out of my hands.

I feel a little sick.

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

The answer? Not fucking likely. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here's hoping they run my hCG today.

losing my marble.

Y'all know by now that I love a good story, right? Well, have I got a story for you!

Our fifth ultrasound was scheduled for 9:30 a.m. yesterday. Of course, this was the morning that we had our first real snow of the season. We live in an area that doesn't see a lot of the white stuff, and drivers start freaking out at even a sugar dusting. So, we planned on leaving about 20 minutes early to accommodate.

An hour later, we'd barely made it from the first Interstate to the second. (It usually takes us 20 minutes to reach the second one.) I try to call the clinic to let them know we're going to be late. Their phones are down. It takes us about six tries to realize it's not OUR phones that aren't working.

Of course, after an hour on the road I had to pee. Badly. Remember how I said this pregnancy peeing is no joke? So I asked my husband to pull off at the first exit. He obliged. The exit ramp is covered in slippery snow. The car's brakes lock up. We're going slowly but it's clear that we're about to hit the big orange HVAC truck in front of us. Mr. Hope tries to go around it. No such luck. We sideswipe the truck in extreme slow mo.

The truck moves off the exit ramp and into a lane. We follow suit. There are horrible scraping noises and I realize that the accident has completely destroyed our front right tire. I tell Mr. Hope to stop driving. He keeps moving anyway. Finally, he reaches a place where he won't cause more traffic issues. We sit there, stunned.

I still have to pee.

I tell my husband I'm going to walk to find a bathroom. And then trudge maybe 1/3 of a mile in the snow until I find a little salon. It's closed, but as luck would have it, the woman who's there to open it has just pulled in as I am knocking on the door. I tell her what happened and she lets me use the bathroom. Then she says I can wait there until help comes. I thank her and say I need to get back to my husband.

I trudge back. By this time, my feet are freezing and slightly wet.

The police have been called. Mr. Hope has called the insurance company. When I get back, I dial AAA. They inform me that I have only purchased a Basic membership, so it will only cover the first three miles of towing. Each additional mile will be $4. I could've sworn I purchased the Plus membership. They tell me I did not.

I cancel the tow.

The cop arrives while I'm on the phone with AAA. He tells me he's calling a tow because we have to move our car. I'm all fine, whatever. I'm still trying to figure out how we're getting home and if we're going to be able to get our ultrasound.

Mr. Hope decides he's going to call AAA and play dumb and see if he can upgrade our membership. He wastes like 20 minutes on this endeavor. No go. Meanwhile, I'm grabbing a reusable grocery bag from the trunk and loading up all of our stuff - the GPS, the EZ Pass, car chargers, etc.

The tow guy that the cop called shows up and tells us he's taking the car to his collision center. But I don't want the car to go there. I want it to go to the awesome body shop that's less than a mile from our house. Tow guy says, "I'm not AAA."

The tow guy starts hooking up our car. I tell him that I don't authorize him to take it anywhere. He says, "I don't need you to. He did." Pointing to the cop.

This is when I kind of lose my shit.

I start screaming at the tow guy that he can't take my car, that my car needs to go to MY body shop, not his, and that I'm not getting into a truck with him.

The cop is talking to the guys we hit. I stomp through the snow over to him and ask him what's happening. I say, "You told me you were calling a tow truck. You didn't say I couldn't pick where the car was taken." He says, "I told you that you have to move your car." I say, "But I don't want my car taken there. I want to get home." He says that's not how this works. We're blocking a travel route, see. It's dangerous. I say, "Can't he just tow the car to that lot right there? So it's out of traffic?" Cop says, "He's not AAA."

I walk back to Mr. Hope and start crying. Like, wailing. Hysterical crying. I start talking about how I'm eight weeks pregnant and I need to get my ultrasound and I have to get home so I can get my ultrasound and why can't they help me?

Tow guy takes off with our car. Cop asks us if he can give us a ride to someplace warm. I tell him no. I walked somewhere once, I'll walk there again.

I head back to the salon. On the way I call my mom's best friend, who's been like a second mom to me for years. We're going to call her Bossy, but in the best possible way; she's a woman who gets shit done. I say, "There's been an accident. We're fine but stranded about 20 miles from home."

She says, "I'm in the shower. Give me ten minutes and I'll call you back."

So we wait in the salon. Mr. Hope calls the body shop and fills them in on what happened. They get the other collision center's number from him and tell us they'll take care of everything, including getting our car towed to their place AND rolling the cost of it into our insurance claim. (WE LOVE THIS BODY SHOP!)

Somewhere in all of this, I have called my clinic's sister location. Their phones ARE working. I tell them what's happened and they tell me they'll let my clinic know.

Eventually Bossy calls and gets some information from us as to where we are. I tell her about the missed ultrasound. She tells me to call my clinic and ask how late I can come. "If they'll take you, I'll drive you there."

So I call the clinic and miraculously get through on their previously broken phones. It's about 11:15 at this point. The ultrasound tech leaves at 12. We're only 12 miles from the clinic. They ask the ultrasound tech if she'll stay a little late to accommodate me. She says yes. Score!

Around 12, there's still no sign of Bossy. I call to see where she is. She's just gotten onto the first Interstate. She had a work emergency she had to take care of.

I call the clinic back but their phones are broken again. So I call the sister location. Turns out their ultrasound tech is there until 2:30. If we want to try to make it, they'll see me.

Bossy arrives at 12:30 and I let her know about the sister location. It's a half-hour drive from where we are. "Let's go," she says.

We get there and wait for about 20 minutes before being taken back for blood work. This is around 1:20; we haven't eaten since 8 a.m. I didn't pack snacks because hey, I didn't think we'd be stranded on the side of the road. I am starving. And nervous.

Finally, around 1:30, we have the ultrasound. There's Nugget, her little heart still beating. But I can tell the ultrasound tech is concerned. She takes more pictures than normal. More measurements. She measures the heartbeat. It's 130. Lower than the 144 it was last time. (Later, after I get home, I do some research that reveals low blood sugar can affect the heart rate. Even so, 130 is still in the normal range.)

There has been growth. Nugget measures 12.3. She was 7.3 at the last scan, so they would've liked to have seen her measure 13 or 14. But she's still in the acceptable range.

It's the sac that is not doing so great. No one ever tells us that the baby is measuring this week and that day, they just give us numbers. But you can see what things are measuring at on the screen. By the screen, Nugget is measuring at 7w4d - so, about five days behind. Not catastrophic. But the gestational sac is measuring at 6w4d - almost two full weeks behind. It's small, that's for sure. Nugget is kind of crammed in there. Here, see for yourself:

So I guess all of the water I've been pounding didn't help.

The ultrasound tech says, "Do you want a picture?"

Right there, my heart sinks to my feet. She wouldn't ask us that if she didn't think this was going to end badly.

Yes, we say. We want the picture.

It is still our baby, for now.

We are somber as I get dressed. We still need to talk to the doctor but we both know it isn't good.

It's another 10 minutes before a male voice calls us back. Oh, crap. I'd assumed we'd get to see sunny Dr. Colleague. Instead, we got saddled with Dr. Eyeore.

He is his usually gloomy self. He starts talking to us about how a small gestational sac and enlarged yolk sac typically indicate chromosomal abnormalities. He and his wife went through it. Twice. This, we suppose, is his attempt at bedside manner.

Sometimes a too-small gestational sac can catch up, he says. He's seen it happen. But, this isn't likely. At least not for us. I'm guessing he makes this characterization based on my poor hCG levels in conjunction with the too-small sac.

This pregnancy, he tells us, will declare itself in the next seven to ten days. He says this a few times, actually. I imagine Nugget becoming Foghorn Leghorn and saying, "Well, I do declare, I don't think I'll be sticking around heeyah."

There's nothing we can do, he assures us, just as every doctor has done every step of the way. "Whatever's happening is happening from the inside out," he says, "not outside in."

I ask about MaterniT21 Plus, a noninvasive blood test that identifies a wide range of chromosomal abnormalities. He's familiar with the test. If we make it to Week 10, he says, we can do the test then.

But clearly he doesn't think we're going to make it to Week 10. He doesn't say this outright, but he does say that he's going to send me home with a cup and that once I start spotting he thinks I should start peeing over an old colander so that I can catch whatever comes out. He says, "A baby this size is about the size of a marble, so you should be able to get that and bring it in for testing."

I say, "But Dr. Colleague said my progesterone is too high for that. She said if I miscarry, we'll find out at an ultrasound that the heart is stopped."

He switches gears. Now he's talking to us about giving me four pills to take that will soften the cervix and allow me to lose my marble in the colander.

I say, "But Dr. Smiles said that if I miscarried, I can do a D&C."

He says, "Oh, yeah, we can do that. We're good at that."   <-- not a direct quote but pretty damn close.

I ask him to reassure Mr. Hope that it's a safe procedure. See, Mr. Hope lost a close relative after a botched D&C post-miscarriage. You can imagine how awesome that's made everything that's going on with me right now. Mr. Hope's #1 fear in life: losing me. This is not an exaggeration. He tells me this regularly.

Dr. Eyeore tells him that they're really good at the procedure. That they use plastic instruments so that there isn't any scarring. That other women come to them to have their botched D&Cs fixed all of the time.

Recovery time is minimal, he says. "Nothing in the vagina for a week."

He wants us to come back in a week and a half. Small problem; that's when the BFF and I will be on our birthday vacation. Can we come back in a week?

"Sure," he says. "Even better. If you come in that morning, we might be able to schedule you for the D&C that afternoon."

Since this now sounds like a 100% done deal, I say, "What are the odds that the pregnancy will pull through?"

He says, "I give you five to ten percent."

Alrighty then.

As I'm checking out, I happen to look down and see my hCG level from last Tuesday. It was 2,281, up from 1,591 four days prior. That's the biggest increase we've seen since the second beta. I have no idea why it picked up like that in Week 7. What does it mean? Is it a good thing?

Later, after I put the numbers into a doubling calculator, it shows a 40-something percent increase in four days - well under the 60% doctors like to see. The doubling time is a week. Much better than the 110 days I saw at one point, but still not enough.

I make the appointment for next Tuesday with Dr. Smiles. If Nugget is gone, I do not want to have the follow-up convo with Dr. Eyeore. I want MY doctor.

We get back into the car and head for home, stopping for food along the way. Mr. Hope and I have had no time to process. We've been with Bossy the entire time. Just before we leave the restaurant, she goes to use the bathroom. It's the first time we've had two minutes alone.

"What are you thinking?" I ask.

"That this sucks," he says.

Yep. That about sums it up.

Bossy takes us to the rental car place. We pick up my new car for the next two to three weeks. There's a warning light on. Low tire pressure. They can't fix it, they tell us. But if there's a guy on the lot he might be able to.

So Bossy tells me to follow her. The maintenance guys on a rival rental company's lot are out. She tells them some sob story and they agree to fill my tires for me. I told you, Bossy gets shit done!

There is more drama when I am trying to back out of the lot - it's very tight, I'm great at parallel parking but horrible at backing out of spaces - and then we head home. Only, we have to stop at the body shop first, because the collision center won't release my car without proof of registration.

I don't walk through the front door of my house until almost 5 p.m. Which is about the same time I'd be getting home if I'd worked a full day.

Mr. Hope and I are thoroughly drained. There are people who've been texting and emailing all day asking for updates. I can't tell the story a million times, so I write one email that goes out to a bunch of people. Then I curl up on the couch with Mr. Hope to drink hot tea and watch Netflix.

Later I did my normal Googling thing. I found a picture of a Week 9 ultrasound where the baby was way more crammed into the sac than Nugget is. I mean, you can still see some fluid around Nugget (for now). This baby was being squeezed tight by its sac. The doctor had prepared the woman for miscarriage and sent her off. Three weeks later, she hadn't miscarried and got another ultrasound. The sac had caught up, the baby was a little small but growing on target, and the doctor gave her the go-ahead to start telling people they were expecting. She went on to deliver a healthy son.

Now, I don't know about that woman's hCG levels. I'm guessing they weren't dismal like mine. But you know, it's something. And even Dr. Eyeore gave us a five to ten percent chance of making it. Nugget has pulled off so many miracles so far. I mean, the hCG had plateaued. Then it shot up almost 700 points in four days. That's something, right?

The thing is, I don't even know how I'm feeling. Like, I'm definitely not okay. But I'm not devastated either. Am I still in shock? In denial? It still doesn't feel real. I don't FEEL like I'm going to lose this baby. But I also don't feel like I'm going to have this baby either.

Another week of wait-and-see. Another week of hormone shots and suppositories and pills. Another week of wondering and Googling and performing my version of prayer, which is really a lot of me thinking, "Please, please, please let this baby make it. Please."

Still pregnant, though. At least for now.

it ain't over 'til it's over.

The past few days have been strange. On Tuesday I was resigned to miscarry. I was even sort of hoping that when I went back on Friday, we'd discover the heart had stopped so that I could schedule the D&C for early next week. And it's not that I want to lose Nugget - my god, I would give ANYTHING to keep this baby healthy and in my womb for the next seven and a half months - but if I am going to lose her, I want it to happen as quickly and cleanly as possible. I want to grieve, I want to heal, I want to try again.

I went to a lunch with a new friend I met through my old, in-person Resolve support group. Fig is another DOR gal - actually, she may have POF (Premature Ovarian Failure) - and she and her husband have been using donor eggs. Sadly, their second cycle ended in a second miscarriage. We sat in a restaurant and talked for more than three hours. It's amazing how the pain of infertility and loss brings so many incredible people into your life. 

That night brought 20 rounds of arguments with two pharmacies trying to get a refill on my PIO (long story, not worth the effort to recount). The highlight of this was me getting hysterical on the phone with my husband and saying over and over, "I did everything right and it still didn't make a difference. Nothing I do matters." This in reference to getting the prescription refilled...but not really. Of course.

The next day was holiday prep craziness. We do Christmas Eve at the BFF's house. I wasn't making all that much but I was so behind in everything - cleaning, decorating, present-wrapping, cooking, baking. We had to be there at 6:30. Mr. Hope was supposed to work until 3 but after I had a meltdown he left at noon instead. 

We busted ass all day with me in a foul, foul mood. I messed up one of the vegetable dishes I was supposed to bring to the BFF's gathering. I screwed up something else, too. I told her I was sending Mr. Hope with everything but I was going to stay home because I'm a miserable human being that no one wanted to be around. She talked me out of this plan (because, after all, she is my BFF for a reason). I ended up going and having a perfectly lovely time, even if I did feel a little disassociated from my body.

We got home later than expected and I had zero energy left. It was Christmas Eve and our tree still wasn't decorated. We were having dinner guests and nothing was done. But I was so tired. 

We went to sleep.

The next day - Christmas - I got up and started working on my to-do list. It was long. There was cleaning that needed to be done. The house needed to be decorated. The tree needed to be fluffed. Mr. Hope insists on adding more lights to the pre-lighted tree, and that takes time. There were the ornaments. I had more presents to wrap. 

Of course, this is the day that the morning sickness set in. Seriously. I was nauseated beyond belief and even vomited once. I felt lethargic. I kept having hot flashes. My boobs were on fire. I updated my super-secret FB support group and reported, "If this pregnancy is failing, my body hasn't gotten the memo yet."

I baked old-fashioned gingerbread and made two more vegetable dishes. Our guests were set to arrive at 4:30; I pushed it back to five. And even then, I was just starting to put ornaments on the tree when my stepfather arrived. 

The nausea subsided. I ate some dinner. I ate some dessert. I enjoyed the company.

Fast forward until 10 or so, after the guests had left and we'd cleaned up the place a little. Finally, it's time to open our presents. Mr. Hope spoiled the hell out of me. Every gift he got landed exactly the way he intended - a first in our nearly decade-long relationship. He now knows me so well it's scary. 

The one clunky note was when he opened a gift I'd originally purchased to be from Nugget. It was a children's book with special meaning. We were sad together for a minute.

The next day - yesterday - was our third ultrasound. We listened to the first episode of Serial on the drive to Posh Clinic. Mr. Hope was nervous. I wasn't. I woke up feeling not pregnant and was sure we'd see that Nugget was gone. 

Like everything else about this pregnancy, I was dead wrong. 

There was Nugget on the screen. Tracking slightly behind where she should be (she measured 4.7 mm when she should've been closer to 6 or 7) but with her heart still beating. Her fetal heart rate (FHR) was 119, on the low end of normal. It was the first time I could actually see Nugget on the monitor. I could even see the flickering heartbeat. 

We saw Dr. Smiles. At first he said something about having a "gorgeous" something-or-other. I can't remember exactly but it confused me. Was it that he called the embryo gorgeous? The heartbeat? Did I mishear him entirely? Because the next thing I know, we were talking about how things don't look promising. 

He said something about how he's seen women whose betas don't move for a week who go on to deliver healthy babies. Women whose babies crown rump length (CRL) doesn't budge for a week and who go on to deliver healthy babies. 

"It doesn't look promising," he reiterated, "but you never know."

He told me he didn't want the nurses calling me with the hCG levels, since they didn't matter anymore. We'd go by the ultrasounds. We'd wait and see.

I asked him again if this had anything to do with me or my body. He said no. He said, "If you'd been hitting benchmarks all along and then the heart stopped suddenly, then I'd be more worried about you. But this is likely chromosomal." I asked him if they would do testing if I had to have a D&C. He said they would. 

When we said goodbye, he said, "You need to know that I am 100% that this has nothing to do with you. Nothing you did caused this. I am 100% certain of that."

It was nice to hear, even if I'm struggling to believe it.

Dr. Smiles told us to come back on Tuesday for the fourth ultrasound, to see where things stand. He's on vacation next week so we're seeing Dr. Colleague, the one who did my retrieval. I'm glad it's her and not Dr. Eyeore. 

We left. Mr. Hope said, "So, Nugget's still kicking it. That's...good." 

The whole thing is so confusing. Like I said: three days prior, I was resigned to miscarry. I sent an email out to my support circle letting them know that this was the likely outcome. I told them that we would be okay. That Mr. Hope and I could start trying again a couple of months afterward.

But for whatever reason - whether it was being able to identify Nugget on the ultrasound, or the fact that I puked in a Wawa restroom a few hours later from the growing nausea, or just plain stupidity - I'm now starting to wonder what if.

What if we don't lose Nugget?

What if she catches up in growth? What if her heart grows stronger?

What if she defies all odds?

Even though the slowing growth was the first true sign that this baby isn't going to make it, I feel less certain of her inevitable demise than ever. I know it's magical thinking. I know this, and yet it doesn't stop me from the what ifs and maybes. 

My boobs burn and ache. My stomach is roiling. My face is breaking out. I'm having trouble staying asleep again.

WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN?

I will be 7 weeks tomorrow. That's more than half way through the first trimester. 

Logically, I know it's more likely that we will lose Nugget than not. But my heart isn't operating on logic right now. An impending miscarriage doesn't feel real, not right this second. I would never admit this to Mr. Hope, who I think is waiting for a miracle. I don't want to feed his magical thinking any more than I do my own.

And yet.

Nugget's heart still beats. There is nothing that we can or will do until that changes. If it changes.

One day at a time, right?

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.

slow growing.

Well, this is new.

I'm at CD9 today (Day 8 of stims) and this morning's check revealed a 6, two 9s, and a 10. I'm guessing the 6 is the same 6 from last time, and that fucker isn't likely to grow. But the 9s were 7s on Friday, and the 10 was an 8.

I took a look back at some notes I had on previous cycles.

IVF #1: on CD9 I had five follies that measured 7, 11, 13, 14, 14. So, three tracking the same size and two lagging behind. When I triggered on CD12, I only had one follie left. I don't have any notes about what size it was but I think it was around 20.

IVF #2: Had my second check on CD8, which revealed four follies measuring 15, 12, 9, 7. For that cycle, I triggered on CD10 (so, two days later); only two follies remained (a 21 and a 19). The 19 was the one they got the egg from and it was immature, so they grew it in culture for a day before fertilizing with ICSI.

Other things I found out today:

My lining is at 5. I said, "That's thin, isn't it?" My favorite nurse practitioner (Fave NP) told me not to worry about it. She said my lining had the triple stripe and she felt confident that it would thicken in time. No one's ever mentioned me having a triple stripe before but I've never had a lining issue. Just a rotten egg issue.

My E2 was 71. I wish I didn't know that. It seems awfully low, even for a DOR gal like myself. When I expressed concern to the NP who called with my results (not the Fave NP but the one I think secretly hates me), she told me that I shouldn't count myself out yet. She said that since my follicles grew, I needed to stay the course until Thursday. If my follicles grow between now and then, she said, it's likely that my body will kick in and the E2 level will rise appropriately.

This cycle is clearly very different from the previous two and I don't know what to make of that. I'd been thinking that could be a good thing, since those cycles didn't yield tiny humans. But then I got my low E2 level, and now I'm wondering if I'll even make it to retrieval.

I don't feel sad, exactly. Remember, I went into this cycle thinking that if I ended up pregnant, it would be from the donor embryos. But, like, the AFC of 8 kind of fucked with my head. For a few days, I thought, "What if...?" Now, I'm back to thinking my eggs are shit and that my four donor embies are the Obi-Wan of this particular cycle (as in, my only hope).

Earlier today I told Fave NP that I wanted to try to grow my own embryos out to blast, even if that meant I had nothing to transfer. Ditto for the donor gametes. I did say that if Dr. Smiles disagreed, I'd defer to him, but really, I just want the greatest shot at success. She said she understood and made notes in my file.

What I don't understand is why I feel so completely hormonal. I mean, if my estradiol is that low, I shouldn't be crying at Beach Boys songs in the car. Right?

Another mystery of my broken body, I suppose.

the mind fuck that is my body.

Went to Posh Clinic today for blood work and scan (a.k.a. the transvag probe we infertiles get to know so so well). I think I've mentioned before that the clinic is a good 45-minute drive without traffic, so I usually book my appointments for about 10 a.m. That way, I'm driving up after the morning rush hour but will be on my way home before the afternoon one. Even so, every time I go up for a blood draw and probe, it's roughly a 2.5- to 3-hour time commitment.

One of my favorite nurses was the one doing the scan. At Posh Clinic, the nurse hands you a piece of paper and a pen has you write the numbers down. First thing she says is, "You've got a lot going on here." I have no response for that, beyond basic curiosity.

She tells me my lining is at 6, which seems thin for CD8, but maybe I'm wrong? Then she starts reading off the numbers of the follicles:

14
13
11
12
12

Come again?

I say, "Uh, that's better than when I stim."

She says, "I was thinking the same thing."

But we have to wait for blood work, of course, because they could be leftover follies, or empty ones. So I drive the 45 minutes home and wait for the phone to ring.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

Finally, at 3:15, I get the call. My estrogen is elevated, but not enough to support the five follies. My LH is low, so it's not like I'm about to ovulate. Results = inconclusive. Dr. Smiles wants me back in a week to repeat the bloods and scan.

I start doing the math in my head. If I ovulate between now and next Friday, then I can start my estrogen priming ASAP. That would put me at baseline around November 21st, stimming until roughly December 5th, and doing the retrieval and then transfer shortly after. Meaning, I'd squeak in just before Christmas.

But if I don't ovulate between now and next Friday, or I have unresolved follies, I'll most likely go on hiatus until after Christmas.

I DO NOT WANT TO GO ON HIATUS. I HAVE BEEN ON HIATUS SINCE MARCH.

I just want to get going already.

Haven't I waited long enough?

the biggest thing I didn't do to get pregnant.

I tried a lot of crazy things to try to get pregnant. (For evidence of this, go here, here, and here.) But the one thing I should have done above all other - the one thing I continue to fail at - is losing all of my excess weight. 

Don't get me wrong: I did lose weight. More than 50 pounds, though I hovered closer to 42 pounds lost most of the time. Then last fall someone very close to me died. I emotionally ate my way through my grief, and ended up putting about 10 of the lost poundage back on. During my first IVF cycle last February, Dr. Smiles had me taking estrogen post-transfer, and I put on another 11 lbs. during that cycle alone. When I did the second IVF with no break in between, I packed on 14 more pounds. 

I'll do the math for you: that's 35 pounds of the 42 pound loss I'd maintained through most of this process, in just under five months. 

But even if that hadn't happened - even if I'd stayed at -42 pounds - I still had a lot more to lose. Anywhere from another 40 pounds (my personal goal) to almost 90 pounds (according to at least one height/weight chart).

Mr. Hope and I knew in January 2011 that we wanted to have a baby. If I'd truly cleaned up my act then, and stuck to it, I could have been at my goal weight by 2013. Hell, I'd have hit the height/weight target by now. 

But I didn't.

At times I ate better than others. I'd be super-strict for four months, then suffer some kind of setback in my life (another failed cycle, stress at work, family drama) and I'd fall off the wagon for a bit. And then I'd get back on it, and go strict again, until the next thing threw me into a food tailspin. 

In March 2013, for one glorious week, I was only two pounds from the weight listed on my driver's license. And then I blew it.

Again.

I could beat myself up about this forever, but it won't change anything and I'm fairly certain it's not interesting to read. So let me skip ahead to the part where I say this:

I'm determined to change these self-defeating patterns of behavior. I have to. Not just because I want to have a baby, but because I don't want to raise a child plagued by obesity and the health issues that accompany it. I see women in the grocery store who are almost twice my size, dragging along kids with triple chins, their carts filled to the brim with processed garbage, and I am disgusted.

But then I think: You're no better. You're still ordering pizza once a week, chomping on chips, eating obscene amounts of chocolate on a regular basis. You're still feeding your feelings. 

Normally when I start a new diet or exercise plan, I keep it mostly quiet. Mr. Hope knows, because I kind of force him into eating the way I'm eating (I do the meal planning and make the grocery lists). And the BFF knows, because usually we're entering into whatever new diet or exercise plan together.

But I'm also stating it here, in hopes that making this public declaration will keep me accountable. I'll do progress reports at least once a week, and I will be brutally honest about every single fuck up. 

After all, it's time I start being brutally honest with myself, so why not you, too?

the truth about 'the list.'

You know how sometimes you think things are a certain way and then they end up being something entirely different?

I really hate when that happens.

Hitting bumps on the donor embryo road and we haven't even been on it all that long. Well, actually, it's just one enormous bump in the form of the third-party reproduction coordinator, a.k.a. TPRC, who will henceforth be known as the UnproRepro (as in: unprofessional reproduction coordinator). Because she totally is. Horribly, horribly so.

Remember when I said that I was told I was getting around seven profiles of potential embryo donors? Well, I didn't. In fact, I didn't get ANY within the 48 hours I was originally supposed to, because the UnproRepro was trying to find profiles with certain features my husband and I don't even have (because she doesn't listen. Or take good notes. Or whatever). I ended up sending her a picture yesterday morning, to make sure she had a visual reference for what we actually looked like/were looking for.

Almost immediately after that, she sent us two profiles. Mr. Hope, who hadn't gone to work yet, and I were ecstatic. We opened up the first one to discover that the mom of said embryos was 39-years-old (as in: older than me) and that there was history of debilitating diseases on both sides (mom's and dad's, including dad's brother). So that was a nonstarter.

The second profile looked really promising. Mom was significantly younger (30 vs. 39, though still slightly older than I had expected, Dad shared some of our interests, both had great education). But then we got to a line about the dad having a couple of physical characteristics reminiscent of Mr. Hope's Babymama, and my heart sank a little. My brain played it out: Babymama already had a kid that looked exactly like Mr. Hope, and we'd end up with a kid that looked like it belonged to her, and I still wouldn't look like any part of this family.

Keep in mind that I'm reading/reacting to these with zero solid food in my stomach for nearly 24 hours (prepping for the colonoscopy) and a wicked sinus headache. And also, that I'd been expecting seven profiles, not two, as well as mothers in their 20s (based on Dr. Smiles telling me that I should have no problems provided I used much younger genetic material). Also that I did not, as you will soon discover, have a clear concept of how this program worked, seeing as I got one version from Dr. Smiles and something different from the UnproRepro. In hindsight, I probably should've pushed for more info when I met with her on Tuesday, instead of letting her sweep me out of the exam room where I was getting my breakneck-speed overview. But per usual, hindsight is mos def 20/20.

So I emailed her a couple of questions, such as:

Q. Can you please tell me what 2PN means?
A. 2PN means that the embryos were frozen the day after they were retrieved, once fertilization occurred.

Q. Also we were hoping for blastocysts - are they all blastocysts? [asked before I got the answer about what 2PN meant]
A. No, blastocysts are very rare because most embryos die off before they become blastocysts. If we had any blasts, we'd likely only have one. [Italics added here by me.]

Q. Is there a reason why there are so few matches? We were really hoping to find some embryos from younger women considering my advanced maternal age.
A. One thing that you will need to understand is that donor embryos come from a couple trying to have their own child, not an egg donor. The average age is 30-39.

Q. Do we know what births resulted from the same embryo batch?
A. We only accept embryos from cycles that have produced a child.

[Uh, that's great, but this is the first time I've heard this information.]

Please note that nearly all of the above was taken directly from our email exchanges, though I did copyedit her responses because I am like that.

At some point during this exchange I told the UnproRepro that I was confused about how things worked and was available by phone if she'd prefer to talk, so she called me.

The conversation was emotionally charged from the start, so I may be messing up the order of how this all went down. But these are the highlights:

I mentioned our concern over the 39-year-old mother and how that's older than I am. "Not everyone has your problems," she snapped. I told her I understood, but that statistics showed the older the egg, the more likely the genetic abnormalities. She told me the other set of embryos not only had a birth initially but already provided another couple seeking donor embryo with one. Good information to have, lady. Feel free to share these things at any time.

I asked her again about the Day 2 embryo thing, because this is what I had with both of my failed transfers.

"No, you didn't," she told me.

"Yes, I did," I assured her.

And then we literally exchanged several more no, you didn'ts and yes, I dids, before she says, "No doctor in the country does Day 2 transfers!"

"That's funny," I said. "Because mind did. Twice."

"But they're not even ready to be transferred then!"

This went on for a few more minutes before she shouted at someone to get my file.

I moved on.

I asked about seeing more profiles, and she said, "That's all we've got. Most people only get to see one profile. You got two - you should feel lucky!"

Except, I swear to god she told me she'd be sending around seven. I remember this because I thought, "Okay, good, that gives us lots to think about." Since then I've been trying to figure out if I could've misheard her, but even if she said, "I'll be sending you some," some is one syllable vs. seven's two.

Then she told me that the selection was extremely limited - that she'd sent me the only two donors with brown hair. I questioned this, because isn't brown hair fairly common? She told me she had some African-American embryos, some East Indian embryos, and about seven blond-haired, blue-eyed embryos, but no more brunettes. Period.

I think the UnproRepro uttered the phrase, "You're gonna have to understand" about half a dozen times during our short phone call. She also pushed the donor egg thing hard, when I've told her repeatedly that we aren't interested in that.

At one point, I told her I felt like she was being kind of hostile toward me. She said, "No, I'm not, and I'm sorry you feel that way..." and then proceeded to come at me with, "I really think you'd be much happier with donor eggs." Again.

There's some other stuff that was said, but this was the gist of it.

After the phone call, I sent this email:

I'm sorry that I apparently misunderstood how your program worked. When I met with Dr. Smiles, he said, "These are our patients. We know them well," and that you try to match couples with embryos that look like they could conceivably come from the recipients. He said, "We have a huge operation here," and made it sound like there were an abundance of embryos waiting to be implanted. He also stressed to me the importance of using young eggs (in relation to donor embryo, not donor egg) to ensure success. 

This is a huge decision for a couple to make. When I spoke with you on Tuesday I thought I'd be getting more information than I actually did. I can't be the first person to have a ton of questions about how your donor embryo program works, can I?

Also, I have told Dr. Smiles from the start that I do not want to pursue the donor egg route. I would really appreciate it if you would not present that to me as my only option. Or, if it is, please let me know and I can look outside Posh Clinic.

Lastly, I have to say that I feel very disconcerted that you would tell me that no doctor in the country would transfer Day 2 embryos - that they're not even ready at Day 2 - when *both* of my transfers were done on Day 2. I will follow up with Dr. Smiles on that.

Thank you.

Her response was almost total CYA and did not make me feel the least bit better:

As far as donor embryo programs go, we do have a “huge operation.” That does not mean, however that the amount of embryos available are not limited.  We do, however, do our best to meet the criteria a patient has in mind.

We do know our patients well, and that is why we feel very comfortable accepting the embryos.  And as I’ve said, we only accept embryos from cohorts that have produced pregnancy. You are certainly not the first patient to have questions about how a donor embryo program works. I was under the impression that I answered all your questions satisfactorily when we met on Tuesday. I made the time to see you, and would have been happy to continue the conversation had I known that you were not comfortable with the information presented to you.

We are by no means saying that donor egg/donor sperm is your only option. It was simply a suggestion since it would be easier to meet your criteria that way since what we have to offer you at this time is not satisfactory.

Lastly, I never said that no doctor in the country would transfer on day 2. What I said that there are only 2 days that doctors plan a transfer and that is day 3 or day 5. On some occasions, a day 6 transfer is indicated. That is a nationwide protocol.

I do apologize that in your case, I was incorrect and you were transferred on day 2. There was an exception made in your case as the feeling was that the embryo would not survive until the normal transfer day. I am sorry that I was unaware that such an exception was made in your case. [Again, emphasis here is mine.]

We will, of course, continue to to do our best to match you. The next set that comes along that meets your criteria will be e-mailed to you. 

To which I immediately responded:

I didn't turn down both sets. Just the second one with the 39-year-old mother. You said I had until Monday to let you know about the other set. 

No response.

This last exchange took place while I was in the waiting room before getting my colonoscopy (which was clean, by the way - yay!). And even though I'd put a call into Dr. Smiles before leaving to get said colonoscopy, I wasn't home by the time he returned it. So, no talking to him before Monday.

What I did do is put some queries out to my secret Facebook support group. I found out that other clinic-based programs follow the one-profile-at-a-time rule. One woman said that with hers, if you passed on a profile, you got dropped to the bottom of the list.

Other women working with other clinics, like NEDC or FIRM, have had different experiences (one woman got to review 40 profiles before making her selection!). I haven't looked too closely at either NEDC or FIRM, honestly, because until yesterday I felt good about working with Posh Clinic. I do know that NEDC requires a home study, which we were trying to avoid (due to cost, time it takes to complete one, etc.).

And as I told the UnproRepro, Mr. Hope and I hadn't ruled out the other profile. The one that looked really great except for the "might possibly turn out looking like Babymama" thing. (I even wrote to her, "We're not ruling out that one but I really do not want to have a child that looks like his ex. I'm sure you can understand why." This, I was trying to explain, is why I'd asked about reviewing other profiles. So that I could make the most informed decision possible.)

Look, it usually takes me a long time to make big decisions. A long time. Typically, I like to research all of the options. I discuss these options with multiple people. I ponder things. I write about the things I ponder in order to process them. Hell, it took me over a year and a half to purchase our TV. And no, I am NOT comparing a child to a television set. But, like, do you know how many models I had to look at  and how many reviews I had to read before I finally pulled out the wallet? How can I possibly make a decision on our future baby after looking at just two profiles?

I guess the larger question is: How do you know which one is the right one?

The answer is this: You can't, actually. You have to go on gut. Or faith. Or both.

And when I realized that - that my anxiety was being fueled by the unknown factors and not having enough information (or not having the right kinds of information) - I started to get really pissed off at the UnproRepro. This is your job, lady. To work with distraught couples who come to you because they don't have any other choice. They don't have what they need to make a baby, so they come to you. They come to you to get an egg or sperm or both in the form of an embryo. You, lady, are the end of the line - the last chance they have to produce a pregnancy. Have some fucking compassion, will you? Get some fucking bedside manner here.

One of the women on the Facebook group told me she'd worked with Posh Clinic on her fresh donor egg cycle and had a horrific experience with the UnproRepro (who, by the way, I hadn't even named in my posting). She told me they almost backed out before the cycle because the UnproRepro was so unprofessional and because she had been treated so poorly. The whole experience, she said, was so terrible she'd never go back there again.

So I know I'm not alone here, and that's validating. I am going to write Dr. Smiles a letter about the whole situation, because I feel like he needs to know how the UnproRepro is representing his practice.

Now Mr. Hope and I have to decide whether we want to take the other set of embryos or not. The fact that they've produced babies for two couples makes me lean toward yes, as really, that's what I want here: a baby. To be a mom. Sooner, rather than later.

But I do still have concerns over the Day 2 vs. blastocyst thing. Will Posh Clinic grow the embryos out after the thaw? And, if so, do they wait until they reach blast to transfer or do they do it on Day 3?

These are things I feel like I should've known already but I don't. I didn't prepare enough for my meeting with the UnproRepro because I thought she was going to give me a comprehensive overview. That's on me. My bad.

Clock's a ticking, Mr. Hope's still sleeping, and I'm so deep inside my brain right now I don't know if I'll ever find a way out.