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.

motherless child, childless mother.

Is it me, or is everyone going extra-special crazy this Mother's Day?

Maybe I just didn't notice it last year. I had to work Mother's Day weekend. It was the first without my own mom and came on the heels of two failed IVF cycles, so working was like the best distraction ever.

There are a lot of motherless people in my life. Mr. Hope. My aunt. Some long-distance friends. Facebook acquaintances. This day tends to be hard for all of them.

I thought I'd feel different this year. This year, I am a mother-to-be. But it's weird. Even though this is the first Mother's Day that I am an actual mother (remember, never so much as had a pregnancy prior to last November), I am still just me. I feel slightly uncomfortable over all of the maternal outpouring. This is pretty much how I've felt even prior to my IF diagnosis, when motherhood was something I longed for and thought was only out of reach due to timing and circumstance.

Part of me hoped that my husband would make a big deal out of today. That instead of giving me his annual card from the dog, I'd get one that referred to our tiny human. There should be flowers, I thought. Some sort of sweet gift, maybe a silly onesie or a magnet that referred to me as Mom.

I didn't really tell him I was hoping for hoopla. When we were purchasing cards for the other mothers in our lives, I said something like, "You know, technically this is my first Mother's Day." He bought me a card while I was with him, which kind of sucked.

Maybe he'll surprise me. He often does.

I feel like I sound so spoiled here. I am so lucky. There is a presumably healthy baby baking in my belly. It's what I've wanted for so long, what I've tried for in earnest over the span of 4+ years. I know so many other women who haven't made it this far yet, whose longing runs every bit as deep as mine. I am grateful that we are where we are. I honestly never thought we'd get here.

But I guess I'm just sad that I don't feel less sad. Does that make sense? We're going to visit family today. We're going to tell some of the most important people in our lives about Jellybean. This is huge. And once we get the results of our MaterniT21 test next week, confirming that our baby looks healthy by all counts, we'll tell Mini-Hope. After she's in the know, we can go public.

Maybe that will be the turning point. When this will start to feel more real. Or maybe it's when we first hear the heartbeat? Or maybe I just need the results of that test.

I am possibly buying a crib off Craigslist. It's a white, four-way convertible with good reviews. You can get it brand-new for $220 and the woman is listing it for $120, but I talked her down to $90 because there are scratches on the top. I don't really care about the scratches, but I'm thinking if I can save money on certain things then I'll have more money for the top-of-the-line car seat/stroller combo I want, and a really comfy nursing chair.

At any rate: I am making plans. I am moving forward. I have stopped fearing that I will lose this child every single second of every single day. All good things.

So why am I not happier today? I want to be, honestly.

Maybe I just need to stay off Facebook for the next 24 hours.

you are not alone.

I spent most of my twenties fearing the end of my fertility, in part because I knew my mother entered menopause early. I also knew it took her mother, my grandmother, nearly a decade to conceive my mom, and that in the end she was only able to do so with the help of whatever fertility drugs were being prescribed in the early 1950s.

And yet, when my husband and I first received our infertility diagnosis, our RE declared me "fine." The problem, he said, was the testosterone supplement my husband's urologist had surgically implanted in his thigh: it had rendered him sterile.

The relief I felt in the time that we waited for my husband's sperm to come back is indescribable. I was fine! I could make a baby! According to the RE (the one I've not-so-affectionately dubbed Dr. God Complex), a year wouldn't make a difference in my fertility - in his mind, the line between 35 and 36 wasn't as dire as the charts seem to make it.

Ten months after being declared "fine," I was rushed to the ER for the recurring pain I had nearly every time I ovulated. I'd been complaining about these episodes for years, but my gyno had dismissed my complaints as mittelschmerz and basically called me a cry baby. I didn't think this sounded like typical female pain, though. I would simultaneously feel like I had to poop, pee, and vomit, and then I'd writhe in bed, clutching my lower abdomen and sweating, until some anti-anxiety medicine would kick in and put me to sleep. 

For two years this happened, nearly every single cycle, until it started to get worse. I started to have the episodes outside of ovulation. Two weeks apart, just before my period, on a random Tuesday. One of the worst times it happened was the day of a close friend's funeral. She'd died young, unexpectedly, from complications with an autoimmune disorder. I was delivering one of the eulogies. The attack came on after I'd already put on my makeup, and I just kept moaning no, not today, please, God, not today.

Miraculously, my body pulled it together long enough for me to deliver the eulogy, but the pain returned during the last third of the funeral. I handed my dish off to a friend and went straight home, where I sweated and writhed and cried for hours.

The trip to the ER happened not long after that - less than a week. The attacks were coming too close together. For the first time, someone decided to use a transvaginal ultrasound to see what was going on in there. That's when they discovered the 10 cm dermoid cyst taking up residence on my left ovary.

I lost the ovary in the surgery meant to remove only the cyst. My surgeon liked to cut things. He prided himself on how quickly he was in and out of my body. Speedy Gonzalez didn't think I needed that ovary anyway. I was still planning on doing IVF, due to my husband's low sperm count, and I had another ovary. One would be plenty.

In the years following, I've come to form a theory of my own: there was a reason I almost always ovulated from the left ovary. That's where all of the good eggs were. The ovary that was left behind was lazy. In the wake of surgery, it took a long time becoming active. In every attempt at ART, we could only coax one decent follicle from the right ovary. Every. Single. Time. When my AMH was finally tested, it was <.16 - undetectable.

The depression that followed my IF diagnosis was so deep and so intense that my therapist asked me if I would consider attending a Resolve support group. It would be good for me, she said, to connect with others in my situation. I had attended support groups before, for people with loved ones who had mental illness, and found them to be less-than-helpful. They were bleak, these meetings. I never left feeling hopeful. 

But my therapist was insistent, so to the Resolve support group we went. My husband and I sat in a room of other couples and some women flying solo. I told our story to a group of strangers and listened as they told me theirs. I cried along with the young woman who'd just gotten her diagnosis of cervical cancer. They would harvest her eggs, but she'd never be able to carry a child. The pain she was in was so palpable, I just wanted to hug her.

It was cathartic, attending that group, and we returned, month after month, for the first year after our diagnosis. I formed a couple of friendships with women I met in that group, one a fellow DOR gal like myself (Kindred). The meeting facilitator formed a secret Facebook group for us to keep in touch in between meetings. I felt like I'd found my people.

Later, I'd move on from those meetings to my secret Facebook group of women pursuing donor embryos. It's an active group, more than 530 members strong, comprised of women from all over the world. They have answered my questions, cheered me on through two cycles, consoled me after my first-ever pregnancy turned into a miscarriage. They have followed me through my current pregnancy, and a satellite group - one focused solely on anxiety/depression stemming from IF/ART - has held my hand through every fear I've had about losing another baby.

In short, these women are my lifeline. 

I've made a lot of good friends thanks to my infertility. Some of the strongest, most resilient women I've ever met. My fellow infertiles, I call them. We share a bond that only another woman who's struggled to achieve (and sustain) a pregnancy can understand. 

That circle has expanded in the past seven months, after I started this blog and started spending time reading/commenting on other people's blogs. Women I've never met in "real" life, who I may never meet face to face, send me Facebook messages and leave me comments before every follow up appointment. "Thinking of you," they'll say. "Let me know how it goes." I do the same for them.

I am not alone. I am far from alone. And I am grateful to everyone in my support system, from the women I met in my Resolve group to the blogger whose story I just discovered last week. If you want to know how people survive infertility, this is it: through the camaraderie of fellow infertiles. People who've walked the path you're on. It doesn't matter if they're still in the thick of it or have reached the other side - these are your people. They will help you get through it.

I'm not fully "out" in terms of my infertility, but I will be. All along I've said that when I reach the other side - whether it be through a take-home baby or making the decision to live child-free - I will tell my story. I'll tell the story of my miscarriage, too, because that's another thing that needs to be talked about more openly. 

Why not now? you wonder. I'm just not ready. I'm still in the trenches, fighting my way toward the family my husband and I so desperately want. I'm not ashamed of what I've been through. I'm not embarrassed. Biology is what it is. A doctor put hormones in my  husband without counseling him that they would render him sterile. A surgeon stole my good ovary and patted himself on the back because of his speediness. I can't change any of these things.

For now, I tell my story anonymously, through this blog, because I want others to feel less alone. And it's working. Recently, a woman found my blog after researching the too-small gestational sac that led to her miscarriage. She told me that reading about my experience with the same thing helped her come to terms with her situation.

I cried when I read that. Because I can't tell you how many times I've done the same exact thing - found someone out there, through an online or in-person support group, or through the blogosphere, and said YOU, YES YOU, YOU ARE MY PEOPLE. THANK YOU FOR SHARING YOUR STORY.

This post was written in response to Resolve's National Infertility Awareness Week. Click here to learn more about the disease of infertility. To read more stories of hope, check out the NAIW 2015 Blogroll.

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.

embracing the book.

On December 13, 2008, I placed an order on Amazon.com for the fourth edition of What to Expect When You're Expecting. Mr. Hope and I had been engaged for a little over five months and we decided I would discontinue my Depo Provera shot, since we knew it could take up to a year for fertility to be restored after stopping it.

We were planning for the future.

Life conspired against us. Our wedding got delayed and then got delayed again. Mr. Hope lost a dear family member. There were health issues. Lots and lots of health issues.

In January 2011, we went for a preconception appointment at the gynocologist. This was at the recommendation of What to Expect, a book that, in the two-plus years of owning it, I'd never made it past the first chapter - the one about planning. My gyno told me that based on my age, it could take me six months or so to get pregnant.

Y'all know how that story goes.

When I got pregnant in December 2014, I had to hunt down the book. What to Expect. I couldn't remember where it got stashed. Mr. Hope found it in a cabinet in his office. I took the book into my office but couldn't bring myself to read it. Instead, I shoved it in a drawer with my unopened What to Expect workout DVD and unwritten-in pregnancy journal.

I never did read the book, or work out to the DVD, or write in the journal. Things went downhill pretty quickly.

But earlier this week, after the u/s and beta, I dug up the book. I curled up with it on the couch, and I started reading. And then I read it again the next night. And the next.

There's something oddly liberating about feeling okay enough to read this book that I've had for literally six years and some change. Sort of like how I finally got it together enough to identify an OB I think I want to work with, and call to make an appointment.

I go back and forth between feeling excited and wanting to tell the world and semi-certain that if I get too excited or tell too many people it will all be over tomorrow. Chance, my former therapist, called this superstition. I think it's just the result of too many years of infertility, too many years of things going wrong, of easy things being hard.

Or maybe it's a little of both?

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.

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.

the fertility detective.

I feel like I've spent the last 48 hours playing Agony Vagina, PI. Gathering evidence for my case to prove that yes, there is indeed a bun in my oven.

Exhibit A: Woke up yesterday with greasy hair. It usually takes four days of no shampooing to get hair that greasy. It had only been two.

Exhibit B: During my shower, I lost like four strands of hair vs. the normal small, rodent-sized clump I typically clear out of the drain. This happened when I was pregnant with Nugget, too.

Exhibit C: While I was watching TV with Mr. Hope yesterday, my head in his lap, I passed out cold in an instant. In the middle of the day. When I woke up, I didn't even realize I'd been a sleep until the plot of the show didn't make any sense. Time I'd been dozing? 34 minutes.

Et cetera.

I managed to stay busy most of the day. Busy is good. Busy keeps me from obsessing over symptoms that may or may not be there.

And then last night, the BFF came over for dinner and we talked until 1:30 in the morning. We talked about EVERYTHING - work, life, her kids, the kid I hope I'll one day have. The subject of fertility came into the conversation so many times, in so many different ways. Like, we started talking about GMOs and if maybe they have anything to do with the uptick in infertility in recent decades. (My theory: it has more to do with chemicals, like the kind found in plastic.)

Side note: I fully believe that in the next 10 to 50 years, scientists will discover a way to help women like me - women with DOR - regrow an ovary with a whole crop of fresh eggs. Or something similar that has the same results. "I was just born a decade or two too soon," I told her.

After the umpteenth discussion about IF, I said, "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. You've had to spend so much of the last four years hearing me talk about my vagina. It can't have been fun for you - me working my way through all of the stages of grief."

She laughed. Then she said, "It's more like I want you to be happy, so when you get good news and good things are happening, I'm happy, too, and when you get sad news or sad things are happening, I'm sad, too."

In the early days of my diagnosis, the BFF was one of the only people I wanted to talk to about what was happening, but she was also one of the people who managed to say the wrong thing 50% of the time. It hurt. It was never intentional on her part - I know this - but outside of my husband, this is the one person who I really needed to "get it." I needed her to be there for me in ways she wasn't able.

It took a lot of therapy on my part, and a little of me coaching her a bit - "When you say things like X, it makes me feel Y" - but eventually it all worked out. Now she's one of the biggest sources of support I have. And I'm so glad that I have her in my corner.

Anyway.

So I spent most of Saturday playing fertility detective. This morning I woke up after 6 hours of sleep (Mr. Hope snored me awake). I had to pee pretty badly, so I got out the cup and dipped the stick and nothing happened.

White.

I put the stick on the side of the sink and reminded myself that it was still really early, and that I had until 8dp5dt to start to panic. A minute went by. I looked at the stick again. Still white, but is there maybe a shadow developing?

I reminded myself that you're supposed to wait three minutes for a reason. Duh.

And then I saw it. It's so pale, only trained infertiles would recognize it. A second line with only a whisper of pink to it. Seriously, it gives new meaning to the term "super-faint positive."

But it's there.

Today, I am pregnant.

It's weird; I don't feel the unfettered joy I did the first time around. Maybe because this time, I know how a positive pee stick can end.

(Of course, it could be because I don't have photographic evidence yet. I took a pic but it looks more like a fuzzy gray shadow right now, even though in person it's clearly got a pink tint. P.S., I sent the pic to a woman in my FB group who transferred the day before I did and who got a BFP at 4dp5dt and she totally saw it. Infertiles, man. We've got eagle eyes for this shit.)

My goal for the next few days is to not freak out. To not obsess. I need to make my grocery list. Pull together the docs I need for the accountant. Work on the freelance project.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe.

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.

and the anxiety sets in...

First, obligatory pee stick update: still pregnant.

That's a beautiful line, right? 

According to this handy-dandy IVF due date calculator, I am currently three weeks and six days pregnant, with an expected due date of August 16, 2015.

So this is my new morning routine. I get up around 5:45 (why? Why so early) and pee into my little plastic cup. I dip the Wondfo for shits and giggles. I dip the FRER. Love that the line comes up instantly. Count minutes until I can compare it to the previous day's test (is it getting darker? I hope it's getting darker. That looks darker, right?). When stick is sufficiently darkened (but still in the acceptable window), I launch into my daily photo shoot: all of the sticks together, today's by itself, today's with yesterday, and a few Wondfo comparison shots.

That yellowing from the 6DP5DT test is rather unsightly, isn't it?

I am clearly not well.

My cold rages on and last night I coughed so hard and so long I was afraid that I would cough the embryos out. Earlier, when I ventured out of the house with Mr. Hope to accompany him to his doctor's appointment, my jeans felt a little snug and this made the pressure above my groin more prominent. There was pinching on the right side and some on the left, but by night I couldn't feel the pinching and this scared me. Every time I went to the bathroom (which was often, because every coughing fit I almost peed my pants) I expected to see blood.

I said to Mr. Hope, "I'm just afraid it's all going to end any second now."

There are a lot of women in the IF community who've experienced one or more early losses. I mean, even women who haven't battled IF have miscarriages all of the time, especially when they're my age. So there is a part of me that's almost expecting this to be our fate.

And then there's this other part of me that was like, "Oh, shit, I should probably start scouting OBs," and ended up pinning a schedule of classes at a local birthing center. I was particularly interested in one about eating/exercising in pregnancy that's happening in January. I wanted to register - there were only 9 spots left - but then thought that if I did I'd be jinxing things. I came thisclose to calling and asking about their refund policy: "I totally want to sign up for this class but I'm barely pregnant and terrified that I'll end up unpregnant any second now. Can I defer my enrollment if I miscarry?"

Jinxing is on my mind a LOT now. Like, this cold makes it difficult for me to want to cook anything. But eating out is fraught with peril. DOES THAT HAVE FLOUR IN IT? IF I EAT THE FLOUR, WILL I LOSE THIS PREGNANCY? Early on, I made a proclamation that if I was pregnant, I wouldn't eat chocolate during the first trimester. Then I said, "Hell, if I get pregnant, I'll happily give up chocolate the entire pregnancy!" So now I feel like this is a binding agreement with the universe, and that if I have any chocolate whatsoever, I'm putting this pregnancy in danger.

Like I said: NOT WELL.

Also, I'm like three days pregnant (by pee stick time) and already I've screwed up twice. Mr. Hope served me a mug of Mint Melange tea that had lemon grass in it. I thought he'd given me peppermint and didn't realize until I got to the end that it wasn't that. I knew I wasn't supposed to have the Mint Melange but couldn't remember why. Turns out lemon grass can be used to induce abortions. HE UNWITTINGLY GAVE ME ABORTION TEA. Worse, I drank it.

Now I'm afraid to drink any tea, though I've read on multiple reputable sites that peppermint tea is likely safe. Rooibos is supposed to be great for pregnancy, but I haven't been able to find any in the store. I think I'm going to order some on Amazon just to put my mind at ease. In the meantime, I'm drinking hot lemon water with a little honey mixed in. That makes me nervous, too, because I've been considering honey as sugar. Am I breaking my healthy eating pact by ingesting honey? Or do I get a pass because it's supposed to be great for coughs?

Speaking of: I'd read that I could take Mucinex for a cold. But it turns out, Mucinex is guaifenesin, which is a Cat C for pregnancy (basically, probably not good, though some sites say it's fine after the first trimester). I think I took it like four times before finding this out. What I can take is Delsym (dextromethorphan), which is alcohol-free. So I bought that yesterday when I was picking up extra Wondfos and a two pack of the Clear Blue Digitals that read the number of weeks pregnant on them (I only have a FRER digi and it doesn't read weeks). Haven't taken a digi yet, though I probably will tomorrow.

I still have FIVE days until my beta test. I thought about calling yesterday to see if they'd give it to me earlier, since Sunday will be the equivalent of 14 DPO and a normal time to get a beta. Even Monday would've been an improvement. But I decided against it. If I'm meant to stay pregnant, that's going to happen no matter when I get my beta.

There are so many thoughts swirling around in my brain right now. The only thing keeping me sane is knowing that my brand of crazy is universal for women who've gotten pregnant after struggling with infertility for years.

Exhibit A
Exhibit B
Exhibit C

What I really need right now is SLEEP. I haven't been getting more than 5-6 hours a night, and I'm typically a 7-8 hours a night kind of girl. I'm exhausted but I don't stay asleep, and the minute I wake up in the morning I'm all pee sticks and iPhone.

This will get a little bit easier at some point, won't it? I keep thinking that I can just hang on until the end of the first trimester (assuming we're lucky enough to make it that far) that maybe - maybe - I could relax just a little. Like it will be that moment in Say Anything, when a London-bound Lloyd Dobbler tells Diane Court that most accidents happen during the first few minutes of a flight, and if she can just wait for the fasten seat belt sign to ding off, they'll be in the all-clear.

My "ding" can't come soon enough.

it's time to call it.

So there's a lead follie. Again. When I went in for my check today, I had five follicles (versus the four I had last time): 6, 8, 9, 12, and 17.

"Looks like that big guy sucked up all the meds," Anti Q-caps told me. 

No shit.

On the bright side, my lining was at 6.9 with a triple stripe. So, it should be perfectly fluffy in time for transfer.

Driving home, I kept thinking, Looks like my body is every bit as stubborn as my brain. It's true. No matter what I use for priming, or what I inject into my body, or what supplements I swallow, or what foods I do or do not eat - the end result is always the same: one follicle. One embryo.

No pregnancy.

I wasn't sad when I was thinking this, or even angry. I was just...okay. Like I was finally making my peace with the situation. This cycle in particular, I gave it my absolute best shot, and there isn't a damn thing I could've done differently.

I go back tomorrow for another check. Anti Q-caps told me that I would be going to retrieval either Sunday or Monday. I think they would like to tease it out until Monday to limit what Dr. Smiles and his crew has to do on Sunday (understandable). Also, they were talking about thawing the donors out the day after retrieval, and if they do that, it would put transfer on Thanksgiving (I think). 

It kind of bothers me that ANY decisions about this cycle could be made based on weekends or holidays, but it's out of my hands now. 

I'm just ready to move on to whatever comes next.

marching forward.

Had my first post-baseline blood work and scan yesterday.

GOOD NEWS: The two abnormally large follies are gone! I had a bit of spotting yesterday and the night before, so I'm thinking the cysts burst. Whatever the case, those fuckers aren't messing up my cycle so YAY.

LESS-GOOD NEWS: Of the eight baby follies, only four grew.

BETTER NEWS: As of yesterday, the four were measuring 7, 7, 6, and 8. In other words, they're all tracking around the same size. At the very least, they're closer together than I think I've ever had in a cycle.

All in all, I'm calling it a win.

Today, Mr. Hope and I need to get a form notarized that basically says we want to thaw all four of the donor embryos (they're all 2PN, so I want to grow them out to blasts) and transfer 1-2 depending on the results of my fresh retrieval.

This is the part of the process where I have to shut my ever-loving Agony brain off. Because if I don't, I'll start seeing every possibility:

IDEAL: My four eggs make it to retrieval, they all fertilize with ICSI, we let them grow, and they all turn into beautiful, hatching blasts.

MORE LIKELY: One or two eggs make it to retrieval, they both fertilize with ICSI, and the doctor opts to transfer on Day 2.

SLIGHTLY LESS IDEAL: Three eggs make it to retrieval, they all fertilize with ICSI, we let them grow, and I end up with one beautiful blast. We transfer that and one blast of the donor's.

MY FEAR: None of my eggs make it to retrieval. Or, if they do, none of them fertilize with ICSI. There's nothing of ours to transfer, and I went through this stim cycle for nothing. But we end up with beautiful donor blasts, so there's a light and the end of this particular tunnel.

MY EVEN BIGGER FEAR: We end up with no Agony/Hope embryos and none of the donor embryos make it to blast, either. We end up with exactly nothing, and we're several thousand dollars poorer for it.

Do you see how this particular rabbit hole works?

One thing I'm wrestling with is what I want to do with the donor embies. There is a large part of me that doesn't want to transfer anything that isn't a blast, because I can't take any more heartache. I mean, I know that just because they're blasts doesn't mean that they'll automatically turn into babies, but the odds are considerably higher. And yes, I know many people who transferred Day 3 embies that turned into babies but again: looking for highest odds.

Which means I'm also wrestling with what to do with OUR embies. If the doctor wants to transfer on Day 2, do I bother? Do I insist that we try to see if our embryos can make it to blast, even if that means we end up transferring nothing of ours?

This is what I keep coming back to: I'm tired of the cycles. I'm ready to be a mom. So I don't want to dick around anymore. I don't want to put in sub-optimal embies just to say that I transferred something. I want to put in embryos that have the greatest chance of becoming a tiny human.

How do you know if you're making the right decisions for the right reasons? I'm genuinely asking here, because I'm at a total fucking loss.

things I did to try to get pregnant, part 3.

We're almost at the end of the list! I've saved two of the craziest things I've done to try to get pregnant for last, so let me start with something more sensible.

Switched to fragrance-free body wash and lotion. This was one of Dr. God Complex's newer rules, as the chemicals in fragrance are both a) toxic and b) known endocrine disruptors. Sometimes I miss my scrumptious-smelling Bath & Body Works stuff, but honestly this was one of the easier changes I made. Now I use Aveeno's Skin Relief body wash and Skin Relief 24HR moisturizing lotion (or, if I can't find a deal on those, sometimes I'll opt for a store brand knock-off version).

Ate a lot of pineapple. After my first IUI, I tried the ol' eating pineapple core to encourage implantation thing. Basically, pineapple (particularly the core) is rife with bromelain, a natural anti-inflammatory that also can help thin blood. This, supposedly, encourages implantation. Basically, you take a pineapple, peel it, and then cut it crosswise into five chunks with the core intact. Then you eat a piece every day for five days.

Here's what they don't tell you: the pineapple burns, man. My entire tongue hurt from all of the acid. When it didn't work the first time, I didn't repeat the experiment. I did, however, try pomegranate juice and tart cherry juice (the former is good for your lining, the later is another anti-inflammatory). Recently I've been hearing more about eating raspberries, but I never did try that one.

Used raw (pasteurized) egg whites as lube. Those of you who aren't fertility-challenged may be unfamiliar with egg white cervical mucus (EWCM). It's pretty much what it sounds like - cervical mucus the texture of egg whites. When you get it, you know that you're at your most fertile. Basically, the stuff helps keep sperm alive long enough for your egg to drop and magic to happen. At some point in history, women eager to get knocked up decided to help nature along.

Before you judge, please know that I am not the only woman ever to do this.

But I did do it. Maybe three or four times? I was always worried about injecting bacteria into my lady business. Plus, let's be honest: it's kind of gross. First you have to bring the egg to room temp. Then you have to separate out the yolk. Finally, you load the whites into a syringe (like a needle one without the needle tip) and inject them inside of you. You have to put a towel down on the bed to protect from spillage, and because everything's so wet and slippery, the ensuing sex isn't so hot for either of you.

Dabbled in Mayan fertility massage. I have three words for you:

Alien. Spirit. Babies.

We've been telling the punchline to this story for so long, sometimes I forget that the Mayan fertility masseuse never actually uttered the words "alien spirit babies." But. She did talk a lot about babies being spirits who choose their parents. This was in reference to me being a stress monkey. Stress was weighty, she told me. If a spirit baby felt that weight it would choose to be born to someone else. I needed more levity in my life, as levity attracted spirit babies. I should go play with toys! I should go color!

Have you ever met a Type A overachiever for whom coloring was NOT stressful? When I was a little kid, I wouldn't buy a coloring book that told a story, because if I messed a picture up too badly I wanted to be able to rip it out and not ruin the flow of the book. (True story.)

I spent a lot of time with Kooky. I got my period the day of my first scheduled session with her. This was the start of my first attempt at IVF, and I was throwing everything at the wall to see what would stick. Turns out you can't do Mayan fertility massage when you're on your period. So, instead, she and I had a long talk about why I was seeking fertility massage in the first place. This ended up being a 25-minute impromptu therapy session in which my uterus was personified as a temperamental woman. (This is also when I was told to color and invite more levity in my life.)

My actual massage took place a few days later, after my period had gone away but before I'd been on stim meds too terribly long. The whole session lasted about two and a half hours and was nothing like what I expected.

So the thing about Mayan fertility massage is that it's supposed to help break up adhesions, increase blood flow to the pelvis, and help correct prolapsed, fallen, or tilted uteruses (uterii?). I learned early on that my uterus was flopped on top of itself, but Kooky didn't seem to think this was a big deal. She spent a lot of time wedging her hand under a roll of belly flub, just above my pubic area. And then tried to have conversations with me about visualizing my womb as a beautifully decorated home, so as to be more enticing to the spirit babies.

Part of the session required me to imagine a giant tube coming from the center of the universe and into my head, pulling in positive energy. Then I had to imagine all of the stuff I don't need shooting out of my belly button like a whale spout...all while I made these deeply gutteral noises. (No, I am not making this up.)

But even though there was a part of my brain going, "Am I really doing this?" I found Kooky's soothing voice and gentle hands incredibly comforting.

There was more impromptu therapy. Kooky got me talking about my fears with (in)fertility, which led to me crying on the table. But then she'd, like, blow away negative energy (literally blowing, in short, sharp puffs). And she kept spraying tourmaline all around me and talking about flower essences and clapping her hands. Honestly, it was like something you'd see on TV or in a movie.

There was massage mixed in, but it wasn't like a two-and-a-half-hour-long spa massage. And yet I did leave feeling calm and centered and hopeful. I did not, however, get pregnant as a result.

So that's it. Everything I've tried over the past few years, in all of its embarrassing glory. Can you tell how badly I wanted to put a bun in my oven?

Read Part 1 of this series here.
Read Part 2 of this series here.

things I did to try to get pregnant, part 2.

Changed my diet. Yesterday, in part 1 of this series of posts, I said that supplements were my first line of defense against infertility. That's not entirely true. I changed my diet even before I technically knew I was infertile. Dr. God Complex was a proponent of a protein-heavy diet. So months before we discovered the dermoid cyst, I was cutting down on or eliminating sugar, simple carbs, and high-glycemic foods. I measured everything and counted calories to make sure that 25 percent or more of my daily calories came from protein, and less than 40 percent of my daily calories came from complex carbs. It was really effective for weight loss; I dropped 30 lbs. in a short amount of time just by following this plan.

There were long stretches of time where I'd be really strict about these things. And then there'd be stretches where I'd fall clean off the wagon. Like when I lost my left ovary. After the surgery my hormones went completely cray cray and I was nauseated nonstop. For about two weeks, the only things I could eat without feeling sick were saltines, graham crackers, and grilled cheese sandwiches. Oh, and some soup. But really, that was about it.

I'm also an emotional eater. Right before we discovered the dermoid, a good friend of mine died unexpectedly. I actually had a painful dermoid attack the day of her funeral that I managed to get under control long enough to attend. Then, the attack returned toward the end and I had to go straight home, where I sweated, puked, and writhed in pain for hours. Point being: during this time, I put back on some of the weight I'd taken off.

After my infertility diagnosis, I got super-strict about everything. I switched to decaf, stayed away from all alcohol (I even stopped cooking with it!), traded Splenda for 100% pure stevia, and avoided most soy (I still used soy sauce on occasion). More weight came off. Not all of it, but enough that I needed to go down a couple of sizes in my bras and pants.

I went on and off this eating plan for the better part of two years. But I haven't actually tracked calories since last fall. A little over a year ago, I let myself indulge in alcohol on occasion. And I also started drinking regular coffee again this past spring, when I was off my antidepressants and exhausted all of the time.

Changed my decaf. I'd been drinking decaf for a long time when I discovered that most decaf becomes that way by using the same chemicals used in paint thinner. Coffee that is decaffeinated through the Swiss Water Method is the safest, as it is chemical-free. So I switched to Tim Horton's decaf K-cups, which are really, really tasty.

Here's a funny side note: I started using K-cups last December, when I got Mr. Hope a Keurig. But it wasn't until two months ago that I realized K-cups are in plastic, and that boiling water washes over them, releasing all kinds of fun plastic-y chemicals into my coffee. This literally years after I switched almost all of our food storage containers over to glass, and not letting Mr. Hope put anything plastic in the dishwasher.

Yeah, I can be dense sometimes.

Detoxed my body seven ways from Sunday. At some point in this process, I became convinced that the overall rise in infertility was due to poisonous environmental factors (including those pesky plastic chemicals). So I went on this detox kick: I drank hot lemon water every morning (still do, actually - it helps with bloat), brewed detox tea, ate detoxifying foods (this Lemony Toasted Quinoa and Cabbage Salad is still a fave), and took detox baths. None of it was noxious, but I also didn't see any evidence that it aided in my fertility, either.

Meditated. I'll confess: I never bought the full Circle + Bloom set. But I did try listening to the freebie track while taking my detox baths. Me + dulcet tones + visualization = sleep, not fertility.

Let a nerdy white guy stick needles in me. Many IVF clinics work with acupuncturists, as it has been shown to aid in conception, especially when paired with assisted reproductive technologies. Research touts acupuncture's stress-relieving properties, as well as its ability to increase blood flow to reproductive organs. I can't speak to the latter, but when it comes to the former, I have to say: I never felt all that relaxed.

My first session came free as part of the program fee I paid to Dr. God Complex's clinic. Then I purchased Groupons to get additional sessions with the same guy, only at his normal place of business. He was like a martial arts cowboy and I really liked him. I tried doing acupuncture at the start of cycles, around the time of the trigger shot (when I did IUIs), before and after transfer (with the IVF). Nada.

Think I'm done? Nope. More craziness to come in Part 3.

Read Part 1 of this series here.

things I did to try to get pregnant, part 1.

Swallowed a fuck ton of vitamins and supplements. In my dogged pursuit of increased fertility, this was my first line of defense. Reconstructing what I've taken - and which did exactly nothing to make me more fertile - is going to take a while. Eventually, I'll write an entire post on just this. If I'm feeling really masochistic, I may even try to add up how much I've actually spent.

Read a book. When you're infertile due to diminished ovarian reserve, and you're Googling ways to overcome this condition, you invariably land on someone talking about raving about Julia Indichova's Inconceivable. Julia, for those of you who don't know, suffered from secondary infertility (meaning, she had one kid no probs before wanting a second and then having major probs). Julia found out her FSH was the same as her age (42) - so high that doctors wouldn't even let her attempt IVF. So plucky, determined Julia set out to lower her FSH enough that she could do IVF, only to find out that she - after just eight months of lifestyle changes - got pregnant naturally. Now she runs a small empire for the ovarian-challenged, advising them to drink wheat grass daily, take Chinese herbs, try acupuncture, and even get colonics (in a chapter titled "Spring Cleaning," no less).

I'm not going to lie; when I read Inconceivable, I got totally fired up. It's an inspiring memoir. Now I sort of think of it as a fairy tale for infertiles. For one thing, I'm not entirely convinced that it wasn't pure luck that gave Jules her second baby. For another, you always hear crazy stories about women who were told they'd never conceive naturally, but then, after getting drunk on a yacht during a Harvest Moon, discover they magically have a bun in the oven. 

Bodies are unpredictable. I know it doesn't hurt to clean up your diet and practice healthy behaviors. But expecting those actions to make miracles? That's a little foolish, if you ask me.

Drank a shot of wheat grass daily. Even before I read Inconceivable, I learned that wheat grass was purported to be the best way to lower FSH naturally. I don't live near a juice bar, and I didn't want to order frozen shots of the green stuff, so I opted for Amazing Grass Organic Wheat Grass powder. I would mix a large scoop of it into two ounces of Trader Joe's Organic Unfiltered Apple Juice and down it first thing in the morning.

At first I took it every day, but then read that too much Vitamin K (which the stuff was rich in) could make the blood too thick (bad for fertility). So then I would stop it during my luteal phase and start it over on Day 1 of the next period. Eventually, I cut it out totally, as I read that for some women, wheat grass could actually increase FSH.

Drank two cups of "preconception" tea daily. Despite its overly precious name, FertiliTea actually tasted pretty good. The only reason I stopped drinking it was because Dr. God Complex freaked out over the lead follie during my first attempt at IVF. Even though I'd been faithfully delivering updated lists of all of my supplements (including this tea) for months, he never bothered to look at them until Cycle #1 started to go south. Then he gave me shit about it and told me that drinking the tea could be the reason his protocol wasn't working. (We don't call him Dr. God Complex for nothing!)

Practiced fertility yoga three times a week. I'd done some yoga prior to purchasing Restoring Fertility: Yoga for Optimal Fertility, so adding this into my mornings wasn't so tough. There are four separate routines, each one corresponding to a different phase in your cycle: menstrual, follicular, ovulatory and luteal. The instructions are to do these routines daily, but I couldn't ever force myself into that. For one thing, my luteal phase was typically 12-14 days. Doing the same thing for two solid weeks is just plain boring. But I'd read that three yoga sessions a week were enough to aid in fertility, so that's what I did. Sometimes, if I knew I was ovulating, I might add in an extra session just so I could get a boost from that particular routine. 

I gave up on the fertility yoga around the time that I had my last failed IUI under Dr. Complex. Three failed IUIs will do that to a girl.

decisions, decisions.

Woke up at 4:44 a.m. (literally, 4:44) and have been unable to get back to sleep. So, figured I'd use the time to write. Of course, as soon as I got that sentence out I yawned so big my jaw ached.

Most Saturdays, Mr. Hope and I see Chance. He was our couples counselor before he was my individual therapist, and I'm not exaggerating when I say he pretty much saved our relationship (post-engagement, pre-wedding, pre-infertility diagnosis). We used to have a standing biweekly appointment, but bumped that up to weekly a couple of months back. This would be about the time that I was bottoming out after getting off my antidepressants, so we can blame me for the increase in frequency.

I'd finished yesterday's post about twenty minutes before Mr. Hope and I had to leave for our appointment, and I was still pretty fired up over what I'd written. Mostly about how the UnproRepro was the end of the line for infertile couples and how she really needed a different approach to her job. There were a lot of expletives flying from my mouth (I told you I was fired up!) but I'll leave those to your imagination.

On the ride to Chance's office, I told Mr. Hope that we had some decisions to make. One, were we going to accept the second profile (the one with the younger mom)? And two, if we passed on it, would we wait to see what else came in or would we go with another clinic? 

We walked Chance through the events that had transpired between my individual appointment with him on Wednesday and all of the stuff that went down on Friday. I pulled the profile we were considering up on my phone and started reading through it. As I did I was reminded of all the things we liked about it in the first place. Our only concern had been the slight potential that this kid could end up looking like Mr. Hope's Babymama. 

Chance had a few not-so-helpful things to say about that, citing his sister's experience with IVF. Sometimes he does that - goes off on rants that leave us thinking "huh"? But in this case it worked out for us. Because when Chance suggested we write the UnproRepro back, thank her profusely for helping us, and ask to see a couple more profiles of people outside of our original parameters - just for comparison's sake - I found myself squirming on the couch. I was thinking, "But I don't want to do that, why would I do that?" and not because I didn't want to thank the UnproRepro (even though I didn't). 

I said, "I think I've already made up my mind to accept these embryos," and filled him and Mr. Hope in on my internal monologue. Mr. Hope had already said he wanted to go forward with them, so with my proclamation, it was decided. 

Just like that.

Later that afternoon, I sat down to fill out the donor embryo acceptance form but couldn't. Not because I'd changed my mind but because I had to stipulate that all of my questions had been answered (they hadn't). 

So in the end, I needed to thank the UnproRepro anyway. Twice. Once in the beginning of the email, right after I told her we wanted these embryos, and once in the end, after I'd spelled out my four remaining questions: one about the fee, three about the embryos themselves. And as I was typing this all out I actually got annoyed again, because I felt like some of my questions should've been answered without me needing to ask them. 

Such as: Have these embryos been thawed previously?

Or: How many frozen embryos are there per each straw?

But I'm over it. As my good friend Mercy said when I filled her in on everything Friday night, "You don't know what's going on with that woman. She could be frustrated over being underpaid, or she could have a relative with cancer." Basically, she was saying that how the UnproRepro treated me had everything to do with her own shiz and likely very little to do with mine. 

I'm still writing Dr. Smiles a letter, though. Because OH MY GOD, all that stuff she said about my two previous IVF cycles disturbs me. Especially the part about my Day 2 transfers happening because they didn't think my embryos would survive. Like, was there an actual note on my file telling her that? And if that was indeed the case, why did Dr. Smiles transfer them at all? And why did he act like I had an actual shot at getting pregnant from them?

[Side note: I just Googled "Day 2 transfer IVF success rates" and landed on this study, which I remember reading the first time I had a Day 2 transfer. Basically, it says that there's no observed difference in success rates between Day 2 and Day 3 transfers, although the overall quality of the embryo decreased by Day 3. This lends more credence to what Dr. Smiles had told me initially, which was that when they end up with fewer embryos, they often choose to transfer earlier because the mother's body is preferable over lab culture.]

Okay, so maybe I'm not over it. Yet. But I will be.

Mr. Hope and I spent the rest of our Saturday running errands and making plans, particularly about the third bedroom in our house. Initially it was my office. Then, I relocated my stuff to the second bedroom so that Mr. Hope could have an office. At the time, we figured it was a temporary move because of course that room would become the nursery. And we used to call it that, back before we got my infertility diagnosis.

But after our first failed attempt at IVF - the first time we were converted down to IUI - we stopped calling it that. It felt like we were jinxing ourselves. 

Yesterday, we started calling it the nursery again. And started making plans to paint the walls a gender-neutral color I picked out a while ago that also makes a great office color. And also making plans to refinish some of our bedroom furniture that once upon a time we'd intended to become Future Baby's. 

I'm not going to lie; I'm still burdened by fears. Especially regarding my weight and how much impact it will have on this next cycle. My primary and I discussed it the last time I saw her and she said she didn't think there'd be an issue since even though I'm overweight I don't have any of the usual health problems associated with being overweight. Besides, you know, extra weight. She also pointed out that I have a lot of solid muscle and loose skin from all the weight I've already lost. So there's that.

But also: I wonder if the studies about overweight women and lower IVF success rates, even with donor eggs/embryos, take into account what those women are eating. It's a proven fact that sugar is a major player when it comes to infertility. It's a known hormone disruptor, it creates insulin resistance, and can even lower your immunity. Things like white flour and other high glycemic index foods can have a similar impact on the body. 

So, like, if I'm NOT eating white flour and sugar and trans fats and all of the things that can mess you up, will my being overweight be as big of a sabotage as I fear? 

More on that another day. For now, I'm happy to continue nesting (such as it is) - and focusing, for a change, on the happy, hopeful feelings running through my normally fatalistic veins.

things that start with the letter p.

Period

As in: the thing I did not get. The thing I need to get to move forward in this journey.

Thinking back, I've had a handful of cycles this past year that were really, really light. I am guessing that they were actually anovulatory.

As in: without ovulation.

And then I started wondering if that period I got the previous cycle, the one that I thought came nine days late and was also fairly light and which also did not require many tampons - was that even a true period?

Perimenopausal 

As in: what I am. Or think I am. To be honest, nobody's used the "p" word in regards to me except me. But if it looks like a duck and talks like a duck...

Provera

As in: the 10 mg pill that I am now taking to induce a true period. One a day for the next ten days.

Downside: new drug.

Upside: every time they give me progesterone, I start dropping weight like crazy. So maybe this will help me start to take off some of the estrogen poundage?

Patience

As in: a virtue skill I do not have. I hate that I'm back in the waiting game. I could get my period while on the Provera, immediately after I finish the Provera, or up to two weeks after that.

So now, after literally years of dreading the arrival of each fresh bleed, I want the bitch to hurry up and come.

Irony!

Plans

As in: what I try to make. Always.

Last night my therapist, whom we will call Chance, and I discussed my rapidly encroaching menopause (Me: "I have the reproductive parts of a 50-year-old woman, and I'm not even forty!"). He asked me how I felt about that (way to be a cliché, Chance!) and I said, "I mean, I've been expecting it. My mom went through it in her early 40s."

Then I told him, "Actually, if I'd had a biological daughter, for her 21st birthday I planned on paying for her to get her eggs frozen, just to buy her some extra time."

And Chance was like, "You really never stop thinking, do you? At least, you haven't in the time I've known you."

That's just how my brain works: I am always playing out scenarios, trying to get my head around all of the possibilities at once.

Pregnant

As in: what I am confident I will one day be.

Actually, that's a total lie. I am not the least bit confident about that. In fact, I'm scared as hell that I will never know what it's like to grow a tiny human inside of me. Ever.

Profiles

As in: the things that should be coming today from the clinic. Roughly seven of them. Our potential matches.

Will one of those embryos become our baby?

changing the conversation.

I started this blog because I needed a place to write about what Mr. Hope and I were going through, infertility-wise. I decided to do it anonymously so that I could keep my business just that: my business. This allows me to be more open/honest in how I'm writing about things. I always figured I'd share the link with my family and close friends so I could keep them up informed about where we are in the process (even though I haven't sent it out yet - I wanted to get a bunch of posts down first). 

But I'm realizing the more I write, the less anonymous certain parts will be. I think I'm going to have to be okay with that. Starting now.

Last night, my BFF came over and we went out to dinner with Mr. Hope. Her sister in law (SIL) just had a baby and she was telling us about a recent visit and then started reading Mr. Hope the riot act about how he better behave when we have our baby. Suddenly it hit me that if I get pregnant any time in the next 12 months, BFF and I can't take the trip to Europe we have planned for our 40th birthday.

(A little history here: BFF and I are practically birthday twins. We also have husbands who tend to screw up birthday celebrations. So now we take a trip together each year, just the two of us, to celebrate our birthday. These are honestly the best vacations I have ever taken in my entire life. I spend half the year re-living them and the second half anticipating the next one.)

Mr. Hope said, "What, you wouldn't trust me with a newborn?" And I said, "Uh, that's not it at all. I'm thinking about breastfeeding." And then BFF and I had to school him about what that means and how I can't just pump and dump all over a foreign country, nor can I tote around a gimongous cooler of breast milk and take it home on the plane. BFF said, "We could always bring the baby with us," to which I replied, "On a seven-hour flight?" And then she was like, "Yeah, as soon as I started to think that through I realized it wouldn't be possible." 

Then we started talking about maybe postponing our 40th trip until the 41st birthday, which would give us time to save up more money and for me to finish breastfeeding, blah blah blah, and brainstorming contingency plans, like maybe doing a spa weekend nearby so we wouldn't skip the birthday thing altogether. 

It struck me that we were having the kinds of conversations that we used to have before my infertility diagnosis. The ones when I still believed that I could procreate. The ones we stopped having when my first two attempts at IVF had to be converted to IUI due to poor response/development of a lead follicle. When I started saying things like, "If we're lucky enough to get pregnant" instead of "When we have a baby."

I feel like making the decision to pursue the donor embryo path has given me, Mrs. Agony, a little bit of hope again. And I'm really liking how that feels.

from contemplation to preparation.

Last night I had dinner with Kindred Spirit, a woman I met through my local Resolve support group back when my diagnosis was still new. We bonded pretty quickly due to the fact that we were both DOR gals, close in age, had married later in life, and had similar mother issues, among other things. We'd only attended a few of the same meetings, but kept in touch through a secret Facebook group.

I'd had a bit of a breakdown a couple of months ago that led to me posting in said FB group about my anger and frustration. Also this:

I wish I could let go of this need to have a biological child of my own but it's literally been YEARS and I can't get past it. And even when I think that *maybe* I could get to a place of peace with going the donor embryo route I am convinced that it, too, would end in failure and that would gut me.

Kindred commented on the post that night to let me know that she and her husband had decided to pursue embryo adoption after their yearlong break. I knew they'd started down that road previously but had run into some setbacks, and hearing this news made me so incredibly happy. Kindred and I started messaging back and forth about how she came to this decision and how soon she'd be starting this new leg of her journey.

In the Transtheoretical Model of Change, behavior that leads to change must pass through several stages: precontemplation (no intent to change, sometimes not even aware that change is necessary); contemplation (aware a problem exists, thinking about overcoming it, no commitment to action); preparation (intending to take action); action (what it sounds like); and maintenance (also what it sounds like).

I was still stuck in the contemplation phase. (Kindred, on the other hand, had moved into preparation/action.)

Fast forward five weeks. Kindred adds me to another secret Facebook group, this one centered on embryo adoption. At first I was taken aback. I mean, I wasn't there yet. I still hadn't answered a very kind email from a woman I hadn't met, referred to me by my in-person support group, who was using donor embryos and offered to meet up for dinner to discuss. (Which reminds me: I need to answer that email, STAT, with a big fat apology included.)

At first, I didn't check into the group that often. When I did, I didn't like or comment on anything. I just lurked. But then Kindred posted something, so I liked it. And then some ladies shared their good news (like first-ever positive pregnancy tests, something which still eludes me) and I liked that, too. And then one day there was a post about something only tangentially related to fertility that I felt compelled to comment on.

I was becoming part of the community without even realizing it.

And then one night, after coming home from Glam Colleague's workplace baby shower, I kind of lost my shit.

The minute Mr. Hope walked through the door I started crying...and didn't stop for hours. It was the kind of crying where water just pours out of your eyes and snot drips from your nose and you are practically convulsing from all of the sobbing. Ugly crying, painful crying, crying that leaves you feeling hungover the next day.

Two days later, I crafted an introductory post to the Facebook group. Almost immediately, responses started rolling in. Instead of making me feel like a noob, these women welcomed me with open arms.

This is when everything changed.

Not because the women were so warm and welcoming (although I'm infinitely grateful for that) but because in responding to their comments, I started to get clear on what I was thinking/feeling about going the donor embryo route. Or, more accurately, what I was fearing.

That the kid wouldn't see me as her real mom.

That she would never stop wanting her biological parents.

That she'd regret not being one of the lucky ones "placed" (so to speak) with her bio family.

In realizing this - that the majority of my fears were based on a hypothetical child hypothetically rejecting me, and that I'd likely manifest a similar anxiety and insecurity with a biological child (not loving me, or wishing she'd been given a different mother)-

Well, let's just say I had kind of a moment.

The next day, Mr. Hope and I sat down to have a looooong talk about next steps. We were supposed to be starting our next pre-cycle (an estrogen priming cycle), but I hadn't done the things needed to do to get us there. I told him about my epiphany and that I felt like I was finally ready to head down this path I'd been avoiding.

He said, "I just want to raise a baby with you. I don't care how we get one."

This has pretty much been his attitude all along, but remember: Mr. Hope already has a biological child of his own. I don't. So I am not only mourning the loss of a tiny human that is half Agony, half Hope, I'm also having to come to terms that I am at the end of my particular evolutionary line.

This, I think, has been one of the hardest parts for me to accept.

One of the women in the secret Facebook group left me this comment:

There is a grieving process in adoption. Adoption is ONLY formed through loss. With EA, loss of birthing a bio child and loss of the embryo from being raised in their bio family. Loss of the dream of how our family would be formed. Often loss of numerous other children along the journey to build our family. It's a tough road, but I truly believe that going down this road not only makes us stronger, but also makes the depth of our relationships stronger. Life is just more precious in general when we've had to fight to bring life into the world the way we have.

I cried when I read that.

I cried, too, when Mr. Hope and I decided on our plan.

We'd always said we'd try three IVFs before calling it. We had one left to go. Mr. Hope said, "I think we should still try one more time. That way, we have no regrets. We'll know we gave it everything we had."

(It helps that our out-of-pocket expenses are extremely limited when it comes to IVF; our largest expense is the $500 fee for the anesthesiologist, and we get that refunded by the insurance company after the fact. If we had to shell out $12k of our own money for every attempt, I'd probably have reached a different conclusion.)

As we head into this third and final IVF attempt, we're going to simultaneously start the process for donor embryos. I think I know in my heart of hearts that this is how Mr. Hope and I will get our baby. But I want to be able to go into the process with a clear head - and without a bunch of niggling question marks hanging over the decision.

Back to Kindred Spirit: She is in her down reg period, just four weeks shy of her first fetal embryo transfer (FET), which falls on my Precious Pup's birthday ("It's a sign!" she said. "It's going to be a great day!") Kindred is positively glowing, all giggles and dimpled smiles. She showed me pictures of her embryos' already-born siblings. They look like they could be hers.

As for me: Making the decision to talk to our RE about donor embryos feels like an elephant just got off my chest. It feels like relief. Like I could stop fighting the inevitable. Like I was surrendering, but in the best possible way.

I can't wait to see what happens next.