Advertisements
Archive | Miscarriage RSS feed for this section

What’s Left Behind

4 Feb

So – I’ll save you the usual apologies for being gone so long. Until we move and/or get Bunny into daycare, sporadic will just have to do. ūüôā

This post has been running through my head for a while, though I admit it’s still a jumble. I’m hoping that writing it out will help clarify some things.

What is left when the wreckage of the last 3.5 years is cleared?

I’ve been thinking about that question a lot lately. The last 5(!) months since Bunny was born have been a whirlwind. New job, big decisions, and of course the huge life change that is just having her here. I admit there are still days that I “remember” I’m a mom and freak the fuck out. She is still in a lot of ways an abstract to me. But she’s slowly but surely becoming a little person with her own wants needs and desires, so the abstract is gaining focus.

Last month, Shmerson and I re-watched the first two seasons of “Sherlock” (don’t be so impressed, it’s only six episodes), in preparation for the new season. While watching it, I realized that I remembered NOTHING. Not one single thing about this show, which I knew that I loved and I always categorized as brilliant. When I mentioned this to Shmerson, I noted: “We must have watched it while I was drugged up.”

I don’t think I hid this here, but I don’t think I discussed it much either: After losing Nadav I spent the better part of six months HEAVILY medicated. My pregnancy with Bunny I spent on very strong anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds, which meant I was mostly emotionally detached from everything that entire time (and it wasn’t just the meds, it was also a defense mechanism). I credit that medication with saving my sanity and my life. But it does mean that there’s a good year or so of my life that passed in a complete haze. ¬†I started taking anti-depressants for the first time in December of 2010 – over 3 years ago – which generally numbed my feelings.¬†I am now only taking Xan.ax to deal with my anxiety disorder, and I’m on a very small dose. For the first time in 3 years – I’m no longer in a haze or emotionally detached due to medication.

It gets more complicated: My first miscarriage happened just two months after our wedding. From that point on, I was a woman on a mission. I abandoned literally EVERYTHING in pursuit of a baby. In June of 2010, had you asked – I would have said that my greatest ambition was to direct feature films. I had already gotten a development grant and I was getting closer and closer to that goal. If you would have told me then that I’d abandon it all to accommodate a string of high-risk pregnancies, and then become a content manager at a start-up and actually ENJOY it I would have thought that the notion was absurd.

My first loss turned everything upside down for me, and the world has only really begun to straighten up now. There were moments during the last 3.5 years that I *thought* I had things figured out. I “made decisions” regarding my future. I “pushed on”. In hindsight – those moments were a total crock.

I spent 6 months thinking I wanted to be a teacher. I spent a year and a half teaching.

I do NOT want to be a teacher.

I went back to school to get BA level psych credits so that I could do a Master’s in Art Therapy.

I do NOT want to be an art therapist.

I also don’t think I want to be a filmmaker, though that option hasn’t completely been taken off the table. 10 years of pursuing it and 2 degrees keep it perpetually on the table.

I love my job – but I’m also not sure I want to be doing that for the rest of my life.

But this is not just about career choices.

Out of the last 3.5 years, I spent 84 weeks of them pregnant. That’s almost 20 months. Practically two years.

I spent the remainder either attempting to get pregnant or grieving a lost pregnancy, or both at the same time.

(For the sake of this argument, I’m not counting of course the 5 months I have now spent raising Bunny).

That time basically demolished me completely. Giving birth to Bunny only cleared the wreckage, and of course, I can’t rely on her to rebuild. This is about me.

I need to figure out who I am now. That’s kind of a huge deal.

The last 3.5 years have called almost all of my assumptions about myself into question. Parts of my personality that I was CONVINCED were inherent to it are now absolutely gone.

A small example: I was absolutely 100% convinced that I will always be a person who struggles to diet. Gestational diabetes changed that. I have been consistently shedding pounds since giving birth and I’m now 5 pounds less than I was before getting pregnant with Bunny. I have a good 20 to go before I reach my ideal weight, but I’m getting there, and it’s not even CLOSE to being a struggle. Patience and willpower? Ha! Small potatoes compared to the hell of a high-risk pregnancy.

Any free headspace I have these days is dedicated to two things:

1) Figuring out who I am

2) Making an effort to fix the things I don’t like about myself.

There are very few things I know about myself now. This is what I’ve managed to figure out so far:

I know I both love and am terrified by being a mother.

I know I love my husband.*

I know that I have a strong survival instinct, and I am incredibly stubborn.

I know I’m good at my job.

I know I’m a good writer (prose mostly, ok at scripts, suck at ¬†poetry).

I know I don’t trust doctors.

I know that generally, people tend to like me when they  meet me.

I know that I have absolutely NO fashion sense, nor do I have an interest in developing one.

I know I have some serious self-esteem issues

I know that purple is my favorite color, Faith No More is my favorite band, my favorite books are the Harry Potter series, the Hunger Games trilogy, and the odd one out – “The Music of Chance” by Paul Auster. I’m a 90’s pop culture junkie and I love (modern) Dr. Who and (not-so-modern) Monty Python movies.

I know I’m a good cook, though I’m no longer sure what my favorite food is. It used to be lobster. I think it may now be french fries. Or maybe fresh-baked white bread with butter.

I know I’m a good mother, a good wife, a good friend, a good daughter, and a good sister. Though in my weakest moments I question all of that.

If you’re counting, that’s basically 12 things. Everything else is up in the air.

Wait – I know one more thing: That whatever I figure out about who I am, I want Bunny to be proud of that person. I know I need to lead by example.

The wreckage has cleared – it’s time to rebuild.

* Last night Shmerson and I had a bit of a mini-fight. It ended with me explaining all of this to him. He told me: “I don’t know what you’re going to be either, but I can’t wait to find out, because I know it’ll be amazing.” I love him so fucking much.

Advertisements

Havaya Metakenet Redux

23 Dec

Quietly and without much fanfare, two important milestones for this blog have gone unacknowledged. A couple of months ago I published my 450th post (interestingly enough, it was my official “one month” post). I am now (slowly) crawling toward post 500.

A week ago was my three year blogaversary.

On December 16th, 2010 – just a bit after midnight (so really – exactly one year and one week ago today) I published my first post¬†(for savvy readers, you will notice it has a very similar title to the post announcing Bunny’s birth. This wasn’t by accident). ¬†I had no readers. I had ¬†no idea there were other blogs out there. I had just taken my first ever Xan.ax, and after months of hell trying to come to terms with two miscarriages and battling depression and panic attacks, I found some clarity. I found the drive to write again.

Little did I know what I had in store for me. What those three years would bring, and the world and people they would expose me to.

I admit, even though I was broken when I wrote my first post, I still didn’t think it could get any worse. Then it did. Then once again I didn’t think it could get any worse.

And it did again.

And then I broke into a million pieces and it was this space that kept me together. But also this space that kept me remembering things I didn’t want to remember any more.

So I denied. I podcasted. I ran away.

But then I came back. I came back here because no matter what, this space chronicles and honors the most difficult journey I have ever taken in my life. And I choose to continue to chronicle it. Because the journey doesn’t end with a baby.

When you lose so much, you cannot be magically fixed.

These past few weeks have been insane. Going back to work and trying to get back to living has been a challenge. I have been in a cocoon for so long it’s been a hard road to get to know myself again. And that road is just beginning. I am slowly reclaiming my body. I am slowly coming out of the hard shell I built around myself. Slowly. Slowly.

I won’t lie to you, it’s been hard. But it’s also been amazing. It has been – finally – one Havaya Metakenet after another. If you don’t feel like going back and reading that post – havaya metakenet is a Hebrew phrase meaning “restorative experience”. I’ve been longing for them since the moment I lost my first pregnancy (that particular post was written when this blog was about 4 months old). And I’ve been striving for them since the moment Bunny was born.

I’m not sure if it’s the end of the year, the fatigue, the transitions, or all of the above that have made me count the restorative experiences that I have had in the past few months. Lately, instead of flashing back to the most awful day of my life, I have been flashing back to the most wonderful day. That in itself is a restorative experience. It’s not that I no longer remember. I remember him. I think of him. I love him completely. But Shmerson and I told ourselves long ago that he would not want us to always be sad. So I think he would be happy that he is remembered more often now in his little sister’s gaze. Not in his mother’s trauma.

Today, while striving for a new restorative experience, I realized how many of these experiences I have already had in the past 3.5 months. It has all been so overwhelming, but today, I counted them.

  • My daughter, just out of the womb, being laid on my stomach as we waited for the cord to finish pulsing. I couldn’t see her. I had yet to see her. But I felt her breathing. I had my hand on her back. I could feel her – ¬†tangible and present. It was the happiest moment of my life up until that point.
  • A few hours later, laying in recovery, trying out of habit to count kicks. Understanding that there were no more kicks to be counted. Getting up out of bed frantically and running to the nursery, to beg them to finish their tests so that I could finally have my daughter. Standing outside the nursery at 6am, sobbing. Waiting for them to open the door. Stepping in, being lead to my daughter. Looking at her properly for the first time. Taking her in. Understanding that she is living, she is breathing, she is real. She is mine. Well – at least trying to understand it. I don’t think I fully understand it even today.
  • Every day. Every song I sing to her as I put her to sleep or as we play. Every time she follows me across the room with her eyes. Every time she gives me one of her amazing smiles. She is so generous with those smiles. Every time we have a “conversation” with her coos. She is an open, loving, warm, happy, generous little person. I cannot believe I actually had a part in making her. She amazes me every. Single. Day.

bunny with a bunny

Nadav was born and died about a month before Purim (for those who don’t know – that’s the holiday where us Jews dress up and eat candy).

I was still broken. Shmerson had just started a new job. They encouraged employees to dress up. I still could barely get my butt out of the house. But I was determined to help him with a costume. We dressed him up like Dr. Who. I even made a homemade sonic screwdriver. I stayed at home that day. Happy that some fun was had. Broken that it was had without my son. I don’t know why those two days of making that costume stick out so much in my memory. But I feel those days. The ever-present pain, wanting to break through a facade I was putting on. Trying to be happy. Trying to live, to honor him. Barely able to do it, yet doing it ferociously.

Purim is still about 3 months away. Today I started a pinterest board. I want Shmerson to dress up as Dr. Who again. I want to be the Tardis. I want Bunny to be a little Dalek.

To add another restorative experience to the list.

With the hopes of adding many more to come.

To all of my wonderful readers out there, who have stuck it out for three long years, or who have just now found me, thank you for being here. Thank you for your patience as I navigate my way through this strange new world. I hope your 2014 is full of restorative experiences.

I’m striving to make mine chock full of them.

The Liberation of My Lady Parts

18 Oct

Warning: If you couldn’t tell from the title, this post deals with my female bits. Please don’t read on if this in any way disturbs you. This warning is specifically aimed at my brother who vocally complains when I TMI on here. Sissy – stop reading now! Kthnksbye.

Yesterday was my six week postpartum check up. I packed Bunny up in the car to show her off a bit and we headed over to see the Russian.

I haven’t talked much about my postpartum body here, so here’s a quick rundown:

I only had one first degree tear that required stitches. Ute cramping was a bitch and a half for the first week or so, but then that pretty much went away. My blood sugar leveled out almost immediately after the placenta was evicted. My feet were hella swollen for about a week. I get the occasional stabby pain in my nether regions but that should stop soon. I’ve lost about 20 pounds (bunny’s almost 7 and the placenta included) since Bunny was born. No diet, I assume all of it (or at least most of it) was water weight. Heavy bleeding lasted only about a week, and then I had light bleeding for another 3 weeks. There’s still quite a bit of fat on my bones and I am much heavier than I would like. I’m carrying the weight of five pregnancies, 6 months of modified bed rest, and 3.5 years of comfort eating to treat my depression. ¬†A Weight Watchers membership is in my very near future.

So considering all of that, my folded over stomach (which is in desperate need of some yoga Рalso in my near future), and my epic stretch mark collection, my body has bounced back remarkably well. I really do count myself quite lucky. I know that recovery is a biyotch for a lot of women. My biggest issue was the horrible chemical anxiety loop I had. My body, on the other hand, made it out in very good condition.

So I wasn’t expecting any surprises when I went to see the Russian.

And guess what? For a change – there weren’t any.

I walked in, he took a look at Bunny and deemed her “Very nice, she has your nose.”

Then I had a magical date with Ole’ Wandy (oh how I didn’t miss him) and was pronounced “just fine.”

Once back at the Russian’s desk, he half laughed as he asked me if I wanted birth control, since he knew my answer would be “hell to the no.” He gave me a referral to get my blood sugar assessed just to make sure that the gestational diabetes is all gone, and that was it.

Me: “So I forget – how often do I have to come in to see you now?”

The Russian: “Once every six months for a check up. So six months from now. My secretary will call you with a reminder.”

Me: “So that’s it?”

The Russian: “Yep.”

I got up, grabbed Bunny’s carrier, and with that – my lady parts were officially liberated.

Seriously you guys – there should have been a ceremony or something. Imaginary trumpets went off in my head, but I really do think plaques should have been awarded. There also should have been some sort of interpretive dance or something to celebrate the occasion. They could have gotten Jimmy Kimmel to host.

Ok, so there was no fanfare, but my lady parts are officially on parole! After 3.5 years of getting poked and prodded down there by what seems like All the People, my ute, cootch, and all peripherals have now gained their independence.

Shmerson and I made a deal while planning for Bunny’s arrival. If all went well, talk of going for a second will resume NO SOONER than when Bunny is 18 months old.

It wasn’t an easy thing to agree to. After all, my biological clock is a moody diva. I didn’t write about it here but it took us 6 months to conceive Bunny, and I was monitored and took clo.mid. 18 months means we won’t even start trying until I’m going on 35. That does make me a little nervous, especially considering that my current pregnancy to live baby ratio is 5:1. Those odds aren’t exactly stellar to say the least. But Shmerson insisted, and I really was compelled to agree: My body needs a freaking break. It’s been through the ringer and needs some TLC.

So no hormones of any kind (condoms will do just fine in the meantime, thankyouverymuch). No pee sticks.No speculums or surgeries. No ultrasounds. No blood tests.

A cease and desist letter has been sent. The papers have been signed. The judge’s ruling is final. And so forth.

For the next 18 months at least, my lady parts are officially free. And I think I feel pretty good about that.

Fly lady parts, fly!

Hey Everyone! Train Wreck Over Here! *Waves*

20 Jun

Ok boys and girls, it’s been a long time since I’ve put up a good rant on this blog. I figure it’s very much overdue.

But first, a disclaimer. I’m about to talk about things people in this community don’t like to admit – maybe not even to themselves – let alone in writing. Before I do, I want to make one thing very clear: I love and appreciate every single person who has ever emailed, commented, or even just quietly lurked on this blog. I know there are upwards of 700 of you out there, and I count this space as one of the most wonderful things I have done in my life, because of you.

Also, I would not have survived these last four months after losing Nadav without you. So please keep that in mind before you skewer me in the comments.

Ready? Ranty time!

WordPress’ site stat page has this handy little feature that shows you the number of views on your busiest day. Mine is 4,630 on February 22nd¬†of this year.

That was the day my son died. ¬†And yes, he died. He was a stillbirth. He was not a “late term miscarriage”. He was my son. I gave birth to him, I did not miscarry him. I went through labor and delivery like every other mother out there.

Unless this blog goes viral due to an incredibly brilliant post I pull out of my ass one day, I have a feeling that this little site stat will be sticking around for a very long time. So if by any chance I happen to miraculously forget that date, all I have to do is to go to that stats page.

I used to check my stats every day. Just a curiosity, and I admit, a little for my own ego. I don’t check them that often any more because of this little reminder.

During the period of Feb. 21st – 24th, I had upwards of 15,000 visits to this blog. A lot of those hits were concerned readers, or followers of my friends’ blogs who came over to offer support.

But let’s face it – a lot of them were the equivalent of rubber-neckers to a car accident.

Look, we all do this. We don’t admit to it, but we do. When we read somewhere that some blogger we’ve never heard of has suffered a tragedy, we click over. Yes, to offer support, but also out of morbid curiosity. Just for the opportunity to think to ourselves: “Thank goodness that isn’t me. Please don’t let it be me one day.”

I’ve done it. Heck, I still do. Granted, I’m pretty close to getting as low as you can go in this community. But there’s always someone with a bigger tragedy. One we think we understand but we don’t. One person that we look at with pity, and hope against hope that we will never have to walk a mile in their shoes.

I’m not trying to measure pain by any means. We play the hand that we are dealt, and each person has their own difficulties. I thought I understood pain just with PCOS. Then with PCOS and one miscarriage. Then with PCOS, two miscarriages, and a mental breakdown. Then with PCOS, a mental breakdown and three miscarriages. I thought I understood pain at three miscarriages, a stillbirth, and two mental breakdowns. Then I started crawling closer and closer to Nadav’s due date (cruelly exactly 4 months to the day after he died), while having to face another failed cycle.

A new low. A new threshold for pain. A new form of agony that I didn’t anticipate.

I’m telling you this not because I want you to pity me. In fact, if you feel pity for me, please leave now. I feel sorry enough for myself. I don’t need others feeling sorry for me. That does me no good. In fact, I rather you flame me and hate me and you not pity me.

I tell you all of this to point out that pain isn’t comparable or measurable. But there are certain forms of pain that attract rubber-neckers. There are cautionary tales that make others say “thank goodness it’s not me.”

I am one of those cautionary tales. And those 15,000 + hits during those four days in February are proof positive of this fact.

I remember being pregnant with Nadav, being a rubber-necker. I could never bring myself to comment on the blogs that I lurked on as a rubber-necker. Because I was painfully aware of being one. Sometimes I would chime in with an “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Or some other empty sentiment.

Yes, I was sorry for “her” loss. I felt sorry for “her.” I said to myself “please don’t let this be me.” I said to myself “thank goodness this isn’t me.”¬†I don’t do that any more. Not even with train wrecks that are bigger than mine.

I’m sure every single one of you (or at least most of you) who haven’t been in my shoes have thought these things while reading my words. I’m not angry with you. I don’t want you to feel guilty for feeling this way. It’s only natural. I was there. I also hope you never have to be in my shoes. I wouldn’t wish this agony on my worst enemy.

I also know that most of you, even ones that initially came here as rubber-neckers, are no longer that. I know every word you write to me, even the occasional “I’m sorry for your loss” when you can’t find better words to say is a genuine virtual hug. I love you guys for it.

But here’s the kicker. Though I know there are HUNDREDS of you guys out there that are supportive, amazing, loving people, there always are a few rubber-neckers in disguise. There are always those few that write lovely comforting words, but their pity and their hypocrisy shine through their well-wishes. Under every word they say I can read that “thank goodness this isn’t me” undertone. I can read the pity. It’s hard to catch sometimes, but after two years on this train, I can spot these people.

And that pity hurts. That undertone of “oh lord don’t let me be this woman” hurts. It hurts more than silence. More than hate. It hurts more than the asshole who came on this blog three days after Nadav died and called me a murderer for some unknown reason (yes that happened and I deleted the fuck-face’s comment immediately).

Why does it hurt so much?

Because I am not a weak person. I am not a person who is to be pitied. Be on my level – heck – envy me- but by pitying me you make me feel small. Like my entire world is defined by my loss.

I am not small.

I am a strong, smart, talented, funny woman.

I have an amazingly strong marriage with a really hot, funny, talented, and brilliant man.

I have a wonderful loving family (hi sissy! Hi sissy-in-law!).

I have absolutely unbelievable friends both in real life and in my virtual life.

I am loved and I love ferociously in return.

I paint. I write. I think about movies I want to make, and sometimes even take pride in ones I’ve already made.

I rock out to awesome music.

I work really hard at my job and all of my clients respect what I do and pay me a nice salary to work for them.

I’m an amazing cook.

My dog is the smartest, cutest dog in the world.

I dye my hair awesome colors.

I teach twice a week and my students freaking love me.

There is nothing to pity here. If it weren’t for my effed-up plumbing, my life would read like an unbelievable fairy tale.

I know this and I am learning to be grateful for it every day. By pitying me, you are helping me ignore the good parts of my life. You are enabling my self-pity, rather than encouraging my growth.

Don’t cry for me. Cry WITH me.

Don’t feel sorry for me. Feel empowered by my experience.

As some of you amazing ladies have written in your comments on my heavier posts: Abide with me. Endure with me without yielding.

That is what gives me strength, and I hope it strengthens you as well. This is the essence of the best of our little online community. This is what we should all strive for.

In my final goodbye post to Nadav, I posted the song “Twinkle” by Tori Amos. This was not a random choice.

I want to call your attention to a particular section of the lyrics:

But I can see that star
When she twinkles
And she twinkles

Emphasis mine.

Those lyrics for me are about triumph. About overcoming loss. About growing from loss. That is what I am doing, and it’s what I intend to continue to do.

I sometimes dread going out because of the sideways pity glance I get sometimes from people who know my story. In life, I compensate for that by making jokes and blatantly and openly talking about my losses. I may as well wear a T-Shirt that says “Please! Ask me about my uterus!”.

Like Chandler from Friends, I use humor as a defense mechanism.

I do the same thing here. Here I compensate by using funny pictures with funny captions. It’s my little F-YOU to anybody who dares to question my strength.

Because for me, pitying me means questioning my strength.

Dammit I am fucking strong.

Deal with it.

Two days from now is Nadav’s due date. I will not be acknowledging it on this blog. Nadav was born. He was born 4 months too early, but he was born. And he died. June 22nd is not his. February 22nd is his, and always will be.

I have had an enlightening couple of weeks. I haven’t shared most of that insight yet on this blog, because I’ve been processing it all. I think I’ll use that date to tell you guys a little about the way I have grown by leaps and bounds in the last couple of weeks. About the revelations I have had and that I am processing. Or maybe I’ll need a few more days to process it and I’ll post a freaking lolcat. Who knows.

Either way, I hope you stick around to read about it.

To abide with me.

But if you intend to feel sorry for me, please do me a favor and go feel sorry for another train wreck.

Cause this train may be bruised and battered, but this train keeps on fucking chugging.

On Preggo-phobia

17 Jun

My first year or so on the blogoverse there was one thing I couldn’t quite relate to: ¬†IF bloggers who couldn’t be around pregnant women. I didn’t get the whole “unfollow” thing, the lack of motivation for baby showers, the en-mass abandonment of blogs once pregnancies were announced. It never really bothered me to see other women’s success. I was totally ok with it.

Well boys and girls, it seems the tides have turned in Mo-ville. Yesterday’s fiasco, which I will shortly share with you, pretty much cemented the fact that I am officially preggo-phobic. Congratulate me! I have crossed over to the dark side!

It started getting really bad on our trip to Greece. There was a woman on our flight who I would guess was about 24-28 weeks along. She was thin and gorgeous and had the perfect bump. It infuriated me. She stood next to us on the bus from the plane to the terminal and I could barely contain the bile that rose up just from looking at her.

No reason other than the fact that a. She was pregnant and I wasn’t, and b. the biyatch was flying in her second trimester without a second thought. Next time I get to a second trimester – if that ever happens – I won’t even be able to pee without debating the risk vs. the reward.

From there it got worse. I could ID even the smallest hint of a bump. Shmerson began calling it my super-powered pregdar. By our last night in Greece, we were at a restaurant and I immediately spotted a woman who couldn’t have been more than 12 weeks along, who was not only enjoying a nice dinner in a nice hotel, but was also having a glass of wine with that dinner.

Oh, the rant Shmerson had to endure that night was one for the ages.

Once we got back, I was finding myself staying away from my google reader like the plague. It wasn’t just the women who had my due date that scared me off, it was everyone past the twelve week mark. It was every mention of a bump or nausea.

I was tempted to do a preggo cleanse on my reader until I realized that I loved every single one of these women and wanted a happy outcome for all of them. So I just opted to keep all of them in and merely keep my reading at a minimum for the time being.

Same thing was happening with post-pregnancy parenting blogs I used to read happily. I just couldn’t stomach it any more.

Let’s face it, I’ve become a “veteran” of the ALI blogosphere. Most of the women I started following when I first began blogging have long since moved on to parenting. So my reader has now become a veritable minefield. And let’s not even get into the guilt I feel for not commenting on those blogs any more.

I seriously just can’t take it.

Then last night came the veritable apex of the preggo-phobe craziness that has been my life lately.

I was invited to a birthday party. Now this is all well and good, I’ve been liking parties lately. But this party was for a woman who is part of a circle of friends who I last saw at a wedding when I was 18 weeks with Nadav, and they were cooing excitedly over my growing belly.

I was pretty much dreading going to this party, but I like this chick a lot, and I knew I had to see these people sooner or later.

Merely the prospect of going had me in a nice little grumpy state all evening. Then we showed up. The party was at this public park, so once we parked the car it was a bit of a walk to get there.

And guess what happens on the way?

Someone calls my name – I turn to see it’s an old friend of mine. A really nice woman who I’ve known since we were 15 and who got married about a year ago. She walks toward me with another woman, smiling and waving.

And both of them are sporting 20-week bumps.

This is the first thing I see as I enter the party.

I hug her, congratulate her, and proceed with a quick catch up. Then she walks away. As soon as she does, I quickly greet the birthday girl, and run off to a dark corner to cry.

All in all, a great start to the party.

I have NEVER cried at the sight of a baby bump before. Maybe it was because no one warned me. Maybe it’s just because of the whole impending due date thing.

Whatever it was, I needed a stiff drink to calm myself down enough to make me functional for the rest of the party.

I seriously can’t believe it’s come to this. When did I become this person?

Me no likey.

On the way to the party, the news came on the radio. A really rare species of rhinoceros, that is on the verge of being extinct, gave birth after a year-and-a-half long pregnancy.

Shmerson and I immediately looked at each other. It didn’t need to be said, but I said it anyway: “Maybe everything’s ok and I’ll just be giving birth to a rhino in a few days.”

Shmerson answered: “Well, that would be nice. Though I think you’d probably be a bit bigger if that was the case.”

This is what we’ve come to people. Freakish man-beast births have become the optimistic outcome.

Longest. Pregnancy. Ever!

13 Jun

Exactly two years ago today I got my first BFP.

Since then I’ve joined the blighted ovum club. The D&C club. The ectopic pregnancy club. The repeat pregnancy loss club. The lap surgery club. The missing tube club. The incompetent cervix club. The stillbirth club.

Today, on the two year anniversary of that marvelous BFP, that led to three weeks of anxious joy followed by two years of heartache, I joined the one club I still hadn’t been admitted to: the “I have an RE” club.

The Russian, after all, is a high-risk OB and a Gyno surgeon. He doesn’t do hormones. So I got a referral from him, and an appointment to see my brand spanking new RE this Monday.

This, on the two year anniversary of our first BFP. 9 days before Nadav’s due date.

FML

Or as Shmerson says (and so would Comic Book Guy):

This Post Isn’t Sunshine and Unicorn Farts

5 Jun

The first thing I did after losing Nadav was go out and buy a pack of cigarettes.

For the first couple of weeks, I was on about two packs a day.

I’ve talked about my struggle to quit smoking here before. I’ve had stumbles, and somehow between every loss I fall back into the smoking trap, only to struggle with quitting again.

This time it’s no different. I promised Shmerson I would quit before we get pregnant. And I was on my way to doing that.

Today I got yet another BFN, and the first thing I did after getting it was to light up.

If you don’t smoke, or have never been a smoker, it’s hard to explain how addictive this crap really is.

For me, smoking is my own little way of punishing myself.

I hate my body.

I’ve always had a bit of a rocky relationship with it, but these last two years have really done a number on me.

On days when I feel particularly weak, I find myself crying and telling Shmerson that I killed our babies. It’s a dark, scary feeling to have.

Though the logical side of my brain knows that this is not the case, there’s a place deep down inside of me that feels this way. At the end of the day, my body failed to carry our children and to keep them safe. I hate it for that. I hate myself for that. Though I know that everything that happened was outside of my control, I can’t help but harbor this hostility.

So of course, the logical thing to do when you hate something so much is to destroy it. Some people cut themselves. Some people starve themselves.

Me? I eat and I smoke.

And then I hate myself some more for doing it.

I am the heaviest I have ever been. So much so that I’m afraid to step on a scale. I can’t stand looking in a mirror. I hate every thing about myself right now, and I’m too far down in the muck to do anything about it.

It’s just daunting. There’s so much there to deal with.

And to make matters worse, I have the looming prospect of eventually getting pregnant again, and having to be in bed for six months, and ballooning even farther out of control.

I can’t just wake up one day and say “I’m going to change everything.” It’s impossible. I’m doomed to fail if I put myself up against something that impossible.

But the truth is, right now, I can’t even find the strength to say “I’m going to change one thing.”

Because this kind of stuff takes time, and I am out of patience. I am tired of waiting. I don’t feel like I want to throw any more time than is necessary into the dark black succubus that is my inability to carry a child to term. I need this to be behind me, and the sooner it is, the better.

That doesn’t leave time for self-improvement.

Last week, I had a meeting with the head of the MA program in art therapy in my city. She loved me. She wants me in the program. Not only that, she wanted me in the special accelerated program that would give me a Master’s in a year and a half instead of three, and would get me off the hook with some of the program’s pre-requisites.

Then I told her about my plans to get pregnant again, and the looming bed rest.

She said that there was no way I could do the accelerated program while on bed rest.

So now I have to take a year to complete my pre-requisites, then do the three year program. Because there’s no way I’m going to wait another two years to get pregnant while I do this degree.

So that’s 4 years total instead of a year and a half. Yet more time sucked into the black hole that is my uterus.

I will not have a resolution until I have a take-home baby. And I will most likely continue to hate myself until there is a resolution. I wish I could say things were different, but that’s just how I feel.

Over the past few weeks and in the coming weeks, babies are going to be born to some amazing women. Those women got pregnant at the same time that I was pregnant with Nadav. I was supposed to be one of those women, posting a happy update. Posting pictures. Telling a birth story.

I am not. And that pain is too much to deal with.

So self-destruction and body hate is my fallback position.

I hate that. I hate that I can’t be rational about this. I hate that I can’t be healthy. I hate that a BFN this morning drove me to smoking and chocolate. I hate that I was ever put in this position to begin with. I hate how unfair all of this is.

I hate that I can’t do better.

I texted Rachel this morning about my BFN. She answered “It makes sense. Your body isn’t ready!”

I answered back:

“My body is a douchenozzle.”

Yep. That pretty much sums it up.

Second Verse – (Pretty Much) Same as the First

26 Apr

So we went in for our second opinion yesterday, and Dr. Second Opinion: I officially re-dub thee Dr. Sunshine!

Seriously, the guy was AWESOME. If he didn’t practice over an hour away from here I would transfer.

It’s not that I don’t like the Russian. But THIS GUY, seriously. Is it possible to have a completely non-sexual crush on a 70-ish year old doctor strictly because of his awesome bedside manner?

Evidence of Dr. Sunshine’s awesomeness:

  • When recounting my story, and saying my water broke at 22.5 weeks, he sighed and said “just shy of the promised land” yep. You get it. *swoon*
  • When I started conversing with him in Infertile-speak, or in other words, giving him terms and information no normal woman would know, rather than looking at me strangely, he was freaking impressed. Loved that.
  • He started talking about “our next steps” then caught himself, and said: “Oh, right, you live more than an hour away. I don’t want you making that drive all the time.” Then he helped me figure out a way to tell the Russian what he said without actually telling the Russian that I went for a second opinion, so as not to hurt his feelings.
  • When I told him this is our last shot as far as I’m concerned, he yelled at me, saying: “Don’t say that, you WILL have a baby. I can tell what kind of woman you are. You’re way too strong to give up, and there’s no reason why this won’t work out.”
  • Finally, and this was my favorite part – the man gave me his personal cell phone number and offered to be my “Phone Friend” whenever I had a question.

Eh-hem.

Also, nothing he said really contradicted the Russian, and he agreed that the Russian is a good doctor and there’s no reason for me to leave him.

Wow, I feel like I totally just had an affair on my doctor. Ahh well.

As for what happened, he went into a bit more detail, from a different perspective. He said we’ll never know for sure what happened, and it could have been contractions, it could have been the cerclage failing, or it could have been the cerclage itself. We’ll never really know.

So, Dr. Sunshine’s recommendations:

  1. Slight medication change for the first trimester, and progesterone shots starting at 14 weeks (that’s to keep any contractions at bay).
  2. Cerclage at 12 weeks, same stitch as the Russian recommends.
  3. Bed rest, of course.
  4. He sent me in to get my glucose levels tested and my TSH tested again, just in case.
  5. He convinced me to skip the HSG, because he too doesn’t see a need for it, and two docs saying not to have that painful bit of hell is enough for me.
  6. As far as he’s concerned, we can jump in again right away.

So basically, not so different from the Russian’s prognosis.

Another thing that came up was a bit of a validation for me. He pretty much confirmed that they effed up my first D&C and that’s where all the problems most likely started. No point in getting angry about it all over again. But finally a doctor confirms what I’ve been saying all along.

Shmerson and I left the appointment feeling hopeful.

I can’t say the fear has disappeared. I don’t think it ever will. But a bit of hope creeped in thanks to Dr. Sunshine, my new Phone Friend.

AF should show her face in a couple of weeks, and then, we hold our breath and jump in.

Holy crap.

The Grief Still Remains

2 Jan

I have a friend who I’ve known for almost 17 years. We have been close from the time I was a stupid 16 year old, and for some reason he’s stuck around, for which I am eternally grateful. Our friendship isn’t a day-to-day affair, but when we talk, our conversations are always meaningful. He knows me as well as anyone could. As I know him.

I’ve mentioned him here before – Ababaderech. He and his partner of 14 years have started to pursue parenthood using a surrogate and donor eggs. When they were revving up for their first foray into IVF, I felt useful, spending hours waxing philosophical about fert reports, egg retrievals, and transfers. When he needed help navigating the waters of parenthood through ART, I am proud to say that I helped him as much as I possibly could.

When they started the journey, Ababaderech decided to blog about it (the blog is in Hebrew – sorry English speakers that you won’t be able to read his amazing writing). He told me at the time that the blog was inspired by me. I was honored to know this. He writes so beautifully, and I am moved by the fact that I somehow helped bring this man’s amazing words to light.

Two weeks ago, he and his partner were PUPO for the firsttime. Yesterday, we spoke and he told me that their first transfer ended in a chemical pregnancy.

I spent most of our conversation being technical. Talking about beta numbers, chances of success with the type of transfer they opted for, bla bla bla.

But I wasn’t really present in that conversation.

A few minutes before beginning this post, I caught up on Ababaderech’s blog. His latest post talks about the chemical pregnancy, and quotes me as saying that a baby is a baby once the hope of it begins in your heart. And quotes me again as saying that our children are out there, waiting for the right time to come into this world and meet us.

Then Ababaderech writes beautifully, in words far more eloquent than I have ever been able to find for my own losses (I’m paraphrasing while translating): “I drive while my partner nods off to sleep next to me. He opens his eyes every once in a while asking me if we are close to home. I don’t tell him ‘No, it didn’t work and we have to try going home again’. I tell him ‘yes my love, we will be home soon’….”

Reading these words I doubled over in tears and a grief that hasn’t gripped me in months. Grief for their two little embabies that didn’t make it. Grief for my friend, whom I didn’t support enough yesterday when I heard his bad news. Grief for my own babies, which I have been suppressing for months in an effort to make it through this pregnancy.

If it wasn’t so late over here, I would have called Ababaderech immediately and apologized, telling him how I love him, how I’m sorry I wasn’t more connected to him when he told me the news yesterday. But it’s past midnight, and I’m sure he’s asleep. And so instead I’m writing here – knowing that he’ll find this post in his inbox tomorrow morning and he’ll know how much he is loved, always, and how he inspires me to be better.

I have floated through the last three months in mostly a detached haze. I try to be happy. But little things remind me of the fear of loss and the grief that still lay beneath the surface. The panic attack I had last night while worrying about the upcoming scan. The moments in the day sometimes when I run to the doppler just to hear my baby’s heart one more time, just to be sure. Is it any wonder that I barely speak to any of my friends? Post here less and less often? Comment so infrequently on all of your posts? Have mostly meaningless conversations with the people who mean the most to me?

Ababaderech just pulled me back down to earth with an enormous crash. It took his repeating my own words to make me feel this fear and this grief fully once again.

So here I am, doubled over in grief for my three babies, for Ababaderech’s two. For JM’s failed transfer. For Kelly’s. For Marie’s loss. For Courtney’s unimaginable 4. For PM. For SLC. For Starfishkitty. For Esperanza. For MySkyTimes. For Mrs. Brightside. For EmbracingtheRain. For Slowmomma. For Elphaba. For BIBC. For Misfit Mrs. For the Advocat. For St. Elsewhere. For Kristen. For MJ. For ADSchill. For A. For AlexMMR. For Chon. For Missohkay. For thePortofIndecision. For Stinky. For Kristin. For so many more of you that I follow every day. For every one of you who has lost a baby, whether real or fantasized about. Whether embryo, or a follicle, or born too soon or with too many complications.

Pregnancy doesn’t “fix” grief. I am not “better.” I am coasting, trying my best not to let the fear of loss swallow me each and every day. As each and every day I love this baby more and more. I get more attached to the idea of him or her entering our life in June. And with that the fear continues. Statistics may be in our favor, but we here all know how much statistics are worth when we’re on the bad side of them. That is the curse of the ALI community. There isn’t a bad statistic we can’t get behind.

So now I cry and grieve and let myself feel the weight of my losses. For Ababaderech and his beautiful outlook, his amazing peace and acceptance – something which I have always loved and envied him for. For all of the women who I follow, and speak to, and read. For all of the women who come to this blog every day.

I hope our children are all helping each other find their way to us. I hope we get to watch them play together one day.

Disconnect

30 Oct

So I know I’ve been away. Yes, some of it has been due to the craziness of the move. Some of it has been because when I’m not packing, unpacking, or working, I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open.

But there’s another reason, a more honest one.

I feel like an imposter.

Today, I’m 6 weeks, 2 days pregnant. During my last two pregnancies, this is about the time I started noticing blood, things going wrong.

This time around, I’ve got progesterone. Which means if things aren’t going wrong, I won’t know it. I have to sit around and wait for our next appointment to see if I have snowball’s chance in hell of carrying this baby to term.

I’ve never seen a heartbeat, not once. And I’m so used to that, I kind of feel like there’s no chance I’ll ever see one. Everyone here has been so happy for me, so supportive, and that’s great. But the fact is that I’m scared out of my wits. Because I had a good feeling about this from day one. Because Shmerson did too. Everybody did, really.

That scares me. Because if we lose this baby then where do we go from here? I don’t know if I have anything left to go yet another round. I don’t know if I have the strength.

And I don’t know how to blog about it. And I don’t know how to comment on everyone still in the trenches. Because I know some of you guys still going through this are in pain, because I’ve managed a pregnancy. But I’m not over the hump, not even close. And I feel like all I can do right now is complain about how scared I am, and count down the days until our next ultrasound. And that makes me feel even more guilty, because I should be happy about this, right?

And when the ultrasound comes, all I can do is hope against all hope, that this time we’ll see a heartbeat.

And hope against all hope that seeing that heartbeat won’t make me more afraid than I am already.

Lessons of Loss

19 Sep

I’ve found myself leaving the same comment in different variations on a bunch of different blogs lately. It always seems insufficient so I decided to write a blog post. I have a blog, so it seemed fitting. ūüôā Anyway, I apologize in advance for getting all deep and sappy on you guys.

The last couple of months have brought me clarity in a way I never thought was possible. As chaotic as life has been lately, I’ve found myself in a state of relative peace. I think that embracing my desires rather than fighting them has made a huge difference in the way I view things. I want to share some of my newfound perspective with you.

These last 15 months have been filled with heartbreak after heartbreak. I have yet to achieve my dream of becoming a mother. I have yet to carry a baby past 8 weeks.

I’ve always thought of myself as a strong woman. Yet, in this last year I have felt pain beyond pain and my weaknesses have been exposed. That strength I thought I had was not real. It came from a place of emotional detachment. It came from a place of self-delusion and denial.

If there’s one thing that my losses have done, it’s been to force me to look myself in the mirror and find my true strength. They have snapped me out of the bubble that was my reality. In hindsight, that reality was a lie. It was repressed depression and anxiety. It was a lack of confidence and a lack of focus. Having to face down tragedy on such a big scale, having to deal with so much grief in such a short time finally brought all of these repressed emotions to the surface. I have realized that I was never strong. I was a ball of anxiety. I was going through the motions of life rather than living. I was on auto pilot. I spent most of my time in an un-feeling haze, never letting my true emotions break through the surface.

Until they forced their way through because I couldn’t hold them any more. They were too much to bear. I broke into a million pieces over and over again. I had to find a way to put myself back together.

I have spent the last year in a constant existential crisis. Always trying to find meaning, constantly trying to understand the “why” of all of this.

But something has changed in me. I don’t know whether I have that “why” yet. All I know is that I’m finally building myself back up, piece by piece. I am no longer trying to put a roof on a building with no foundation. I now realize that first you need to pour the cement.

Recently, one of my closest friends went through a pretty serious medical scare. She had to have a scan done at a hospital. I immediately volunteered to go with her and hold her hand through it.

A year ago, I may have just emotionally detached. I most definitely wouldn’t have entered a hospital voluntarily. But today, I’ve faced hospitals. I’ve faced scans. They don’t scare me any more. I am stronger, and therefore I could be strong for my friend when she needed me. I realize how much of a blessing that really is.

I’ve found true compassion for others. I have found the peace and fulfillment that comes from helping people who are in pain. I have found that my passion in life is for giving to others, and not creating for myself. I have found out what true love is, through an amazing husband that has held my hand as I fell apart, and stuck around to help me pick up the pieces.

I think that all of us in the ALI community are lucky. As much as life has dealt us a crappy hand, we see the world as it truly is, and we make it through. We don’t operate on auto-pilot. We have known loss and tragedy, and we are stronger for it.

Happiness can’t be appreciated if you haven’t felt pain and despair. Those around us that go through life having not known loss, can’t appreciate what they have as much as we can. We are lucky, because our losses and our grief has come at a relatively early stage in our lives. This means that we can spend the rest of our lives appreciating what we have. This means that after getting through this difficult time we will be able to look around and be grateful. We know what it’s like to be empty, and therefore being full is a reward, not a fact of life that is ignored.

The truth is that everyone will suffer loss at some point in their life. It is inevitable, it is part of what life is. These losses help us re-evaluate who we are, re-focus our goals, and truly appreciate the good things that we have.

This is the blessing of loss and infertility. That this appreciation comes so early for us. We know heartbreak, so our own hearts fill more easily. We know loss, and therefore we know and appreciate love. We have been helped, so we know how to help others.

Even now, with my damaged and scarred body, with all of the grief and pain that this last year has brought me, I can truly say: I am lucky. I am lucky to have had these experiences. I am lucky to have been kicked out of auto-pilot at such a young age, because now I can truly work on leading a fulfilling life. I am lucky to know how fragile life is, so when I finally create a life, I will marvel at the miracle more than I ever thought possible. I am lucky to have been through pain, because now I know how to hold someone else’s hand when they are in pain.

I am lucky. I am grateful. I am humbled.

I may not be whole, but I think I am slowly finding my way toward being content. And that is a gift that most people don’t have. I hope I can continue to embrace it.

It Ain’t Over ‘Til the Red Lady Sings (only sometimes it’s not over then either)

17 Sep

So, of course I couldn’t hold back any longer. I used my second (and only remaining) Rolls Royce FRER this morning (I blame peer pressure! And JM! And Marie! But mostly my lack of will power when it comes to pee sticks). It was a BFN, and a couple of hours ago I started spotting. It’s all over, right?

Wrong. Allow me to share with you how ectopics can mess with a girl’s head:

Aunt Flo is about a day early, at least according to my 100 or so iPhone tracking apps (Ok, I only have two. But still).

So any of you guys remember what happened the last time the biyatch was early? No? Well, let me refresh your memory: It turned out to be implantation bleeding. And I was preggo without knowing it. And it was ectopic.

So yeah, looks like Niagara Falls coming out of my cootch is not enough to convince me that I am not knocked up.

***Note to Self: Book idea. Memoir. “Me and My Cootch, My Cootch and I – Tales of a Crazy Infertile” It could be a bestseller, don’t you think?

Ehem. Sorry. Anyway, if I’m not knocked up, that’s fine. Really. Things are so crazy with the new apartment it’s probably for the best. Plus, each time we’ve managed a knock-up on the first month of trying it’s ended badly. And implantation this late in the cycle has also always ended badly. Different is definitely good in this case.

So yeah, no tears or anything. My new sense of zen is proving itself (as are the new happy pills. Yay drugs!).

But the paranoia is there for sure. One day early = false negative until proven otherwise.

So yes, I will be peeing on a stick one last time tomorrow morning, just to be sure.

Better safe than sorry I say.

(Now I just need to figure out how to get a hold of more FRERs for next month. Quite the conundrum. If I were a drug addict, these things would be like – premium grade heroine or something. How can you go back to crack after that? And how inappropriate is this metaphor? I believe I have hit a new metaphor low.)

Have a fabulous weekend everyone!

Wherein I Do My Impression of David Caruso’s Career

11 Sep

If you don’t get the reference in the title, please click here. (Really? Pilot episode of South Park? And you haven’t seen it? For shame.)

Or in other words:

IT’S MY TURN!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(I’ll skip the taking a nosedive part for now. Hopefully that won’t happen. We’ll know more at around 9DPO.)

Ok. So I’m 7 DPO and I haven’t peed yet. As you probably know, this is a huge accomplishment. And I’m waiting until 9DPO. Honestly, I would tomorrow but my FRER’s, which I’ve been so curious to try, will only be arriving tomorrow evening so circumstance forces me to wait. Which is a good thing, I think. Probably.

I’ve been pretty good this TWW. I don’t think I had “the feeling” this time (but considering past experience, that’s probably a good thing), but my score on the scavenger hunt is pretty high. My boobs are sore, I’m feeling nauseous, and I almost puked today when my students had lunch because of the smell.

But it could be that I’m just feeling under the weather. We’ll see what happens in a couple of days. Not going too crazy in the meantime. Kind of.

Ok, I kind of am, but I don’t have much time to go crazy. Things have been nuts! I’m back to teaching, and we finally closed the sale of our current place on Thursday. Now we’re running around applying for mortgages, and I’m jumping head-first into renovations of the new place.

Heady-explode-y.

Heady explode-y helps with the TWW crazies for sure. But still:

Sorry that was gross. But I kind of feel like that guy right now. Ahh well.

But I’m rambling and getting off topic. (Surprising, I know.) Focus… Focus…

David Caruso.

No no. Quoting an episode of South Park making fun of David Caruso. Right. That’s where I was. I was at “It’s my turn!”

Saturday was my nephew’s 7th birthday party. I’d been dreading it. Every year, we go to this party, and see the same people. Last year, we were post-miscarriage #1, and just about to enter miscarriage #2 (though I didn’t know it at the time). Every child there made my uterus hurt. ¬†Made me want to cry.

This time, it was even harder. My brother is divorced, so I only really see my ex-SIL and her family at these birthday parties. My ex-SIL’s sister gave birth three months ago. She was married two months after Shmerson and I. She gave my nephew his first cousin. That stung. It stung even more to see her there with the baby.

But that wasn’t really the worst of it. I mostly stayed out of the fray, sitting on the side playing “Fruit Ninja” on my iPhone and detaching myself from the situation, because it was the best way I could come up with to deal. Still, my ex-SIL, her parents, and her sister were obviously aware of our current situation. They gave me the sideways, pity-look “how are you?” When they saw me. I shrugged it off. I joked.

Then her mother and my mom had this sort of grandmompetition, where my mom was congratulating her on becoming a grandma for the second time, and she was giving my mom all of these “oh! this and this couple just went through IVF!” BS lines. I knew my mom wasn’t enjoying the party. Because she knew I wasn’t enjoying the party and had no interest in IVF stories, thankyouverymuch.

But the worst of it came at the end. My ex-SIL’s sister came over to say goodbye. I once again congratulated her (hopefully genuinely) on her little boy. Then, she tilted her head once again, and said the two words I hate most in the Hebrew Language: Bekarov Etzlech.

This isn’t an easy phrase to translate. Kind of like “havaya metakenet“, this pair of words has a whole undertone of meaning. Literally, it means “you’re next.”

Culturally, it’s a world’s worth of pressure on your back.

For example: Your older brother is getting married. People come up to him and say “Mazel Tov”. They come up to you and say “Bekarov Etzlech”. And at the age of 24, and very much single, you feel depressed and have a few too many vodka-spiked lemonades as a result. (This didn’t really happen. Ok. It really did. I got smashed at my brother’s wedding. Sue me).

This pair of words is even worse for an IFer or an RPLer. Literally you can say they mean “this will be you soon.” Bekarov meaning “soon” and etzlech meaning “with you”. It’s the “soon” part that’s the problem with me.

So I go say goodbye to my former SIL and her new baby, I tell her mazal tov, and she answers “Bekarov Etzlech.” I immediately give her the “Infertile stare of death” and she realizes just how wrong it was for her to say those two words to me. She didn’t mean it in a bad way, nobody does. I’ve found myself saying it to people sometimes too. It’s a saying with good intentions. But man, does it hurt in this context. I just wanted to tell her:

“Soon? Really? Because we’ve been at this for 15 months now, and three miscarriages in, I’m not so sure about the soon part. So please go take your baby and be all happy and leave me alone. I want to play Fruit Ninja and detach emotionally from the situation. Kthnxbye.”

It’s my turn. In two weeks I’ll be turning 31. On my 30th birthday I was pregnant with what would turn out to be my first ectopic. I want to be pregnant on my 31st birthday. And I want it to stick. So that in about 9 months, I can blissfully look at the people coming to congratulate us on our new baby and tell them, with a smug look on my face: “Bekarov Etzlech”. It’s. My. Turn.

Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe I won’t be knocked up this month. Or worse, maybe I will be knocked up but it will be another ectopic. Wouldn’t that be fun?

Urgh. Two more sleeps and I get to pee on some sticks and see where this 31st birthday will take me.

PS – Group Therapy Thursday was a raging success in my opinion! Can’t wait for the next one! Send those questions in!

More Facebook Action – In Defense of Infertiles

6 Sep

So – for those of you who don’t read Elphie’s blog, please check over there for some context. In short, her very eloquent post about the problem with the so called “breast cancer awareness game” received some pretty nasty comments from some ignorant people. People were calling those of us offended by this game “selfish”. Accusing us of not being able to be happy for our pregnant/mommy friends.

I’ve decided to take this discussion as an opportunity to explain why it is that women with fertility issues have problems with FB pregnancy announcements. And trust me, this has nothing to do with being selfish. In fact – it’s quite the opposite.

In the year and three months since my first pregnancy, I’ve seen pregnancy announcement after pregnancy announcement. I’ve seen birth announcements. I’ve seen pictures of happy mothers and fathers holding their newborns. These have come from my friends and acquaintances. On every one of those announcements I gave a hearty congrats. In some cases, when possible, I went to visit baby and mom in the hospital. In one case, I even spent several days keeping a friend company while she was going crazy, because she was overdue and getting VERY uncomfortable.

I did all of those things happily. I was happy for them.

I was sad for me. Sad because each one of these kids was a potential playmate for my lost children. Sad because I could have had that happy announcement five months ago. And again 3 months ago. And again three months from now. I would be holding on to a huge bump now. Or holding my child. Their happiness is a reminder of my losses. Of my sadness.

So I rejoice with them. But in the privacy of my own home, in front of my computer screen, I have every right to cry. They don’t see my tears. They don’t see my sadness. Some of them, who know my situation, are sensitive enough to acknowledge it and allow me to show them my sadness. But most either don’t know, or, frankly, don’t care. That is their right.

Just like it is my right to cry in the privacy of my own home when I am reminded of my losses by a barrage of happy baby pictures. I don’t complain about those much. I’m sure I’ll be the same when hopefully I bring my own baby home. That is their right. Just as it will be mine some day.

But it’s not my lot in life yet. Now I’m faced with my losses, and nothing more. So yes, a picture of a baby, in certain emotional states will send me off the edge. Other times I’m ok. I don’t comment on their photos and say that they have no right to post them. I “like” them as often as anybody else. Because that is the part I show – the part that is genuinely happy for those newly minted parents.

So why is this stupid meme different? Because it’s cruel. Not only to women in my situation. To every mislead friend and family member. But yes, especially to people suffering from infertility.

Because seeing one pregnancy or birth announcement a week on average is enough. Seeing ten at once, not knowing the true motives behind it, is enough to send anyone in my situation over the edge. That’s a reminder of my losses ten times over. All at once. I didn’t comment on these “announcements” cursing the “new soon-to-be-mommies” out. I took a moment to breathe, and to cry, and braced myself. Ready to congratulate them all.

And then I found out they were fake. Each and every one of them. So all of that emotional turmoil was for nothing. For a stupid meme that is supposedly “to raise breast cancer awareness” but doesn’t send anyone to a foundation. Doesn’t give any helpful information. In fact, it doesn’t even have the word “breast” in it.

I’m not mad at the women who posted it. I’m sure they meant well. I’m sure they did it all in good fun.

But that doesn’t make THE SITUATION any less offensive. It’s not the individual act, but rather the collective effect of it. It did NOTHING for breast cancer awareness. What it did was make 1 in every 16 women cry. Or at least feel a little stinging pain in her chest. It’s the RANDOMNESS of this, and the UNINTENDED cruelty of it that is offensive. It’s the MISGUIDED intentions behind it. That’s what is causing the uproar.

It has nothing to do with my or my fellow infertiles’ “bitterness” or “selfishness”. We did not choose our situation. We are women (and men) desperately wanting to have children, being reminded on a minute-by-minute basis of the failure of our own bodies, and having to put on a strong happy face to the world.

We don’t begrudge our friends their happiness. We mourn our own struggles. We are not “bitter” about our friends’ luck. We are jealous sometimes, yes. But even this is something we don’t share, because we know it’s not our friends’ fault that we are infertile, or having repeat miscarriages.

So we smile. We click on “like”. We congratulate and go to baby showers and attend the bris, and come to the hospital with flowers and chocolate.

But it is our right to mourn our losses quietly when we go home. And it’s our right to be offended and hurt by a barrage of fake pregnancies. Because for us it is a cruel joke. Crueler than it would be for the potential grandmother who sees her daughter’s status and cries tears of joy before finding out it was for “breast cancer awareness”. Or the sister who was offended because she wasn’t told in person of this “pregnancy”. It’s crueler because for us, it stung to begin with. And to find out that it was for nothing makes it sting all the more.

Again – I don’t blame the individuals who posted this. I’m sure they thought nothing of it at the time.

However, I reserve my right to be angry at the collective situation. And that’s not selfish. That’s self-preservation.

Broken Until Proven Otherwise

30 Aug

Today was a wonderful day. Nothing big happened. I went out, washed the car, bought myself a summer dress on sale. In the evening, Shmerson suggested we take Luna out for a long walk. We’ve been trying to take walks lately – it’s good for health-type-stuff, so I hear.

The walk started a two hour conversation. I love it when Shmerson and I talk openly and honestly about our relationship. We do it often, but each time we do, it’s proof once again that I have married the right man.

I haven’t been doing well lately. I’m trying, but it’s hard to push forward and put on a happy face. I want to “live my life” but I can’t. This last year has been holding me back – keeping me trapped.

I’ve spent the last couple of weeks trying to figure out why this is. Why I can’t break free from this and just LIVE until we get our baby. I’ve realized that it’s something that’s ingrained in me. You see – I have this thing about me, which in the past I’ve viewed as an asset, but is now a liability. When I get my mind and heart set on something I go for it like a guided missile and don’t give up until I reach my goal. I’ve always been this way. For example, both my graduate and undergraduate thesis films were deemed “impossible to pull off” by my professors, because they were too ambitious. And in each case I gave said professors the finger and made them happen. This is who I am. When I want something, it consumes me completely until I achieve it. Nothing else exists. It’s not something I can control. It’s just how I do things.

So the missile that was let out of the gate three miscarriages ago is still flying, seeking its target. And it won’t stop until it gets there. Everything else be damned. No matter how hard I try to fight it. I’ve come to realize that there’s no point in fighting it, because it just makes me feel like a failure. So instead, I’ve started to embrace it.

In our talk tonight, Shmerson and I were discussing this very clearly. I wanted to share a part of this conversation with you, despite its intimacy. I share this with his permission. I share this because this is the part that no one talks about, and it needs to be talked about. This is the part where things get really ugly and complicated. I talk of course of physical intimacy. Also known in some circles as “Sex” (any real life friends reading this – feel free to skip the rest of the post if it makes you uncomfortable).

Our sex life hasn’t exactly been fireworks lately. It’s not Shmerson’s fault. I mean, seriously – he’s a hottie. It’s all about me. Every time we make love I see my physical scars. Every time I feel the weight of my losses. I feel broken.

So I don’t initiate unless I get a positive OPK. I’m scared to. It just makes my insecurities bubble up to the surface.

But of course not having enough intimacy makes me feel just as bad. Because I love my husband. I want to want to be intimate with him. I don’t want him to feel like our sex life is only about making a baby. It shouldn’t be.

Tonight I put my cards out on the table. In embracing my status as a missile I very plainly told him: I know this is a problem. I hate that this is how things are right now. I also hate the fact that there is only one thing that will fix this: A baby.

To say anything else would be a lie. I could be a hypocrite and say that it’s wrong to put all of this on a baby. A baby won’t make things better. It won’t solve problems. It’s unfair to put so much strain on a child. It’s bad parenting.

But in this case – this would be a lie. The fact is, that I feel broken. I feel like my body has failed me. And until my body proves otherwise by carrying a baby to term, I’m going to continue to feel this way. That has nothing to do with a baby and everything to do with me.

I know what I’m saying here may seem controversial, or TMI, or whatever. But it’s my truth. My body is broken until proven otherwise. There is nothing I can do to control that. I know that the only solution in sight is a successful pregnancy. Maybe there are others. But the missile won’t let me look anywhere but there for the time being.

There’s no use in fighting it. I’ve tried to do that for over a year now. It is what it is. So for now – I’m giving in. I’m surrendering to it. I feel broken. I am broken until proven otherwise. So I’d like to prove otherwise as soon as possible.

Saying this so bluntly to my amazing husband scared me. I was afraid he was going to tell me that I shouldn’t feel this way and we should stop trying until I feel differently. But he got it. He understood. He knows that this is the situation until we reach a healthy pregnancy. And he’s ok with it. He’s not bitter. He’s not angry. He understands.

And boy – do I love him all the more for it.

I can be an asshole of the grandest kind 
I can withhold like it’s going out of style 
I can be the moodiest baby and you’ve never met anyone 
who is as negative as I am sometimes

I am the wisest woman you’ve ever met.¬†
I am the kindest soul with whom you’ve connected.¬†
I have the bravest heart that you’ve ever seen¬†
And you’ve never met anyone¬†
Who’s as positive as I am sometimes.

You see everything, you see every part 
You see all my light and you love my dark 
You dig everything of which I’m ashamed¬†
There’s not anything to which you can‚Äôt relate¬†
And you’re still here 

I blame everyone else, not my own partaking 
My passive-aggressiveness can be devastating 
I’m terrified and mistrusting¬†
And you’ve never met anyone as, 
As closed down as I am sometimes.

You see everything, you see every part 
You see all my light and you love my dark 
You dig everything of which I’m ashamed¬†
There’s not anything to which you can‚Äôt relate¬†
And you’re still here 

What I resist, persists, and speaks louder than I know 
What I resist, you love, no matter how low or high I go 

I’m the funniest woman you’ve ever known.¬†
I am the dullest woman you’ve ever known.¬†
I’m the most gorgeous woman you’ve ever known¬†
And you’ve never met anyone as, as everything as I am sometimes.

You see everything, you see every part 
You see all my light and you love my dark 
You dig everything of which I’m ashamed¬†
There’s not anything to which you can‚Äôt relate¬†
And you’re still here 

And you’re still here 
And you’re still here...

Buzz Buzz Buzz

24 Aug

This is a bullet point post. I do this not because I am lazy (well mostly not). I do this because, in the immortal words of someone: Heady-explodey. Today has been one of those days that I wish I had a pensieve. Stupid me being a stupid muggle. Ahh well.

So – it’s a list. I like lists. You like lists. Sometimes. I’m rambling. I’m tired. Buzz buzz. Here we go:

  • Thank you all for your comments on yesterday’s post. I think we’re gonna go the try try again route. I don’t think I’ll regret this in the long run. The fact is, that there simply isn’t enough info about my past losses. If we have a fourth (FSM forbid), then we will either know it’s an ectopic and take out Ole’ Righty, and then go for IVF, or we’ll have more info and then go blow the $300 bucks. For now, just like the Russian said, we’ve done all that we can outside of experimental treatments. RPL is a biyatch.
  • So now I really want to try again. Like, NOW. And Shmerson is concerned that I’ll go batshit just like I did last time.¬†He keeps on saying (and he is right) that I can’t just spend my time wishing for a baby, because if that’s where all of my energy is, I will have an inevitable crash once we do get our little one. I know he’s right. And I’m really making an effort to work on me a bit more. I don’t THINK I’ll freak out as much as I did last time. But I’m not sure.
  • On the other hand I hear the tick-tock. My cycles are gradually getting longer and I’m ovulating later. I know what this means – my PCOS is kicking in and it’s only a matter of time before I stop ovulating again. In fact, the Russian said that if we don’t get preggo within the next few months then we should start considering Clomid. So yeah – tick tock tick tock.
  • I also kind of feel like if we’re going to have a fourth loss, I just kind of want to get it over with. I don’t know if it’s healthy, but it’s how I feel.
  • I’m just afraid that I want this for all the wrong reasons. And in my crazy buzz-addled brain I keep thinking that the reason for my three losses is because we jumped in for the “wrong reasons”. Urgh. This is stupid. Luckily we have about a week and a half or so before a follie pops so we don’t have to decide yet. In fact, I’m thinking that we shouldn’t decided. Just kinda do it and see what happens (though knowing me I’ll still be using pee sticks like there’s no tomorrow).
  • Enough of the TTC stuff. Moving on:
  • I’m going to Dr. Happy Pills tomorrow, and insisting on changing my meds. They work, in that I’m better than I was after my brain broke back in November, but I feel like they’re band aids, and are not doing what they’re supposed to. He insisted on zoloft, which helps with the depression (most of the time) but causes increased anxiety. So he added xanax. Then the zoloft pooped out (it was a low dosage) so he upped it. Then I started having trouble sleeping, so he added ativan to the cocktail. Now I’m tired. All the time. And I feel completely unproductive 90% of the time, and anti-social. I think it’s time to wave bye bye to Zoloft. I don’t know what we’ll do though, since very few anti-depressants are ok with the preggo. And I assume I will eventually be preggo and I’d rather not be preggo and in happy pill withdrawal. Lexapro was a complete bust when we tried it. Now I have no idea what to do. I’m afraid to go off them completely because of the brain breaking thing, which was no fun. I like my brain unbroken thank you very much. Even if it makes things a little hazy. Urgh. We’ll see what he says tomorrow.
  • Bleeding Tulip has a great post about decision fatigue¬†up on her blog. It has made me realize that I suffer from a new disease that I have just invented: Chronic Decision Fatigue Syndrome. I think I want to do something about that. No clue what, but there ya go.
  • I no longer fit properly into any of my jeans. This is a bad thing. Muffin tops abide and they must be destroyed. Something needs to be done about it. I’ve started by taking a page out of WWH‘s book and making low fat breakfast smoothies. Non-fat yogurt, with fruit, agave syrup, and spinach. Yes, spinach. You can’t taste it and it has vitamins and stuff. Today, I had one at 10am and wasn’t hungry again until 2pm. And even then, I wasn’t THAT hungry. I think this may be good. We’ll see.
  • I want to go back to yoga. But again, i can’t seem to get my ass off the couch. I hope some form of new happy pill will help with the getting off of the couch thing. That would be good.
  • I have now officially started playing “find the infertile” on every single reality show I watch. Married? Over thirty and no kids? Infertile. Looks over 40 and has a 2 year old? Infertile. Puts her children in beauty pageants that include fake tans? Well – that’s just crazy. Nothing to do with being infertile. Just putting it out there.
  • I think that’s enough of my buzz buzz for one night. But I’m throwing in a cute bunny for good measure. Note: I do not own bunnies. That’s Marie‘s department. And hers have magical psychic powers and jump up and down to answer my big existential questions (well I’m actually not sure about that, but I take her word for it because a) it funnies me and b) I have no visual proof to the contrary).

One of Marie’s bunnies telling me that everything will be ok. Artist’s rendering. Not to scale.

  • However, I do find bunnies unbelievably cute and they make me smile. So here are two more bunnies. In cups:



Third (or is it Fifth) Opinion?

23 Aug

So some of you may know by now that I set an appt. with the “#1 RPL specialist in the country” for Sept. 12th.

This would be the 5th OB/GYN I’d be seeing in the last year, and a visit with him isn’t covered by the public healthcare system, and it will cost us $300 bucks.

I’m seriously wondering if it’s worth it.

Today I went in for my post-lap appt. with The Russian. He and I had a long talk about my current situation. This talk has pretty much lead me to believe there’s really no point in going to yet ANOTHER doctor.

The conversation went something like this:

Me: So – do you think I may have another miscarriage?

The Russian: I don’t know. There’s really no way of knowing. You’ve been checked for clotting disorders?

Me: Yep.

The Russian: Chromosomal issues?

Me: Yep. Should be getting the results this month.

The Russian: Well, then there’s nothing much more you can do.

Basically he laid it out this way: IVF is too invasive a procedure for our situation, and will not reduce the risk of an ectopic. By all appearances Ole’ Righty seems to be working fine. The only solution at this point is to just keep trying. He also pointed out that if I have a 4th loss then he would recommend losing Ole’ Righty and going straight to IVF.

But for now he says the same as Twofer. Try, try again.

After coming back from the appt. Shmerson and I had a talk. Shmerson said something that seemed very on-point. He said that he thinks I’m trying to find a reason for our losses, and if there was a clear-cut reason, we would know by now.

I really do think he’s right. The fact is that I’ve had suspected ectopics and a blighted ovum, and no actual proof of where the ectopics were. Every doctor has said that we could very well have fallen on the bad side of statistics and there’s nothing we can do. There are no magic solutions for us. And I don’t think the RPL specialist will deliver any type of different news.

So I’m thinking to myself – what’s the point? Another 300 bucks spent to most likely get the same answer we’ve been getting from everyone. Progesterone supps, extra folic acid and B12, and try try again.

Twofer has said before that chances are we’ll never know what actually happened. Maybe this specialist guy is just a way for me to try to weasel some answers? I mean – I’ve done the testing. What else can he really contribute except an extra-large hole in our bank account?

If we have a 4th loss, and it’s another suspected ectopic, then it’s off to IVF we go. If we have a 4th loss and it’s not ectopic, then we go to the experimental stuff. Immunology, etc.

So maybe we should just save those 300 bucks and try try again? If there will be a 4th loss, just get it over with and move on? And if not – then we get a take home baby. With only one tube going for us it may take a while, whichever way it goes.

I’m going to take advantage of ICLW to put this question out there – what do you ladies think? Should we just jump back on the wagon and try try again or spend the money?

Would love to hear your take on it. Because you know there can’t truly be a decision without hearing from you guys. This is how I roll.

The More Things Change…

13 Aug

Yesterday I had to go through all of my  old MiniDV tapes to find some raw footage for an editing exercise for my students. A lot of the tapes were almost ten years old, and it turns out that in my early twenties I was not so good with the coherent labeling of things.

For hours, I inserted tape after tape and zipped through them to see what was on each one. What started out as a mechanical job ended up slapping me upside the head.

I found a few video diaries I had made around my 22nd birthday – that’s 9 years ago. I hadn’t even remembered making them. For an hour, I sat there, dumbfounded, watching my 22-year-old self. I recognized her, but yet I didn’t.

22-year-old me was feeling stuck and depressed. She was having money problems and trying to get through her second year of college, away from her family, and supporting herself while keeping up her grades. She cried a lot. She had a bit of a pizza face. Turns out she wasn’t much skinnier than 30-almost-31-year-old me.

I looked at her talking to the camera and crying. I wanted to teleport through that LCD screen and shake her. Tell her to calm the ef down. Everything was going to be ok, and she should just go out to a frat party and have some fun and just, well, be 22.

My 20’s, in general, were spent in either a depressive stupor or an over-achieving haze. Looking back on them now, I’m tempted to say I “wasted” my twenties. On a lot of levels, I feel like the last few years I’ve been just resting to get over the non-stop, over-achieving, constant panic mode that I was in for almost a decade.

I looked at 22-year-old me last night and I was jealous of her. And I felt sorry for her. And I barely recognized her as myself. And yet…

And yet if you swap around some names and places, this could have been current me talking. Feeling stuck. Feeling broke and helpless, though thankfully not so alone any more.

As I was listening to 22-year-old me bitching and moaning about her life, I looked around. My messy, cramped apartment which will soon be sold so we can move on to bigger and more family-friendly digs. My amazing little Luna, laying on her back and having one of her doggy dreams, being a huge source of joy for me, just because she is here. A picture of my husband and I hanging on the fridge, taken about a week before my third miscarriage – showing us happy, dancing at a wedding. So much heartbreak to come, so much heartbreak overcome.

All of these things made me grateful. But looking at 22-year-old me also made me feel like I have lost so much since then. People who I’ve loved have passed away. My left tube is gone. My innocence is gone. My passion for filmmaking is gone. My go-getter attitude – that pushy, “I can do anything I set my mind to” mindset – gone. My bravado. My drive.

I had to wake up early to go to a bris for PM’s little one this morning (that’s us Israelis’ version of a baby shower, only it’s after the baby is born and usually involves a live circumcision. This one, thankfully, did not). PM’s little guy is already getting bigger. He’s almost a month old, and it’s evident that she has hit her “mommy stride”. I was surrounded by babies. But my mood was ok. There was something freeing about last night’s revelations. They have made me think things over, and look at them differently.

Two big questions keep on haunting me: If I look back at myself ten years from now will I want to shake myself and will I be jealous? What happened to my drive, and what the hell can I do to get it back?

And two important revelations have fallen on me like a ton of bricks:

The first, is that upon looking at myself in hindsight, I finally understand just how deep my depression and anxiety go, and just how long I’ve been suffering from them. I think that back then, I handled it by working myself to the bone. Now, I handle it by cocooning and disconnecting from the outside world. Neither of those work. Neither of those are healthy. And my happy pills certainly aren’t doing the trick. I realize I need to find a way to take care of this disease. Because looking at this – realizing that 9 years ago I was just as depressed, just as anxious, has made me finally understand that this is a disease. And it’s not one I want to live with any more. Something has to be done. I don’t know what. But something.

The second is actually a bit more complicated. Since my lap I’ve been feeling very down. I admit, I’ve found myself wishing that they had taken the right tube along with the left. I found myself wishing that we could just go straight to IVF, just so I have “science” behind me and some sense of control.

But you know what? Last night I mourned the loss of my tube for the first time, looking at my younger, more physically whole self. I realized that I am lucky. Yes, I am still at a huge risk for another ectopic. But on the other hand, I still have the luxury of trying to let nature take its course. Of trying without any more invasive procedures. Of having a baby “the old fashioned way.”

So many women in the ALI community don’t have that luxury. I’m one tube down, but I still ovulate. Egg still has a chance to meet sperm naturally. My instinct to burn the house down to the foundation just so ¬†I have some sense of control is wrong. I understand now, that losing both tubes would have been a huge blow. It would have been a devastating loss. It would have meant that I no longer have the privilege of trying on my own. That any ¬†child I would have would be a child created in a lab. That in itself is a loss, and it’s a loss that so many women have to go through. Right now I still don’t, so why force myself down that path? Why not be grateful to still have that chance?

Yes – we are at risk for another loss. But I am privileged, I am lucky, that a small part of me still remains whole. That we still have a chance to do it on our own.

Last night, I finally understood that. And I’m grateful to 22-year-old me for teaching me all of this.

I don’t know where all of these revelations will take me. I’m restraining myself, trying to think things through one step at a time. But I know that ten years from now, I want to look back, read these blog posts, and not want to shake almost-31-year-old me. I want to be proud of her. I want to hold my children, and read these words, and tell her: “You did good.”

Me - age 23

Me, age 30

Hey there Mo – even now – you’re not doing so bad after all.

Tomorrow…. We Wear Pants! (and other musings about what’s next)

8 Aug

Well, I’m going a bit stir crazy. On one hand, I really feel like getting up and doing things. On the other, I just want to sleep. I’m not in much pain anymore. Mostly the tic-tac-toe game on my abdomen itches like crazy, and I get a periodic stabby-type pain every once in a while. But since I’m used to stabby pains, it’s not really a big deal.

I haven’t worn pants since leaving the hospital on Friday morning. That’s right people! No pants! I’ve also seen every single stupid reality TV show on the planet, played way too much Angry Birds, and watched some pretty good movies (Source Code – thumbs up!), along with a couple of absolutely horrible ones (note to everyone: the Red Riding Hood revamp is a piece of crap).

But with all the stir-craziness, I can’t seem to bring myself to function. There’s a lot of real world stuff that needs to be done, but I’m not ready for it yet. I think I’ll give myself one more day. I think that’s ok.

Here’s the thing: The last couple of days a certain unease has set in. I get that Lefty was non-functional, and I’m glad he’s gone. But I have spent the last 6 months CONVINCED that something is up with my right side. The doc who performed the lap observed that one part of the tube is “slightly thickened” and removed a couple of adhesions around it, but that’s basically it.

And I’m not appeased. I’m not calm. I still have a sinking feeling that something is wrong and I’ll have another ectopic.

This is the sucky thing about all of this: I know exactly what happens next. We go back to Twofer, and he tells us to try again. That’s it. Try again and cross our fingers.

And when we are ready to try again – I’m afraid this whole cycle of fear will start all over again. I honestly kind of wish they had taken Righty too and we could have gone straight to IVF. I know that’s kind of a crazy thought, but considering that IVF is virtually free here, I would much rather just bypass the tubes altogether. Just get a good looking embryo in my uterus, even if it comes with the price of injections, more general anesthesia, and hormonal hell. I’ll take that over another loss any day of the week and twice on Sundays.

But I know we would never get approved for such a thing. For now, I’m 100% sure we’ll just be told to “try again.”

And I’m not happy about that. I’m not ready to deal with that.

But tomorrow, I’ll start by putting on a pair of pants.

Plot Twist!

5 Aug

Hey all,

I’m still kind of loopy but I promised I would update as soon as I was partially coherent so here we go:

Ole’ Righty seems to be fine. Lefty was removed.

Weird, right? But there you go. And it wasn’t a mistake either. There was a cyst there, and some other stuff, which I have all written out in Hebrew but still not coherent enough to find the English equivalent.

The doc who operated said that there were some adhesions around Ole’ Righty, and he took care of them. I have to admit, I’m not 100% confident that this will take care of my worry, but at least now someone has had a look at my lady parts from the inside and there’s no more need for guess work.

I’m still kind of conked out and in pain. Still processing it all. Thank you everyone for being amazing. I’ll update again soon.

Oh – and apparently my uterus is perfect.

%d bloggers like this: