I missed the call. When I checked the voice mail, the nurse told me that my beta hadn't gone up much in five days - it rose from 1,461 to 1,508. She said that was low and that if I wanted to, I could come back in on Wednesday or Friday for another blood draw and ultrasound, or I could keep my Monday appointment if I wanted to wait until after the holidays. She told me they were "cautious." Not cautiously optimistic...just cautious. Period.

I felt numb. I knew what that number meant. I went back to my office. I emailed Mr. Hope. I updated my super-secret Facebook support group. One woman wrote, "If I were you, I'd trust the Lord with all my heart and lean not on my own understanding each and every time you try to doubt this precious gift whose heart is currently beating in your womb."

I thought, "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" I'm not trying to doubt anything. I am trying to understand what's happening with my body. I didn't even think you could see a heartbeat with hCG so low; everything I'd read said you needed to have a minimum level of 5,000 to see the heartbeat. But I'm guessing that's based more on average beta levels by 6w1d.

There is nothing average about my beta level.

In fact, I went from a high first beta (508, 12dp5dt, 3w3d) to a super-low second (1,461, 19dp5dt, 5w3d) to a positively dismal third (1,508, 24dp5dt, 6w1d).

All I could think was, "How could this possibly be a viable pregnancy?"

Dr. Smiles had said I had a less than 5% chance of miscarriage. You hear this number a lot in relation to heartbeats. 

What you don't hear a lot about is that other 5%. The ones who STILL miscarry, heartbeat be damned.

I fear I am in that other 5%.

A coworker had given me tasty pastry as a holiday gift. I ate two of them on the ride home, despite the white flour/white sugar content. I didn't even care. I wanted to stuff down my feelings. I wanted to blunt the pain.

I spent the rest of yesterday in a mixture of numbness and disbelief. Dr. Smiles had seemed so sure that we were in a good place. I believed him. I trusted him. How could he have been so wrong? And if he truly wasn't concerned with the hCG level, why was the nurse basically preparing me for the worst? They consult with him before they call me, so I know that 1,508 must have gotten him at least a little spooked.

What I didn't do is cry. I don't have any tears left.

I had a holiday dinner thing with friends last night. I pulled my shit together and went. I ordered a pasta dish. Fuck it. If my actions don't affect whether or not this baby lives, I might as well have some comfort food. 

I smiled and made jokes. Only one of the women knew that I was pregnant and that I felt certain I was going to lose the baby. She gave me hugs and whispered that I should call her and to let her know what I needed, if anything. 

I drove home.

I heated up the bottle of PIO in my bra. I filled the syringe. Mr. Hope gave me the shot. It fucking hurt. I don't usually have issues with my PIO shots, but now that I'm doing them daily he seems to be hitting more tender places. This time it felt like he was dragging the needle through my muscle. I cried while he was shooting me up. 

I went to bed.

I woke up.

Life goes on. 

I have spent hours Googling things like "ridiculously low beta but normal ultrasound successful pregnancy." I have found no anecdotal stories that match my own. Even the "low beta" women have levels three, five, ten times as high as mine. The stories of women who had betas even lower than mine - women who see the heartbeat with hCG levels under 1,000 - they all seem to lose their babies in week 7, 8, 9.

If I'm going to lose this baby, I'd rather lose her now than wait another three weeks. The longer I go, the more painful it will be, physically and emotionally. The longer I go, the longer I have to wait before trying again. 

And what does trying again look like? I only have one embie on ice. Will Posh Clinic allow me to get another donor set so that I have more than one to transfer on our second attempt? Or do I have to use up all from the first set before I go back for more?  Every FET runs us $2600 out of pocket; every new set of donor embies adds another $500 to that tab. And we have great insurance. We're the lucky ones.

If I lose this baby, I lose the possibility of a biological child for Mr. Hope and me. Even though last week I swore it was the donors' embryo that implanted, the fact that my levels indicate chromosomal abnormalities leaves me less sure of that. What if our embryo "made it"? What if ours is the one fighting to stay alive?

Mr. Hope said, "We could try to get another egg from you." I said, "No. I told you I wouldn't do another fresh IVF cycle. I just can't. We only get one every time. And if we get one and it doesn't make it to blast, it will have all been for nothing. I just can't keep putting myself through this again and again."

He said he understood.

(He may have been lying.)

One of the women in my super-secret Facebook support group did 9 unsuccessful IVFs and three FETs before getting her rainbow baby. She's still pregnant - I think 27 weeks now. She never had high betas her entire pregancy, and they never really doubled normally either. Recently she told me that her tested betas never broke 1,000. And she's pregnant! With a healthy little girl!

Part of me was like, "Oh, great. of course I would know the ONE woman in the history of women who has a miraculously healthy baby with the World's Shittiest Beta Levels." Knowing her - knowing her story - plants that tiny seed of doubt (or is it hope?) that maybe I too will be an astonishing exception to the rule. That maybe I can write my own chapter in Fairy Tales for Infertiles.

Meanwhile, we have Mini-Hope this weekend. I am terrified I will start to miscarry when she is in my house. We are throwing a party Saturday night. I am terrified I will start to miscarry during the party. I am off the week between Christmas and New Year's. I am terrified I will spend this vacation mourning my miscarriage. 

And even as I type this, my boobs are on fire again. They hurt so badly last night - the worst they've been this entire pregnancy. I have heartburn, which I only started to get yesterday. And my stomach feels a little sick, though maybe that's a residual from last night's lobster ravioli and not, you know, morning sickness.

Sometimes I hate my body.

Sometimes I hate my brain.

I really just wish I knew what was going to happen next. This not knowing is making me crazy.

the waiting game.

We had our first ultrasound yesterday, at 5w3d. The tech pointed out the one lone black dot on the screen. She said, "I can see the gestational sac and yolk sac, so you have everything you need there." She told us that she didn't see the second, but that they're so small at this stage, we might see the second next week. Her gut, though, told her this was it.

I almost cried when she said she could see the yolk sac. I knew that's what we were looking for. So that was a relief.

Turns out our RE is in a different office on Wednesdays, so we had to see another one in the practice. I'd never met with this doctor before, though I'd heard Dr. Smiles make a couple of disparaging remarks about him. Anyway, Mr. Hope named him Dr. Eyeore because he was all, "Because of your age, your chance of miscarriage is 25 percent right out the gate. I'd say you're in the high teens now. After we see the heartbeat, it goes down to 12 percent, and then keeps going down after that. We'll know more next week. Don't get too excited and don't tell anybody. But I'm liking what I see; we're off to a good start."

So my enthusiasm was tempered even before we left the office. I was feeling all sorts of things I couldn't even begin to process. Relief that there was a yolk sac. Sadness that only one embryo made it and, because of course I assumed it was the donors', loss. This was our last chance at a biological child, after all.

But also I had this niggling feeling something wasn't quite right. I'd had it for a few days, when the control line on the FRER I took at 18dp5dt wasn't significantly lighter than the one I'd taken two days prior. Shouldn't the test line be way darker by now? Shouldn't it be stealing dye from the control line like crazy?

And then there was Mr. Hope. We'd talked about him not going to the first ultrasound, because it was really just going to be a dot on the screen. The heartbeat ultrasound was the one he really needed to be there for. He was fine with this, and then all of a sudden he changed his mind. This was Tuesday. He rearranged his work schedule and insisted on being there Wednesday morning. I felt this cold dread, like why had he suddenly changed his mind? Why was it suddenly so dire to him that he be there? Did he know that we were going to get bad news? Did he just have a feeling?

But it turned out that his old boss, whom he had told we were pregnant, goaded him into it. "You don't want to miss the first ultrasound," she told him. "You'll regret it and Mrs. Agony will kill you."

(For the record, I wouldn't have. It's just a black dot, is all.)

I'd asked the nurse what time the physician's side called with blood results. She said between 2 and 3. When 3:30 rolled around and I still hadn't heard anything, I started to get nervous. They save the bad news calls for the end of the day.

At 3:40, I dialed in. The woman who answered the phone was all, "We don't call you with the results every time, but let me check." She put me on hold. When she came back on the line, she told me that my hCG was a whopping 1,461.

"Uh, that's low, right?" I asked.

"Hold on," she said. "Let me page a nurse."

I immediately brought up a doubling calculator on my laptop and typed the numbers in. The doubling time was alarming: 110.23 hours. At this stage, I should be closer to 72 max.

I felt like I was going to start crying.

After a while, the nurse who drew my blood this morning got on the phone. She's a sweet old lady but seems a little touched - she smiles a lot but her eyes look a little vacant. She said, "We didn't forget about you!" and then proceeded to read me all of the numbers. Turns out my progesterone dropped from 19 to 16.7, too. I'd thought the 19 was a little low because the night before hadn't been a PIO night. But I'd had PIO on Tuesday night, in addition to the suppository.

Nurse Special told me that Dr. Eyeore wanted me to increase the PIO to 1.5 cc every other night. When I'd asked about the drop, she said, "As long as it's over 15, you're fine."

I asked about the low hCG.

"It's a little low," she agreed. "But Dr. Eyeore says we need to see where you are next week."

This answer wasn't good enough for me. I asked Nurse Special if I could speak to a doctor. She put me on hold for a while I tried desperately not to lose my shit.

When she came back on, she told me that Dr. Eyeore was gone for the day so she had Dr. Smiles paged. He was upset that I'd scheduled an appointment on a day he wasn't in the office. For the record: I didn't even KNOW this until I got there; I'd spent most of my time with the IVF nurses, not my RE. He told Nurse Special to tell me to ONLY schedule appointments on the days that he's in the office, further underscoring my feeling that there is no love lost between him and Dr. Eyeore.

He also told Nurse Special to tell me that he's seen low betas take off, and not to worry - it's still early. He did want me to move my second ultrasound up from Tuesday to Monday, though. Oh, and he wanted me to keep the PIO at 1 cc but take it every night.

None of this comforted me. Not one bit.

I started crying even before I hung up the phone. Because I don't care what Dr. Smiles or Dr. Eyeore or anyone else said: I knew then that I would lose this baby.

So then I had to go back and start telling everyone I'd sent the ultrasound picture to that they shouldn't get too excited - that things didn't look good.

It's amazing how much slower response times are when you share not-so-great news.

I cried on and off the rest of the afternoon. Gumbo was texting me and telling me to have faith and to talk to my body and tell the little bugger to hold on. I felt kind of silly, so I picked up a picture book to read out loud. Mr. Hope and I had done this once before. I chose Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, as it seemed appropriate.

I started bawling almost immediately, and cried as I read the entire thing. Then I cried some more.

Since it was Wednesday, I had therapy with Chance at 6:30. I cried on the ride over. I cried in his office. I told him it was my fault. That my body was toxic because I ate cookies from the BFF's and my marathon baking session. I ate cookies, I told him, and I killed the baby. This was on me. I cried so hard on when I tried to drive home that I had to pull over because I couldn't even see the road.

I know how crazy that sounds. I am not a crazy person. But I just couldn't wrap my brain around it. I still can't. How did I go from such a strong first beta to this? What went wrong? Why?

I missed my mom. Even as I missed her I couldn't entirely figure out why I wanted her so badly, because even though my mom was great in a crisis, this wasn't the kind of crisis she excelled at. In fact, she'd probably have made things way worse. It would've been like the time she told me it was "a scientific fact" that if you wanted a baby too badly, you couldn't get pregnant. "It's a scientific fact," she repeated angrily, like, duh.

One of the first things my mom said to me after I got married was, "Now go make me a grandbaby." And when she died, I felt so horribly guilty that I couldn't give her one. When I got pregnant, I felt so sad that my mom wasn't here - that she would never get to know the grandbaby she wanted so badly.

Now, this.

Most of the women in my super-secret Facebook support group are women of faith. There are a lot of requests for prayers and a lot of prayers going up, and sometimes those prayers are left right in the comments themselves. One of the first women to respond to my update said, "I hate to say it, but it is in God's hands, so you have to believe that the right thing will happen."

I hate when people tell me things that like. I never, ever belittle anyone's faith or religion; in fact, I envy people who have that kind of faith, because I'm sure my life would be easier if I shared their beliefs.

But I also find it really kind of disrespectful when people impose their beliefs on me, even if it's inadvertent. It's one thing for someone to tell you they're saying a prayer for you - I find that sweet, actually - but it's another for someone to tell you that this bad thing is happening because it's part of God's plan. I just can't imagine that God is that big of an asshole.

I went to bed really early last night. This morning, I dutifully POAS. The control line was darker than my previous test and the test line was lighter.

So I'm guessing it's only a matter of time before I start bleeding.

I'm going to ask Posh Clinic if I can come in for a blood test tomorrow instead of waiting until Monday, because if the number is dropping as quickly as I'm expecting it to then at least I'll have the weekend to start grieving. And if the number's still going up, then it will give me the tiniest bit of hope.

I'll take any hope I can get right about now.

things I did differently this cycle.

Today's FRER line is nice and dark, and I finally had the guts to take my Clearblue Digital. Even my Wondfo is clearly positive today, though still not nearly as dark as I feel it should be. Regardless, I'm guessing this is the last one of these I'll need to post unless things start getting crazy light.

You can see a weird break in the dye run on the 9DP5DT test, toward the bottom. But look how dark the top of the line is! P.S. It might be time to start tossing some of these, huh?

Yesterday, I found this chart, which gives an estimation on the likelihood of miscarrying based on the number of days pregnant you are. I printed it out and hung it on our fridge, and now Mr. Hope and I are crossing off days together. Since yesterday, our odds of miscarrying went down from 29.2% to 28%. Or, as I like to think of it, our odds of carrying this pregnancy to term increased from 70.8% to 72%.

I've been thinking a lot about what I did differently this time around. You know, besides the obvious "adding a donor blast from a 30-year-old mother into the mix" thing.

I didn't take DHEA. When I started seeing Dr. Smiles in October 2013, he had me start taking DHEA. I'd been on it almost four months for IVF #1. I discontinued it after IVF #2 and never went back on it.

I reduced my number of supplements. For IVFs #1 & #2, I'd been taking L-Arginine, alpha lipoic acid, and selenium in addition to the stuff I'm still taking now (most notably Ubiquinol and forms of B vitamins that work well with my MTHFR mutation).

I changed my diet. I'm now a BIG fan of the EZ Diet. And honestly, it wasn't THAT hard to give up flour, baked goods, sugar, potatoes, bananas, and yogurt. (I say that now, of course, before Christmas kicks into high gear.) I can't say for certain how much this changed things, but eating this way certainly feels healthier.

I ate a LOT of avocados. I'd read about a study funded by the NIH that showed that a diet high in monounsaturated fats and lower in saturated/trans fats was 3.4 times more likely to result in a child from IVF. I love me some avocados (before the EZ Diet, Mr. Hope and I used to have avocado toast for breakfast quite frequently), so I figured it wouldn't hurt to ramp up my consumption. Nearly every day of this entire cycle, I'd eat half an avocado with breakfast. The day of transfer, I ate half of an avocado before and another half after. Again, don't know how much this helped things, but it certainly wasn't a burden to eat yummy avocados daily.

I was on a (somewhat) different protocol. This was the first cycle that I primed with estrogen (I took it for 8 days prior to starting stims). I stimmed with four vials of Menopur in the morning and four at night, same as IVF #2. But Dr. Smiles changed up my progesterone; this time I do a PIO shot every other day and a pessary every night. I think I respond better to the pessaries, which I used during my three IUIs and some natural cycles as well. I also take estradiol twice a day; I may have only taken it once a day on previous cycles but can't remember.

I skipped the acupuncture. My previous two IVFs, and for a couple of IUIs, I tried acupuncture. I didn't find it all that relaxing and it never seemed to do anything to help my lady business. I have heard of other women who did it and weren't successful, then did a cycle without and were.

I asked to trigger with Ovidrel. I've always used generic hCG for a trigger, but I am really bad about sucking all of the meds up with the long needle. So, this time I asked to switch to Ovidrel. It's a preloaded syringe and a subcutaneous injection instead of a muscular one.

I insisted on transferring blasts. My previous two IVFs were with Day 2 transfers. In hindsight, I could see that my first embryo was kind of uggo (cells weren't exactly even, and there was already fragmentation on Day 2). My second embryo was better, but still so young. I really rolled the dice on this one by insisting on growing everything out to blast. And I did so fully expecting to have nothing of ours to transfer. The gamble paid off, big-time. I mean, our one little embryo made it to blast! Even if it didn't end up implanting, you can't ask for a better chance than that.

I didn't do bed rest. This is a big one. My clinic recommends 24 hours of bed rest after transfer. I did mostly bed rest after IVF #1 (we had tickets to a show that night, ones I'd purchased seven months prior, so I did a little bit of walking in the theater) and serious bed rest for IVF #2. I never felt like bed rest was the right thing to do but Mr. Hope insisted. This time, I told him, I wasn't doing bed rest. I'd take it easy, I said, but I needed to move around to make sure the blood was getting to my uterus. He reluctantly agreed. And I did take it easy, for the most part. There were a few rounds of Celebrity where I was doing charades that got me a little schvitzy, but hey - guess getting my heart rate up a little was ultimately a good thing.

Here are some of the other things that I didn't do that I had on previous cycles:

• Eat pineapple core
• Avoid raw foods (I've been chowing down on salads like a boss)
• Avoid cold beverages
• Yoga
• Mediation
• Fertility massage

I will probably never know what did or didn't make a difference, but I wanted to document these things here because it's the kind of stuff I loved reading on other people's blogs.

Anyway, there you have it. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm actually feeling tired enough to fall back asleep!

wtf, wondfo?

I had this plan that I was only going to use my FRERs every other day. I had two in reserve and a digital in the linen closet. If I took the digi on beta day (Wednesday), I'd have just enough.

Only, my Wondfo this morning was so pale, it looked negative. I started to feel panicky. Why wasn't it getting any darker? Sure, the Wondfos had been light all along; three days past trigger, when I should have still had a minimum of 6,000 mIUs of hCG still in me, they were still pretty light.

But what if?

What if I was literally pregnant for a single day?

I dipped the FRER.

The second line started to come up immediately. Within two minutes, it was darker than yesterday's. Better yet, it continued to darken.

I'm still pregnant. Here, see for yourself.

Do you see that Wondfo? Do you blame me for getting panicky? Wondfo, I think it's time I quit you.

I'M STILL PREGNANT!

The fact that it got so much darker today makes me feel like this is actually happening. Yesterday I was in a little bit of a daze. I walked around the house, carrying the test with me from room to room. (That's normal, right?) I'd keep looking at it from different angles, holding it up to the light, hoping (praying, wishing) that this baby (babies?) would stick around for the whole nine months.

Yesterday, I texted pictures of the tests to four people: my two best friends in the whole world and two of my closest sisters in infertility. My two infertiles saw the line immediately. The BFF was like, "Very faint but I see it too!" (I'm apparently training her to have an infertile's eye.)

And then there was Gumbo. She didn't text back right away, and then I got busy with work and wasn't even thinking about it. Around 10:30 I got this text:

I'm so sorry, I'm actually confused and angry. I thought this time for sure. Could it be too early?

I was like, "It's positive!" I sent her a zoomed in picture. She texted back:

What?!!!! It doesn't show up in pic! Are you home?!!! I've been so sad!!!

Then, a few exchanges later:

I still can't see it I'm jumping out of my skin I'm coming over

So she did. To be fair, she showed me the picture on her phone and you really can't see anything. Not even a whisper.

Now the hard part is going to be NOT shouting this off the rooftops. There are so many people who've been there for me and cheering me on. Can I tell them? Should I? It's still SO early. But Glam Coworker, who's still out on maternity leave, told me the day after she got a positive pregnancy test. There are a few family members and close friends who knew I was cycling. Should I tell them?

And then I think: the more people I tell now, the more people I'd have to tell if something goes wrong.

I don't like thinking about something going wrong.

But I did have this talk with Mr. Hope, who was under some delusion that the beta test was the last hurdle to clear. I was like, "Um, that's like the third lowest run on a very long ladder." He was all, "Say what now?"

I told him that the bottom run was making it to retrieval. Making it to transfer was the next. (In previous versions of this lesson, I've also included egg fertilizing and egg growing day to day as rungs, too, but I was trying to simplify here.) After beta, I informed him, was second beta and likely third beta. After third beta it was ultrasound, and then heartbeat ultrasound, and so on and so forth.

His poor face. He looked like a puppy I'd kicked.

"I have to tell you," he said later, "I'm a little scared."

"That's pretty normal," I assured him.

Even so, I need to be careful. I don't want to let anxiety rob me of this happiness. I'm pregnant. I AM WITH CHILD. And, to be perfectly honest, I've been getting pinching cramps in two entirely different places - low on the right, higher up on the left. There is a possibility that we're looking at twins here.

One step at a time, Agony. One step at a time.

the evils of early testing.

While I wouldn't call myself a true POAS-holic, I have dropped a small fortune on pregnancy tests in the years I've been trying to conceive. So I already had a pouch full of Wondfos at the ready before I even started this cycle, and as soon as I knew when retrieval was, I bought a three-pack of FRERs from Amazon.

I told myself I'd try to wait until 5DP5DT to test. That would be the morning of my mid-2WW hormone level check and the equivalent of 10 DPO. But of course I didn't make it until then.

Of course I didn't.

I used my first Wondfo 3DP5DT. A ghost of a line came up within the first three minutes. I thought maybe I was seeing something that wasn't there. It got darker as it dried, but definitely had the purple-red color typical of a Wondfo. I lined it up with the first two I took when I was testing out my trigger, as well as the one I took when I decided the trigger was out of my system. It was lighter than three days post-trigger, but darker than five days post-trigger.

It's really hard to see from this photograph, but there is a faint line on that bottom one. The top two were taken three days after the trigger, the third five days after trigger, and the fourth 3DP5DT.

Mr. Hope and I looked at the sticks together. I photographed them. You could still see that the one on the bottom had color. Was I pregnant? COULD IT BE TWINS?

I sent the photo to the BFF for a second opinion. She saw "something." We talked about how tomorrow would be the true test. Would it get darker?

It did not. 

It got lighter, so I broke open a FRER. I saw another ghost line that could've been an indent. I ripped the cartridge apart to get a better look. Another "something," but nothing I felt convinced was a true BFP.

The Wondfo I took yesterday, 5DP5DT, was so light it was practically snow. Disheartened, I went in for my hormone level check.

The visit was good. For one thing, Fave NP was there and she's typically not in on Wednesdays. She brought me to an exam room even though the blood draw pod was clear because she wanted me to catch her up on the cycle. So, I did, and she was genuinely excited for me about having a blast of our own to transfer. 

Then I confessed to her that I've been peeing on sticks (because at this point, I feel like Fave NP and I are practically friends). I told her about the super-faint positive 3DP5DT, and how it got lighter and lighter. I told her I didn't think it was the trigger because I'd tested it out a few days prior. She did the math and said, "We've seen the trigger shot last ten, eleven days. I think it's more likely that you picked up that."

I told her I wasn't hopeful. 

Mr. Hope and I were both home sick from work - I am SO sick, you guys, like CRAZY sick - so I spent the day Googling things like "BFN 5DP5DT then BFP." Literally, the better part of an entire day. I Googled every minor symptom I had, including "pressure in groin area pregnant" and "stabbing pain in left side of uterus for a minute implantation."

Fave NP had asked me if I'd keep testing. I told her, "I'm going to try to hold out until my beta." 

I lasted until around 6:30 p.m. last night.

My urine so pale, I don't know why I bothered dipping the Wondfo. I brushed my teeth while I waited, since it's got a two-minute timer on it. I thought I saw something pale and shadowy, but nothing darker than what I'd been seeing for days.

I tucked it into a pouch with unopened Wondfos and walked away.

So here's the thing: even though I kept reading stories of women who'd say, "Oh, I got BFNs until 7DP5DT" or "I didn't get my first faint BFP until 13 DPO," you also read a lot of stories by women who say they got their BFPs 8 DPO or 4DP5DT. In my super-secret Facebook support group, there had been a ton of BFPs lately, and all of them were on 4DP5DT or 5DP5DT. 

Clearly, I was out. I just had to accept it and move on.

I've been having trouble sleeping. Probably because of the cold, but maybe because of the excitement/anxiety of being in the 2WW. Last night I went to bed a little after 11 and woke up around 1:45. I had to pee so bad, but was like, "If I pee now, when I get up tomorrow I'll only have a four-hour hold." And then I thought, "Screw it. If I get another BFN tomorrow, I can always chalk it up to the four-hour hold." 

Sure enough, I woke up just before 6 a.m. I peed in my little plastic cup. I dipped the Wondfo and waited. 

Another ghost line. Color, but so pale only fellow infertiles, with their eyes trained to detect such things, would immediately see it.

But oh! What's this? An extra FRER left over from my last cycle tucked into the pouch of Wondfos. I look at the expiration date, see December 2015, and register it as December 2014. 

I tear it open and dip it in.

Within a minute, I start to see something pale and shadowy. Another indent? It's too early to be an evap. 

I keep watching.

It gets darker. And then darker still. And finally, it's so visible I can actually photograph the fucker. It's no squinter - even non-infertiles would see that line.

This also photographs paler than it is in person. I don't know why my iPhone camera hates me.

I take picture after picture. I text one to the BFF. Then I feel guilty for "telling" her before Mr. Hope.

I wake him up.

"We're pregnant," I say. "The line is pink and it's visible and it hasn't even been ten minutes. As of today, we are PREGNANT."

He follows me into the bathroom to get a better look. "Yep," he says. "I see it."

We hug, and he's burning up. I make him go take his temp but it's normal. We go into the kitchen so I can give him some cold meds.

I give him crap for not seeming more excited. He says, "I'm sick, my head is swimmy, and you just woke me up."

Just an ordinary day, folks.

Except, it's not.

TODAY, I AM MOFO PREGNANT.

I've never had a true BFP. This is literally my first.

So now we wait to see if the line gets darker between now and next Wednesday, which is when my beta is. Because of course I just can't be blanket happy, over-the-moon. Of course I'm going to be peeing on things every morning between now and then.

Even if next Wednesday's beta is good, I'm going to be sweating it out until I get the second beta (it would be that Friday, I'm guessing). And then I'll be sweating until the first ultrasound, and then until I see a heartbeat, etc., etc.

Because of all the things that infertility takes from you, I've heard from so many fellow infertiles who've gone on to find success that losing out on pregnancy joy is one of the worst. 

But today - at this moment in time - I'm not going to think about that. 

I'm going to stare at my first-ever BFP and smile like an idiot.

symptom spotting.

I'm 2dp5dt (two days past five-day transfer) and so far, nothing.

No real symptoms whatsoever.

I know that it's early and that not every women gets symptoms regardless. But still. I've got nothing. And I've been on the progesterone now for a week now, so shouldn't I be feeling something? When I'm not in a cycle, and have ovulated naturally, I get heartburn and gas and tenderness in my boobs.

Okay, so my temp is elevated (as it should be), and I've had a couple of hot flashes. And yesterday I pooped five times and then again this morning; I never thought this was a possible sign of pregnancy by if you Google it quite a large number of people have reported it. (Me, I thought it was because I was taking Miralax preemptively, as progesterone tends to constipate the hell out of me even when I'm not on supplements.)

Let's see...I was a bit queasy yesterday, in the AM and the PM, but I also started the estradiol and that can sometimes make me feel nauseated. Oh, and I'm definitely getting a cold, but I felt like I was fending one off during a lot of my stims so I can't see how that's tied to having a bean or two on board.

Basically, there's a rational explanation for everything, and not a single "symptom" that feels like an actually symptom.

Theoretically I could start POAS Tuesday (the equivalent of 9 DPO), but I'm fairly certain that it would be negative even if I was pregnant. I'd told myself I'd hold out until Wednesday AM, the day of my first hormone-level check (10 DPO). But I could totally see myself caving out of curiosity. Isn't this what cheapie Internet test strips were invented for?

Even though I have this cold, I am so looking forward to going back to work tomorrow. Anything to keep me busy and make the time go faster, right? Less time to obsess.

I read on another blog that someone said she had infertility bipolar during the 2WW - that she vacillated between certain her IVF worked and convinced that she'd never be pregnant. I'm guessing this is fairly common among us infertiles. It's definitely where I am, just two days in.

Here's a confession: I'm terrified my cycle won't have worked in part because every time I'm in one, someone close to me gets pregnant a few weeks before I do and I don't. First attempted IVF that was converted to IUI: Gumbo. First true IVF: Glam Coworker.

Kindred got her BFP a couple of weeks ago, and I honestly couldn't be happier. But some crazy part of me wonders if this is going to be the Pregnancy Touch all over again, where my friend is successful and I am not. Maybe I really SHOULD start charging to rub people's bellies.

Or maybe I should just chill the eff out.

transfer day.

Heading to Posh Clinic this morning, Mr. Hope and I didn't know what to expect. There'd been no Day 4 update, remember? We tried to be positive on the drive but both of us were nervous. I kept saying things like, "Well, they didn't call us first thing this morning, so that must mean we have SOMETHING to transfer."

We ended up getting to the clinic early. I like to park on the street (it's free) and then take the 2-minute walk to the building. Mr. Hope does not. I tried to convince him that a brisk morning walk would send blood supply to my uterus. I won.

When the nurse called us back to go over my post-transfer instructions, she was all smiles. She ran down a list of items, including when I'd start my estrace, Lovenox, and prednisone (tomorrow, today, and today). Then she left to get the embryology tech.

I turned to Mr. Hope and said, "She was really chipper. This has to be good, right?"

The tech that came in was the same one who called me on Wednesday. She's got one facial expression: flat. I don't mean this in the bad way - I just mean she wasn't as smiley and friendly as everyone else we typically deal with. 

She gave us a picture that had individual shots of our five embryos. The ones that had been As on Day 3 (ours and one of the donors') were now Grade B blastocysts. "I'll take it," I told her. Because HOLY SHIT, we were transferring a blastocyst of our own making! Of the three remaining embryos, one arrested at five cells, one was lagging behind as a morula, and one was an early blast. They were pretty sure they could refreeze the early blast but weren't sure what the morula would do. My guess is it's out, too.

So let me recap for you: My "rotten" egg managed to make an embryo that not only made it to blastocyst, it also outperformed three of the embryos created with a 30-year-old's eggs. 

On the ride up, Mr. Hope and I were still talking about whether or not we wanted to transfer one or two. I'm a little nervous about twins, in part because of my weight but also because hi, twins cost a fortune. And there's no way one of us can be a stay-at-home parent, so in addition to double the cost of everything else we'd have to contend with double day care. Mr. Hope, on the other hand, was all, "Twins are great! Twins are an instant family!"

If our embryo had been a Grade A, I may have pushed harder for eSBT (elective single blastocyst transfer). But the fact that both of the front-runners were Grade B made me think I shouldn't chance it. So we stuck with our original plan to transfer both.

At my clinic, here's how this works:

They take you back to a room with lockers. You change into a gown, hair net, and slipper socks, then drape a thin blanket around your shoulders like a cape to cover your otherwise-exposed bottom. You lock your stuff up and take the key with you. Then they take you back to the transfer room, where you wait until they're ready to load your legs into the leg holder things.

I sat there, alone in the quiet room, and started to cry. Not because I was sad or upset, but because I never thought we'd get to that moment. I never thought we'd have a viable chance at making a baby from my egg and Mr. Hope's sperm. My first RE, Dr. God Complex, wouldn't even consider going to transfer with one follicle. He actually scared me into thinking I was putting myself at risk by doing that because it was such an "invasive" procedure. 

But here we are, retrieving a solitary egg for the third time, and the damned thing turned into a blast. 

I told Mr. Hope, "I can't even...I don't even have the words."

He joked, "They should've sent a poet."

We laughed.

So I cried a little, and then the nurse who assisted on my second IVF came in and said, "Aww, why are you crying?" I told her they were happy tears and filled her in on everything. She said, "It only takes one, right?"

I'd already had about 35 ounces of water before I came to the clinic, but the nurse who went over my post-transfer instructions seemed concerned that I hadn't had more. So I chugged another 16 ounces. I was fine until the transfer nurse told me to put my legs into the holder things. As soon as I swung a leg over I felt the pain in my bladder. She said, "Do you need to release a little?" I said, "No, that would make it worse." And then powered through.

Dr. Smiles came in a few minutes later. He said, "So, we have two good blastocysts today," and I said yes and then he said, "Let's get you pregnant," which is what he says every time.

I barely felt the speculum go in and I didn't feel the catheter at all. In fact, I didn't know it was over until he started to pull the speculum out. I said, "That's it? I didn't feel a thing." Dr. Smiles quipped, "That's what I've been hearing from ladies since I was 16 years old."

I told him I owed him a hell of a Hanukkah present and he said, "Just get pregnant. That's present enough." And then he left and Jen said, "He's right, you know. You getting pregnant is the best present ever." I said, "I'll do what I can. You know, it's not like I've been trying to thwart the process along the way!"

I stayed on the table for another 10 minutes. Around minute seven, my bladder started to hurt. I called out the nurse's name softly. The next minute, I called it out a little louder. A minute after that, I really raised my voice.

No nurse.

More minutes ticked by. As the clock approached 9 a.m. I thought to myself, if she hasn't come back by then I'm getting off the table and going to the bathroom. She didn't come. I was debating how bad it would be if I got up when finally - FINALLY - she walked in. 

As soon as I tried to sit up, I thought I'd pee myself. I told the nurse, "I don't think I can do this." She said, "Want me to get a bedpan?" I said, "You might have to." Then I decided I'd try to power through anyway. 

Holding onto the nurse, I swung one leg over and did this weird tuck and roll off the bed. Then scurried to the bathroom where I peed for so long I felt like Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own. Seriously, it was the neverending pee.

And then I got dressed, and Mr. Hope and I went out to breakfast. We came home and I took the prednisone and my first Lovenox shot. We tried to watch a movie but I started passing out almost immediately, so we stopped it and went to bed for a long (like two-hour-long) nap.

I'll be honest: I don't know how this cycle will turn out. I'm nervous about the B grade on the blastocysts. And even though we used an anonymous donor through the clinic, I'm a little bummed that we only ended up with one good quality blast and one decent one. You'd assume that using young donors would give you at least ONE Grade A blast, right? If not more? The fact that we only have one decent one to maybe freeze means that if the donor embryo is the one that sticks, there's not a great chance of a genetic sibling.

Of course, there's still one scenario in which both embies stick and we end up with super-fraternal twins.

I'm not someone who's big on prayer, but I have been sending positive messages out in the universe. And I have a lot of people praying on my behalf. So maybe - MAYBE - that will help?

I want this to be our time so badly...I really, truly hope it is.

something to lose.

As happy as I am over yesterday's unexpectedly good news, I'm also feeling a little...well...scared.

I mean, I was fully expecting to be told that Mr. Hope's and my embryo didn't make it to Day 3. I was pleasantly enough surprised when I thought ours was hanging on at a grade C. But to learn that my presumed-rotten egg had managed to produce a grade A embryo? 

I don't even have the words.

In a split second, I went from expecting the worst to hoping for the best:

• Our embryo makes it to blast
• We transfer it on Day 5
• It sticks
• We have a baby that's half Agony, half Hope

I keep thinking about the dream I had early in my stim cycle, the one in which I was holding our Agony/Hope baby and thinking, "I almost missed out on this. I almost gave up on this." Could this actually happen? Could we end up with a bio baby after all?

Even if our embryo makes it to blast, we still plan on transferring the best of the donor embryos, too. So I keep chewing over this wacky scenario in which both stick and we have fraternal twins from entirely separate parents. How wild would that be? 

So, yeah, there's a part of me that's thinking about these things. And then there's this other part of me - the realistic part of me - that knows there's still a good possibility that our embryo won't make it to blast. How would I feel Friday morning if I got that call? Would I be devastated? To come so close and yet not quite make it there? IT'S A GRADE A EMBRYO. That means cells of equal size and no visible fragmentation. 

This thing that I never dared think possible? It's not impossible. It's just not. 

I don't even know what to do with that.

Plus my overthinking brain is going in all kinds of crazy directions, like, "What if the embryo from the last transfer was good but my toxic, broken body killed it?" I think about this a lot, actually. And yes, I know plus-size women carry healthy babies all of the time, but I'm not basing this on my weight alone. There's the psoriasis. What if that has caused bad inflammation in my body? What if, even on this EZ Diet, I'm eating too much saturated fat? I won't do low-fat dairy because I know that can have adverse affects on a woman's fertility, too. Will the half of an avocado I've been chowing down at breakfast each morning counteract any negative effects from the full-fat cheese?

You see how this works?

On Tuesday, even before we got the happy grade A update, I told Mr. Hope that we were going to get pregnant this cycle. I just knew it. And then I immediately regretted saying the words, because it was like tempting fate to come along and kick me in the teeth.

But then I think:

We are in a good place, Mr. Hope and me. We're in a better place physically, emotionally, and financially than we were even nine months ago, during our first IVF. I am ready to be a mother, no matter how I get there. Nine months ago, it was still more about being a mom to a baby Mr. Hope and I created together. Now it's about us being parents together, period.

Maybe I had to go through all of that to get here, to where we are at this very moment in time. 

Or maybe it's all just completely and utterly random. Who knows?

The problem with having hope - genuine hope - is that in some way, it sets you up to be let down. Hope has given me something to lose. In some ways, expecting bad news, and being okay with getting that bad news, was easier. You don't get a sucker-punch to the gut when you're ready to hear the worst.

I'm rambling. And it's Thanksgiving! There are so many things I am truly thankful for. Like my excellent health care coverage, and a top-notch clinic, and a husband I love who loves me back. 

I guess I need to spend more time thinking about those things than I do wondering about the what ifs.