plodding along.

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

Here's what's been going on:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"None," he says. 

Um, okay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe?

where I've been, part 2.

Let's not bury the lede here:

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

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

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

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

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

2/18: CD1. 

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

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

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

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

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

So that brings us up to speed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wish me luck.

where I've been.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I felt good.

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

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

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

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

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

I am so ready to be a mom.

confessions of a bitter infertile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Masochism?"

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

"More likely masochism."

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

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

I shrugged. I did a lot of shrugging yesterday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

impatience.

The scale has stopped moving.

I was down 7.2 lbs. Then, yesterday, I went up .4 lbs. Today, back down .2 lbs. Meanwhile, I have been following the EZ Diet perfectly - in fact, I haven't even had any trace sugar in the past three days. My meals are appropriately sized, I'm working out every day, and I'm drinking tons of water. Plus, I'm only on CD5, so it's way too early to be putting on ovulation bloat.

And yes, I know this is why they tell people NOT to look at the scale more than once a week when dieting/exercising. Because it's crazy-making. Clearly.

But but but

I'm working hard, and I want to see results. Like, REAL results. 

Yesterday I felt like crap. I had a massive headache that wouldn't quit. I was tired, I was achy, I was unmotivated. I had an intake appointment with the infertility therapist, and her office turned out to be close to my house so I went home afterward to finish up my work day from there. But it was slow going. 

Then, when I logged off for the night, there were literally a dozen things that I should have been doing. Only, I couldn't make myself do anything. 

I turned into a vegetable.

Here's where I confess: Sunday, I quit caffeine. Cold turkey, because honestly, I had one Keurig pod a day. I didn't think that itty bitty amount would have affected me so much. On Sunday, I didn't even notice the caffeine was missing! 

But yesterday? Oh dear god, YESTERDAY.

Today I'm still achy, but I think that has more to do with the workout I did on Monday. It was Plyo Fix, based on plyometrics (jumping), only I had to follow the chunky modifier lady on the DVD, who didn't jump so much as squat and raise up on her toes. I love Kat; she's in every 21 Day Fix DVD and I often have to follow her modifications. And even though I called her "chunky" she's really only chunky in relation to other size 0 women in the DVDs; I would actually kill to be Kat's size.

Even so, I got up this morning, and did my Upper Fix DVD, and now I will drag my weary, detoxing ass into the office for a full day of work. And then tonight, after work, I will be a saint-type person and go have hot, caffeine-free beverage with someone I barely know, because she just moved back to the area and is lonely and I'm too nice to say I DON'T HAVE ENOUGH TIME FOR THE FRIENDS I HAVE, WHY WOULD I ACTIVELY MAKE NEW ONES? (Okay, so maybe I am NOT a saint-type person. Maybe I'm just a sucker with no boundaries.)

Tomorrow Mr. Hope and I go to the infertility therapist together, for our donor embryo counseling session. Once that's completed I will have all of my pre-reqs done for the cycle (Mr. Hope and I spent literally hours on Saturday running to different labs to get all of our blood work done). So, there's that.

Meanwhile...

Would it hurt the scale to go down just a little? I mean, really.

and so it begins (I hope).

When I stepped on the scale this morning, I was bummed to see I'd only shed another .6 lbs. Which is better than yesterday, when I was actually up .2 lbs. That's just under 5 lbs. in four days, which is nothing to sneeze at, but the BFF has dropped EIGHT. (Yes, I am jealous. No, I won't apologize for that.)

Anyway, I've been following the EZ Diet pretty strictly, with precious few exceptions. Like, I had pumpkin polenta with dinner on Wednesday night, but couldn't figure out if course cornmeal was on the So-So List or the Bad List. Since polenta has a low glycemic load I'm thinking it's So-So, which I am allowed to have one to two times a week. Then yesterday I was at a work thing and got served a salad that was fine but dressing that had some sugar in it. I did the dipped-fork thing to limit how much I had - maybe a tablespoon of dressing total? - but you know, it's still got traces of sugar, which is definitely on the Bad List.

And I've been exercising at least five times a week, the kind that leaves me with sore muscles and, like today, dripping with sweat and red-faced for 30+ minutes afterward. I've also been getting enough sleep and drinking boatloads of water, so I was really, really hoping the slow-down was the result of an impending period. If I counted the thing that Dr. Smiles said wasn't a true period as my last one, I'd be due on Sunday.

Then something happened with work this morning that almost reduced me to tears, which was an odd (and oddly disproportionate) reaction. Was this PMS? Again, I was hoping.

Finally, about fifteen minutes ago, I went to the bathroom and saw it. Bright red spotting. The kind that says HELLO, YOUR PERIOD IS ABOUT TO ARRIVE.

So yay for that, and yay for getting blood work done this weekend, and for meeting with the infertility counselor on Monday, and getting this mo fo show on the road.

EDITED TO ADD: In less than an hour, the spotting turned to full-on flow. So, I'm officially in my priming cycle!

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?