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Tag Archives: ectopic pregnancy

Why Sticky Beans and Baby Dust are Stoopid

11 Oct

I’ve been meaning to rant about this for a while. I seriously don’t get the whole “sticky bean baby dust” thing.

First – let’s talk about the “sticky bean” issue. In the world of ectopics, not all beans should be sticky. In fact, a “sticky bean” in a tube means you get your tube removed. Plus – those early stage babies aren’t exactly bean-shaped, really. So why did they choose the word “bean” of all things? It could be a raspberry. Or a peanut. Or a lentil. Plus, what the hell is the deal with comparing babies to food? “My baby is the size of an orange! My baby is the size of a strawberry!”. Babies are not edible, people. Comparing them to fruit isn’t “cute”. It’s creepy.

And speaking of creepy – how creepy is the phrase “baby dust?” Seriously – think about it. Dust made of babies. That’s just morbid. Plus, doesn’t dust make things less sticky?  So it kind of goes against the whole baby dust thing.. I get that it’s a play on “fairy dust” and all that, but once you analyze it, it really is pretty gross.

So please don’t wish me any of those things when I tell you the following news:

Yesterday, I saw a dip in my temps, so I peed on a VW and got a really faint line. So faint, we had to squint to see it. As Shmerson said it was definitely a BFP – a Blurry, Faint Possibility.

Today, at 9DPO, the line was clear as day.

I am officially knocked up.

And the little one is smart. It decided to show itself on the day we officially got the keys and started the renovation on our new place.

I’m cautiously optimistic.

No betas until Sunday because of the holidays over here. But I’m hoping that this early positive, along with the early ovulation, along with the no bleeding and a shit-ton of early symptoms is a good sign. None of the ectopics were like this.

*fingers crossed*

Please stay with me guys – I need you now more than ever.

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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!

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:



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.

Virtual Treasure and Angry Birds

1 Aug

Me: Ahhhhhhh!!!!!

Me: Stop it.

Me: No! I’m freaking out!

Me: Stop it.

Me: Poof! I stopped it.

Me: Good.

Me: Dude, I didn’t really. Come on, you should know better. Can I go back to screaming now?

Me: No. Tell me what’s wrong.

Me: You know very well. We’re going in for surgery on Thursday. SURGERY!

Me: Thousands of people do it every day.

Me: Don’t care.

Me: It’s perfectly safe. You’ll be asleep the entire time.

Me: With a tube stuck down my throat! That’s not sleep. That’s torture!

Me: You won’t even know it’s there!

Me: Ahhhhhh!!!!!

Me: What now?

Me: I won’t even know it’s there! No control! Can we run away? Please?

Me: No. We’ve got to do this.

Me: Why?

Me: You know what we’ve been doing the last few days?

Me: Watching too much reality TV and feeling useless?

Me: Yes, that.

Me: What about it?

Me: We do that when we’re depressed or anxious.

Me: No shit, Sherlock.

Me: Now what has been the primary cause of this depression and anxiety?

Me: You being a pain in my ass?

Me: No. Try again.

Me: Me being a pain in your ass?

Me: That too. But dig deeper.

Me: The baby thing?

Me: Yes. The baby thing.

Me: What does that have to do with us getting cut open and being completely in other people’s control for HOURS? HOURS!!!!

Me: Breathe. Remember last month when we were TTC and sitting at home depressed because we were scared of another ectopic?

Me: Yeah. That sucked. But that How I Met Your Mother marathon was nice.

Me: Yes, that was nice. But you also spent a few too many hours hunting for virtual treasure on FB.

Me: That was fun!

Me: No it’s dumb. It’s a waste of our time and… Well, I would say energy but it mostly involves clicking.

Me: Ok. I’ll give you that.

Me: And the fact that we got three stars on all the levels of Angry Birds Seasons?

Me: It was awesome!

Me: No. It was unsatisfying. It was us being depressed.

Me: But the birds! And the piggies! And the golden eggs!

Me: You’re deluding yourself.

Me: So? What’s your point?

Me: My point is – get through this week. Make it to the lap. Get through it.

Me: But I don’t wanna!

Me: Do you want babies?

Me: Babies?

Me: Yes, babies.

Me: Babies! Babies! Babies! Babies!

Me: See now I’ve got your attention.

Me: Babies! Babies! Babies… huh?

Me: This will help us get the babies.

Me: Are you sure?

Me: No. But it’s a place to start.

Me: You promise we’ll be OK?

Me: I promise.

Me: And can we at least spend some of this week trying to get 3 stars on Angry Birds Rio?

Me: Yes. I’ll even let you hunt for some virtual treasure. But after that – to the lap we go!

Me: Ahhhhhhh!!!!!!!!

Me: This is a lost cause….

*Insert Witty Title with the Word “Lap” in it Here*

21 Jul

I was going to title this post “Lap it Up.” But really, that is hella lame. Jump in my lap? Nope. Ahh well, I guess there just isn’t enough in the world of laproscopic surgery humor and/or puns. I should work on that.

So as you may have already guessed, Twofer was very clear cut today. There was no need to beg. Two minutes into the appointment he said very clearly: “Well, I guess the next step would be a lap surgery to figure out the source of the pain and remove the tube while they’re at it.”

He referred me to a really good gyno surgeon, and we have an appointment with him next Wed. Bing bang boom. Done.

Well, not really. There is the whole issue of my PARALYZING FEAR OF GENERAL ANESTHESIA. So when we’re there on Wed, I’m definitely going to explore all of the options before signing on the lap dotted line. But even with the anesthesia fear I felt a certain lightness after leaving twofer today. I think that we made the right decision by addressing this issue with some more serious medical intervention. I’ll keep you all posted.

On an unrelated note – it’s Marie’s Birthday today! If you feel like it, and you should – go over to her blog and wish her a happy birthday!

Marie – over the past 6 months you have become one of my closest friends. It’s almost surreal to think that we’ve never actually met face to face, because I feel like we’ve known each other forever. I love you to bits, and if I could I would fly over to you to give you a huge birthday hug. But I can’t, so I’ll make due with another cute bunny gif:

Have an amazing birthday hon. Wish I could be there to celebrate with you in person!

Of Course I Did

4 Jul

Yep. I’m 7 DPO and I’ve already used up 2 of my pee sticks. Both BFN’s, of course. I mean, seriously, what am I thinking? I think the thing is I’ve always had BFP’s at around 10-11 DPO, but the only times I’ve tracked have been ectopics. So maybe it’s just wishful thinking, that if I’m knocked up and it’s a proper pregnancy, I’ll know sooner. Ahh well. Three more pee-stick mornings followed by a Beta blood test on Thursday, and then we’ll know for sure.

We interrupt this blog post for a message from our sponsor:

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Warning: progesterone suppositories do not in any way guarantee a pregnancy, nor do they guarantee carrying a baby to term. Sanity not included. 

Ehem. Right. Where was I?

Thanks to everyone for the reassuring comments on my last post. Good to know I’m not alone in the cramping department. I just hope some of them are implantation cramps. I want a BFP so badly this month. Just so if I have another loss I can get it over with already. Does that make any sense?

I know I’m being paranoid. I guess it’s because my “answers” aren’t really clear cut. I mean, there’s no proof that the second pregnancy was ectopic, so of course I’m still paranoid that I have a yet-undiagnosed condition and we have a long road still ahead. I guess we’ll know soon enough…

Not much else to report really, except that tomorrow Shmerson will be coming home! Finally! I’ll be spending the day being the happy housewife, finishing up the cleaning, and planning something yummy for dinner. Fun and happy times all around, 50’s style!

Hope all of you US-Americans had a happy 4th!

The List

24 Jun

Well, Shmerson came home for a blissful 10 hours. Oatmeal chocolate chip cookies were baked, shrimp and spinach basil Gnocchi was cooked, a couple of “deposits” were made happily, much cuddling was had, and now he’s gone for almost two weeks.

After the second “deposit” Shmerson and I gave my eggs and his swimmers a nice little talking to. We explained to his guys that they have to swim to the left, and they have to hang out for a while. We explained to little lefty that she needs to pop soon, and go down Ole’ Lefty to meet the swimmers. Hopefully they were listening.

I’m up against two torturous weeks now. I know saying the word “torturous” may be a bit melodramatic, but so be it. I HATE it when Shmerson’s away. I have a really hard time caring for myself when he’s not around – something that I know I need to change. I think if anything, that’s going to be my mission for these next two weeks, ignore the fact that I’m on my TWW and concentrate on things like actually cooking myself meals, meeting friends, cleaning the house, and getting some work done.

I went to Dr. Happy Pills today and he upped my zoloft dosage, because it’s been evident that right now it’s not completely doing the trick. Hopefully that will help me in this endeavor.

For now – I’m obsessively using OPK’s, hoping that Shmerson’s little guys survive until my follie decides to pop, and everything goes smoothly. Most of my regular readers know I like to make lists, so I’ve decided to share with you my list of things that need to go right for us to actually come out with a baby from this month. I’ve italicized milestones that we’ve never reached before for easy understanding, and because I’m cool and organized like that. Now – on to the list! Yay lists!

  1. Shmerson’s super swimmers need to survive until my follie pops.
  2. This means that my follie better pop in the next 24-48 hours.
  3. Little Lefty needs to go down Ole’ Lefty, and meet the swimmers, to create an actual embryo.
  4. Embryo needs to nestle in properly, in the uterus.
  5. Betas need to double properly.
  6. We need to see a heartbeat.
  7. We need to make it past 8 weeks.
  8. We need to make it to the second trimester
  9. We need the scans to show a healthy baby.
  10. We need the baby to hang out in my uterus hopefully for a full nine months. 
  11. The baby needs to come out healthy and whole. 
  12. I need to stay healthy and whole. 
I know there are plenty of other milestones on the way that I’ve missed. Right now I’m hoping we make it to number 4. Then I’ll hope to make it to 5. If we’re lucky, we’ll hit six and seven. Hopefully from there I’ll be able to breathe just a little bit.
I realized the other day that I’ve been pregnant 3 times, and I’ve never once seen a heartbeat. I hope I get to someday, and hopefully someday soon.
Sometimes I close my eyes and fantasize about what will happen when I finally go into labor one day. I imagine the nurse asking me which pregnancy this is for me. I’ll answer it’s the fourth. She’ll smile and tell me that I must be an old pro. I’ll tell her it’s my first child and make her squirm. For some reason I’ve been liking the idea of making others squirm lately. Don’t know why. I just hope that it really will be the fourth, and we won’t have to say 5th, 6th, 7th, and so on. I don’t know how much more strength I have for this.
But for right now all I can do is convince myself that Nachos for both lunch and dinner are not a healthy nutritional decision, and that staring at the second line on the OPK won’t magically make it darker.
That, at least, would be progress.

My Ironic Day

21 Jun

This post was meant to be titled “Experiments in Social Awkwardness”. But alas, per usual, things never end up quite like I expect them to.

Shmerson is away, and I started the day off with not really doing much of anything. I’ve been hella-anxious, and doing my usual self-destructive over eating (always a blast, with the guilt and the doughnuts. Though I do love those doughnuts) and general restless lethargy.

When 5pm rolled around, I headed over to Twofer’s office for an U/S. Indeed, the left follie is still going strong, and it looks like it will win the race.

But of course, Twofer had to warn me that it doesn’t mean it’ll go down the right (as in the correct, as in the left) tube. To make matters more complicated, his estimate is that little lefty will pop over the weekend, and Shmerson will only be able to come home for some good lovin’ on Wed.

Well, since his sperm was apparently born and bred on krypton, we may still have a shot. But honestly, I’m not feeling too optimistic, because even if his guys do survive the two days until my estimated pop, I’m pretty much convinced I’m going to end up with another ectopic. So far, my plea for success stories has brought two abysmal failure stories instead. So yeah, I’ve pretty much resigned myself to the fact that this is most likely a lost cause.

So I came home feeling rather bitter. Oh, and still sore over a week after that freaking HSG (seriously – is this normal? Twofer wasn’t surprised but it’s been 8 days! Give a girl a break!).

I was trying to get up the motivation to head to my yoga class, when finally, I let my bitter rise to the surface and left the house wearing my brand new badge of honor. Something I’ve been keeping around the house for over a week now, trying to find the right time to flaunt in public.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you my Miscarriage T-shirt!

yeah, it's kind of a crappy pic, but it's all I could manage on my iPhone

In case you guys can’t make out the writing, it says: I had a miscarriage and all I got was this lousy T-Shirt.

(though technically it should be “3 miscarriages”. Ahh well)

This shirt was made on cafepress and ordered on a day when I was feeling particularly Loki-ish (don’t know who loki is? google is your friend!) and bitter.

Today I decided to try it out at my yoga class, fully expecting to cause a scene, and get a really funny blog post out of it.

Well, needless to say, I was thoroughly disappointed. Maybe people don’t look at T-Shirts often. Maybe they didn’t care. Either way, I didn’t even get a sideways glance.

To my Yoga Instructor’s credit, I proudly pointed out the writing on the shirt and he laughed his ass off. But I always knew he was awesome like that.

So, I left yoga feeling a bit better, having worked off some of the doughnut (mmmm….. doughnut), and headed off to scrape myself up some dinner (I’m useless at feeding myself when shmerson is not around).

Waiting at the pizza place (yes! I’m depressed! I know! Bad me!) I ran into an old friend, and what started as a fun experiment ended up pissing me off to no end.

I got the sideways pity glance. I got the patronizing advice. I got the “oh, poor you” look.

Never mind that I was cheery and pointed out the shirt myself. Never mind that I did not show any signs of distress. I left there feeling disgusted with this person, and with myself – the latter, of course, for no good reason. Why does my frustration with my body always have to end in self-destructive behavior? You’d think I’d know better by now.

Now – the big question is  – will I wear the shirt again? And if so – perhaps to a family function? Or a Bris?

Your thoughts are welcome!

*sneaks off to eat a doughnut and self-flaggelate*

The Atheist Prays (and other musings on existential crises)

17 Jun

So I’ve been really down the last couple of days. I’m still pretty sure about our decision to count on Ole’ Lefty, but I feel like I’m already preparing myself for the next inevitable loss. I mean – my luck has been so crappy thus far – I highly doubt I’ll catch a break. The bottom line is I’m scared out of my wits.

I spent the day going back and forth in my head about this decision. Debating. Discussing. There was even an emergency call to my shrink to talk it over with her, in which as usual, she dropped some wisdom and perspective on my ass. Basically, she said I’m upset not because of the decision, but rather because neither decision is ideal. She also pointed out that on a lot of levels, what we have is good news, because my body has been deemed healthy enough for us to try again naturally. A wise woman indeed.

But all of that didn’t do much to allay my fears. I keep on googling incessantly to try to figure out what the chances are of a left side ovulation going into the right tube. And Dr. Google is failing me miserably.

I’ve written here quite a bit about my general heathenism. I have a serious issue with organized religion, and I don’t really know what I believe in. I would categorize myself as an atheist, yet today, I found myself trying to bargain with god, or fate or the universe, or something.

It was toward the end of my yoga class, where I’ve been avoiding twists due to the fact that my right side is still sore from the HSG (is that normal, BTW?).

We were sitting in a sort of meditation and I found myself speaking to the heavens:

“God, or Universe, or Fate, or whatever you are – please make this work. Please let me get pregnant through the correct tube and let this baby stick. I promise that if you do I’ll believe in you. Please prove to me that there is something out there by granting me this one humble request.”

This whole bargaining thing kind of caught me off guard. I surprised myself with this internal monologue. But Twofer’s words keep on echoing in my head: “God owes you one.” And “all you can really do at this point is pray.”

My shrink and I have been talking quite a bit about how this whole repeat miscarriage thing is a manifestation of this ongoing existential crisis that I’ve had for as long as I can remember.

At the age of 8, I realized that I was going to die, and that I didn’t believe in God, and I had my first ever panic attack right there on the spot (just like any normal 8 year old, right?).

Since then, I’ve been plagued with anxiety and a constant search for some sort of comfort or spiritual direction, with no luck. I’m a born skeptic. This may sound pompous, but I’m too smart for my own good. I out-smart myself all the time and go into fits of circular logic.

I know I’m kind of rambling here. But I do have a point – I think.

I wish I could have faith. I wish I could just plug my nose and dive in and be sure that everything will be alright, because “God owes us one.”

But instead, I’m back to Einstein. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome. Statistically, I’ve already been screwed in every way possible. there’s only a 5% chance of infection from a D&C, and I fell into that percentile. There’s like – what? a 1% chance of an ectopic? Check. About a 40% chance of a repeat ectopic? Double check. Not to mention that there’s only a 15% chance every month for a woman to get pregnant and somehow Shmerson’s super sperm have managed twice to swim up a partially blocked tube and knock me up against all odds on the first month out of the gate, not to mention his first bulls-eye which led to the Blighted Ovum.

So – the chances of Ole’ Lefty not picking up the egg from my left ovary and it swimming over to Righty instead are most likely slim. But I’m apparently a freak of nature. Statistics count for nothing.

So all I have left is prayer. And that’s kind of a crappy place to be when you’re an atheist who has been in a constant existential crisis for over two decades.

Today I sat there and begged the universe for proof of some meaning. I bargained. I hoped beyond all hope that there was something – anything – listening.

I wish I was a believer. Maybe then all of this would make sense on some level.

But for now, I’m stuck somewhere between Einstein and the Flying Spaghetti Monster, sitting in a Yoga class, begging for some faith, and making deals with someone or something that I generally don’t think actually exists.

Maybe that’s the definition of insanity.

Go Follie Go?

15 Jun

Well – this was unexpected.

We just got back from our appointment with Twofer. He looked at the film and said “Well – this is the worst case scenario”.

I was confused. “Why?”

Well – because there is no black and white in our situation. It’s a completely gray area. It turns out that my right tube is only PARTIALLY blocked, and everything else is fine. According to Twofer, if the right tube was fully blocked, then they would just remove it and we’d keep trying naturally. Because the left tube is completely clear, and we’re still young, there’s no point in IVF (we’d still be at risk for an ectopic on the left side and it’s too invasive for our situation).

Which left us with two options:

1) I go in for a surgery to block my right tube completely and then we continue to try naturally with the tube blocked, relying fully on Ole Lefty.

2) We monitor ovulation and only try on months when I’m ovulating on my left side, and cross our fingers that the egg doesn’t decide to wander into the right tube.

I pretty much knew what I wanted to do as soon as he laid down the options. But I asked him what he thought. He said that he hates invasive procedures as a rule, and the Flying Spaghetti Monster (ok – he actually said God) owes us one, so he thinks it’s better that we go for option two and pray.

I knew I wanted option two as well – sans the praying since that’s not my bag (though anyone out there who feels it is their bag is welcome to pray for me).

Here’s my logic: I despise general anesthesia (it scares the frakety frak out of me), and surgery is what brought me to this place to begin with (seeing as the pervasive theory is that the D&C is what caused the blockage to begin with).

When I hopped on the table and the U/S revealed that the dominant follicle is currently on the left side, my mind was fully made up.

Plug my nose, jump in feet first and hope for the best.

At least this time, if I get a BFP we’ll know immediately to monitor betas and make sure we’ve got a sac in the right place. If the embryo decides to jump ship to Righty and burrow in – then I’ll deal with surgery and we’ll go again.

The question is – do I have another miscarriage in me? Am I ready to take the emotional risk?

I wish I knew a complete answer to that. All I have right now is my instinct, and so far – through this whole ordeal my instinct has always been right.

And my instinct says to trust that little follie growing over Lefty, and hope he or she finds their way. I wish they made microscopic road maps. Or microscopic flashing neon signs with arrows pointing to the left tube and then the uterus.

So I’ll be back to Twofer’s on Monday to confirm that the little follie hanging out over Lefty is the one that’s gonna pop, and then we BD like there’s no tomorrow and hope for the best.

Go Follie Go!

So – what do you guys think? Am I making the right call? Anyone know of any success stories using this method? Would love to hear some feedback.

The Results Are In – Time For An Info Dump!

14 Jun

Man – I look back at my posts from the last couple of weeks and they’re heavy! I’m starting to realize just how down and out I was. It feels like such a huge weight has been lifted off of my shoulders – I can’t even begin to describe it.

Official results are in. My uterus is immaculate. Left tube is clear, Right tube is completely blocked. I emailed Twofer with the results and he replied – “well, we thought it was something like that. ”

Indeed, we did.

I have to say the one thing I’m most in awe of is that I KNEW IT. Anyone who’s been reading this blog for an extended period of time knows that I’ve had this stabbing pain in my right side for AGES, and just ignored it because stupid Dr. Blunt had said it was probably “nothing”. (So’s your package, asshole. ehem. sorry.).

AAAAANYWAY

So Wed evening we go to Twofer to figure out what’s next. And guess what? It’s time for you guys to chime in again!

A few facts to remember:

IVF here is free

So’s everything else fertility related.

Universal healthcare and Lawmaking Jews believing fully in the whole “be fruitful and multiply thing” = grateful me.

Soooo – what should I be asking for? I’ve heard there’s a procedure to block both tubes before IVF. Do you guys think that’s necessary? Anyone gone down that route? Does it make sense to attempt clearing the tube and trying again naturally? Or should I just yield to IVF?

I think my big thing right now is i can’t handle another loss. I seriously can’t. I want to go the most secure route possible, but also, if possible, the least invasive (me and general anesthesia aren’t friends).

sooo –

thoughts? suggestions? what questions should I be asking?

Fire away!

Oh – and now that the weight of an oversized elephant has been lifted off my shoulders I promise to be a bit more entertaining.

A pirate walks into a bar with a steering wheel on his penis. The bartender asks – hey, why is there a steering wheel on your penis? the pirate says “Arrrrgh! It’s driving me nuts!”

Yes dear readers, I am stooping to bad dirty jokes to entertain you. Perhaps I should quit while I’m ahead. (well, not so much ahead after that joke).

So – blocked right tube. Next steps. Fire away!

The Great Hope Debate

29 May

I’m back after an amazing weekend with Shmerson. If you want to see pics, just check my twitter feed on the right. Much fun (and beer) was had by all (well, the beer was actually had mostly by Shmerson). The three days away really gave me some space to relax. I didn’t even know how much I needed it until we got there.

Then of course, I was blown away by what I found when I got back. Mel over at Stirrup Queens (AKA the Oprah of ALI blogging), pointed out my last post as part of her friday blog roundup, and the reactions I’ve gotten have been overwhelming.

I think just writing that post helped put quite a few things in perspective for me. Your comments took it even further. From Kristin pointing out that I’m showing classic signs of depression, to AK berating me for using the term “That” to describe my last miscarriage, to Me0Me giving the astute observation that I merely have to expand my bubble, not necessarily “pop” it. And those were all just from the first few hours. Your deep and eloquent thoughts and comments really touched me and I really want to thank you all.

I think the biggest lesson I learned from that last post is if you raise a question in this little blogoverse of ours, you will receive love, understanding and support. Because most of the questions we have don’t have open and shut answers. But all of them require tools, not clear cut yes’ and no’s.

Which brings me to a skype conversation I had with Marie yesterday. It was mostly our usual fun chatter, but at one point, due to something that happened earlier in the day (I’ll spare you the TMI details), I had to bring up the upcoming HSG.

A little background: My HSG is currently scheduled for June 5th, though because my cycle is still wonky from the miscarriage I may have to push it to a bit later. I’ve been kind of obsessing about this HSG. Not so much on here. Not even in most conversations I have (both with bloggy and real life friends). But in my head – well – it takes up most of my time.

Here’s how my conversation with Marie went:

Marie: When is the HSG?

Me: No clue. That’s the problem. Scheduled for June 5th but if AF shows up after the 2nd I’m gonna have to reschedule. Currently crossing my fingers she’ll show tomorrow or the  day after. That would be perfect. Though very unlikely.

I just had something happen this morning that totally got my hopes up  that the whole problem is an infection because of the D&C. I’ll spare you the details but now I’m totally convinced it’s an infection

Marie: Yay! Wait, that’s good, right?

Me: Well here’s the deal: HSG can go 1 of three ways

1) tubes are all clear (sucky – because that means there isn’t an explanation and who knows what we’ll do next)

2) tubes are blocked with scar tissue (sucky, because even though there’s an answer I’ll either have to get surgery or get the go ahead to go straight into IVF)

3) Tubes are blocked with mucus due to an infection, and the HSG will actually clear the blockage

I’m trying to bargain with the spaghetti monster for #3.

It’ll hurt like a motherfucker, but at least I know the next time I should be all good.  So I’m trying not to get my hopes up but of course I’m gonna find every excuse to get my hopes up.

Marie: Well yeah you have to have hope

Me: No. Hope makes me pissed when I get disappointed

Marie: Would you rather just be pissed to begin with?

Me: Good question. Trying to figure that out now. Still have about a week before I have to decide. We’ll see.

Then I promptly changed the subject. This little skype chat, I think, brings up the crux of my current internal struggle. I love hope. I really do. It makes me feel giddy and awesome and helps me fall asleep at night.

But I also hate hope. Because hopes are more often than not – at least in my case – crushed. My last pregnancy came at a time when I was completely hopeful, completely optimistic, and completely at peace.

Then I spent a night in the hospital and all of it was crushed. In an instant.

It’s been about 6 weeks since my miscarriage. I’m starting to build up hope again. I hate that. I hate it because so far, each time I’ve gotten my hopes up, they’ve been smashed into little tiny pieces.

Albert Einstein once said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

So by that logic, in my case, having hope makes me insane.

So wouldn’t I be better off nihilistic and pessimistic? Wouldn’t that – in fact – be a much saner place to be in my situation?

Yet hope creeps up, because I need it. Because otherwise I don’t know if I could handle everything the universe has thrown at me.

And I hate it. Because I feel like it’s insane to have it.

On Friday night, our anniversary, Shmerson and I went out to dinner. We both made toasts in honor of our first year together.

My toast went something like this: “They say the first year of marriage is the hardest. I really hope ‘They’ are right.”

Hope. It’s a four letter word.

What do you guys think? Is it crazy to hang on to hope when you’re in such a state of limbo? Would you rather have no hope at all, and be pleasantly surprised? Eager to read your thoughts.

Anniversary Week Post 5 – I Want My Husband.

24 May

“You can only bring one person in with you.”

It’s the end of July. I have just been diagnosed with a blighted ovum. I’m at the hospital to get a D&C. Both Shmerson and my mother are there. At patient intake that is what I am told.

One person.

I look at both of them. I know they both want to come. I am scared out of my mind.

“My husband. I want my husband.”

That’s the moment I realized that I was truly married.

I mean – I think a lot of people who get married never really get MARRIED. But Shmerson and I – well, we were about three months into our marriage. And we were a family already.

This was the first of many realizations about love, marriage and family that I have had in this last year. This first year of marriage. This year of depression, anxiety, loss, and growth. When you get married, even before you have children, remember – you are already a family.

This choice – my husband over my mother. This choice proved to me that I was truly a ‘wife’ now.

I didn’t have to force myself to make that decision. It was my husband. Of course it was my husband. I didn’t even blink.

“I want my husband.”

I think that’s been the crux of our first year of marriage. We are truly a family. We have truly learned what that means.

***

It’s November 19th. We have just decided to move back to our old studio apartment in my hometown, to take things easy and regroup after our second loss in three months.

I haven’t been sleeping. I haven’t been functioning. I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night screaming.

3:30am. I’ve had another panic attack. My third or maybe fourth that day. I go to another room to watch something stupid on my computer to try to distract myself and tire myself out so I will be able to sleep. We have a lot of packing to do. The movers are coming the next day.

4am. I feel a bit calmer. I go into the shower. I don’t even know what sets off another attack. But all I see is a dark gaping hole and horror. Complete terrifying horror. I collapse in the shower, screaming. The water still running.

Shmerson, who was fast asleep in the other room, runs into the bathroom. My screams have woken him up. This isn’t the first time, either.

He turns off the water, grabs a towel, and wraps me in it. He hugs me and tells me that he loves me. That’s all he can do, really.

A month later I’ve finally come to my senses enough to understand that I can’t go on living this way. I break down and find a psychiatrist. The panic attacks finally stop, and I start this blog.

And through all of that, through all of this – there is my husband. Cheering me on. Telling me he loves me. Telling me I’m beautiful despite the extra 20 pounds that three failed pregnancies and months of anxiety and depression have added to my already plump figure. Despite the fact that I spend half of my time a total and complete mess. And I sometimes take it out on him. He tells me he loves me and that I’m beautiful.

Through all of this – he is there.

April 2oth (wow, i can’t believe it’s only been just over a month. it feels like eons) was the first time I’d ever had to spend the night in the hospital. I was scared out of my mind. I didn’t know what was going on. Shmerson didn’t leave my side for a second. And when they kicked him out of my room at 2am that night, he slept on a cot in the hallway. Just so I would know he was there.

This is the man that I have married.  A man who has been with me through the hardest year of my life. Probably of his as well. A man that still makes me laugh, that reads this blog every day and has become a huge supporter and a part of this community that I have found for myself. For both of us. A man who takes it in stride when I unceremoniously announce to him that in a year we’ll be flying to the States to attend a wedding of a woman who I’ve never met in real life, but who I love like a sister. Who celebrates with me when another announces her pregnancy after more than a year of trying. Who emails back and forth with another, talking about Whiskey and inviting her to crash on our futon. Who gets it. Who gets why I need this space and cherishes it as much as I do.

A man that bravely stood up a couple of months ago and wrote openly about our losses on facebook, because he wanted to be there to support others.

My husband.

****

When you get married, there are always little nuggets of doubt. My brother is divorced, and just leading up to our wedding, I was kind of freaking out. I talked to my brother about my fear. About loving Shmerson, but worrying that maybe that wasn’t enough.

My brother told me that we were perfect for each other, and I should calm the fuck down.

He was right.

My body and my soul have been through the ringer during this last year. I have been at the lowest points possible. The literal depths of pain, despair, and grief.

I have also grown, and learned, and tried to find meaning through all of this.

I often talk about that. About finding meaning in this insane roller coaster of a year. Trying to find a “why”.

I don’t know why. There are very few things I know. In fact, I feel like each time I’ve got things figured out, I get bitch slapped and realize that I probably know nothing.

But there’s one thing I do know: We have gotten through this. We continue to. We continue to love and support each other through this. Our first year of marriage will always be this sad pit of grief and despair.

But it will also be the year that we learned how to be a family.

The year that we learned how to compromise our plans to help each other, and still be happy within that compromise.

The year we realized that we will be amazing parents, because now we will love and appreciate a healthy baby more than we ever thought possible.

The year that we pulled each other out of the muck and mire of loss and depression.

The year that we learned just how strong we really are.

The year that we started the new tradition of high-fives and saying how much we rock when we get stuff done, or find a healthy compromise and make tough decisions.

As I wrote these last few sentences, I started crying. Shmerson had just gotten out of the shower. He sat next to me on the couch, buck naked. He put his arm around my shoulders and said:

Next year we’ll have much happier stories to tell.

I hope so. I really do. But even if we don’t, I know we’ll get through it. As a family. Because that’s what we do. Because we rock. *High Five*

Tomorrow – Shmerson insists on telling his side of the story. 

Life Lessons from How I Met Your Mother

17 May

****Spoiler Alert! if you haven’t seen the season finale of How I Met Your Mother and you don’t want to be spoiled, don’t read this. 

This little space of the blogoverse has been devoid of my true feelings for a while now. I’ve been stopping, starting, and stopping posts over and over again for the last couple of  weeks, and each time I get stuck. I can’t seem to put anything into words.

So – spurred on by – of course – my unending addiction to pop culture, I think I’m ready to break my silence on what’s been going on in my head.

But first – a quick word from our sponsors medical update. Twofer consulted with the specialists, and they decided to start with the least invasive procedure first. So, I looked at the calendar, guessed (educated guess of course) when AF will be making her appearance, and scheduled the HSG for June 5th.

Now – back to our regularly scheduled program blog post.

I’ve been going around feeling defeated. For some reason, I thought, perhaps, getting the procedure scheduled would make me feel better. But it didn’t. It made me feel worse. Because what if the HSG shows a blockage? Then I have to wait FSM knows how long to get whatever procedures scheduled and done. And what if it’s clear? Then we’re right back where we started, freaking out and hoping for the best once we start trying again.

It’s a lose-lose. And it all sucks.

Which brings me back – somehow – to last night’s How I Met Your Mother. For those of you who don’t follow the show, here’s the important stuff you need to know for the sake of this post:

The longest lasting couple in the show, Lilly and Marshall, spent the beginning of the season trying to get pregnant. They were kind of having problems, and went to a fertility specialist. Then it all got put on hold when Marshall’s father passed away. Oh, and after that Marshall became unemployed. So yeah. Lilly and Marshall had a crap-tastic year.

At the end of this episode, Marshall has seemingly blown a job interview, because he’s on the verge of getting sick from food poisoning. He gets home,  completely broken, and rants about how the last year has sucked for him.

Watching this, all I could do was smile and nod. Hell yeah. This last year has been the suckfest to end all suckfests.

In ten days, Shmerson and I will be celebrating our one year anniversary. And gearing up for what may or may not be a battery of tests and procedures, and for what may or may not be another round of trying without actually knowing what the hell is up with my body.

I can pretty much say that Shmerson and I have had possibly the suckiest first year of marriage possible.

Don’t get me wrong – I love him more today than I did on the day I married him. But we spent our two month anniversary recovering from our first loss, our 5 month anniversary recovering from our second, and we’ll be spending our one year anniversary still recovering from our third, knowing that now – whether or not we get any clear answers, we’re facing even greater challenges ahead.

You’re bang-on Marshall. This last year has sucked!

As the episode draws to a close, Marshall finishes his rant and goes to lie down, convinced that he will be spending the night puking his guts out.

He falls asleep, and wakes up the next morning, realizing that he’s made it through the night,  a huge smile on his face.

At that moment Lilly comes to him and announces that she’s pregnant.

We leave the couple at the end of the season, with Marshall’s father still gone, him still unemployed, but there’s sunlight streaming through the window and a ray of hope.

As viewers, we know these guys are going to be fine. That’s kind of a thing with HIMYM. We’re hearing this story from “Future Ted” – a man who’s all grown up, and we see flashes of “old” Lilly and Marshall, as happily married as ever, and presumably with a few kids to boot.

I think that’s both the problem and the wonderful thing about TV. There’s a structure. There’s a comfort. On one hand, it gives us hope, but on the other, it sets up unreasonable expectations.

Although I have to say – that in the case of HIMYM, the producers aren’t afraid to get dark and deep at times. It’s a sitcom, yet they take creative risks. If you’re not a viewer of the show on a regular basis, I would still recommend you watch the episode where Marshall’s father passes away. It’s beautifully handled. Masterfully. The people who make this show are truly artists. And what I love about it is that they even manage to make the cliche’ not completely cliche’.

But once again, I digress. Back to Marshall and Lilly, their crappy year, and why it made me want to blog.

This episode of HIMYM kind of hit a fast forward button. They covered a few months in the course of one episode. Kind of skated over them, explained what happened, and then moved on to the important part of the story.

That’s TV. And especially this show. They love the fast-forward button, The story is told in retrospect, so the viewers already know the outcome.

And sometimes, that’s what I wish my life was. I just want to fast forward through the part where Shmerson and I wait nervously for a diagnosis. I want to fast forward through a first trimester. I want to fast forward and get to the good parts.

I sometimes wish my life was like HIMYM. I still want to live it, but I want a narrator in my head – a “Future Me” – telling me that everything will be ok.

I guess it’s a little like what Shmerson wrote about the other day. I want to know that there’s a grand plan, and I’m not sure if there is one. I know I’m still – on a lot of levels – a victim of fate, or randomness, or whatever. I don’t have a female Ted narrating my life story, telling me that everything is ok.

And that’s what frustrates me most of all. I want one. I really do.

I keep on trying to make sense of things. See a path ahead of me. If X happens then by September we will be here. If Y happens then by this time next year….

And on and on it goes.

As I sat there watching Marshall and Lilly embrace over her pregnancy, I thought to myself that I’ll be seeing this scene again come September, when HIMYM kicks off its next season. Where will I be then? Will I watch it with a newly swelling pregnant belly? Will we be in the same place we are now? Or worse – with more losses and frustration under our belt?

In my head, I was saying “By the time I see this scene again I will be pregnant. And it will be a healthy pregnancy.”

And I guess it gave me some hope. But as I write this I know that thinking this won’t make it true. A few months ago I was convinced Shmerson and I would be celebrating our one year anniversary happily knocked up. That didn’t happen.

So I can’t say where I’ll be when I see that scene recapped in next season’s premier. I can HOPE I’ll be stroking my pregnant belly, maybe crying a tear of joy remembering this blog post. If I had a female Ted narrating my story that’s what I’d want her to say.

But I don’t have a narrator. I don’t know where we’ll be. I don’t know what the grand plan is. That’s what is so terrible about this process. I hope that one day I’ll be able to embrace not knowing and enjoy the moment. But for now – I hate it. I hate not knowing what lies ahead.

Ahh well, at least all it takes for me to put my feelings into words is one episode of a well written television show.

It’s not much, but it’s something.

Revenge of the Preggo Blogging Meme

14 May

I’ve been stopping and starting deep emotional blog posts for the last 24 hours. But I’m not there yet. Today, I’m just annoyed. This post is gonna make me look like a bitter infertile, and I don’t care, because, well, this has to be done.

There’s this blogging meme going around, a preggo questionnaire.

I have about 50 IF bloggers on my google reader, and a few of those are newly preggo IFers. They used to be eloquent, funny, emotional bloggers.

Now that they’re knocked up, they’ve decided to become smug preggos and just plain lazy.

Seriously, there are a couple of bloggers who just post this questionnaire once a week and that’s it. Blogging done! “Look at me! I’m happy and pregnant!”

No – you’re smug and obnoxious. I’m sorry. But you are. Look, I’m really happy for you. Really. But have you forgotten that your blog is read by infertiles? That that’s where you yourself started? I get it, the questionnaire is cute and all, but it just reeks of smugness. And did I mention it’s just plain lazy blogging (yeah I did. But it’s worth mentioning again)?

I’m getting to the point that from now on, if you’re a newly preggo infertile and post this thing, I will unceremoniously remove you from my reader. I don’t care if we’re blogging buddies. I don’t care if I used to comment on your every post. I will be breaking up with your blog. Go stand in the corner with the easily preggo fertiles. Cause you’re acting like one, and really, I thought you were better than that. You disappoint me.

And now, you leave me no choice but to post the meme myself. Because this is the only way I can make you feel guilty enough about it to freakin’ stop. No offense, but to paraphrase an old saying: “If you don’t have anything interesting to blog, don’t blog anything at all.”


My reader is clogged up with smug. Please make it stop. I am taking a stand! Bring on the meme!

Week 50- Weekly Update 

(why 50 you ask? That’s how long it’s been since my first BFP)

How far along: Well, it depends on which pregnancy. My first would be two months old about now. My second is due in two weeks. I’d be 8 weeks preggo with my third. So let’s just call this one a bust, shall we?
Size of baby: It’s a peanut! No! It’s a blueberry! No! It’s an orange! No! It’s a garbage can full of extra thick sanitary pads!
Maternity clothes?I wish. Then I’d have an excuse for the latest early pregnancy two pounds I gained. Now I just look a bit fatter than usual and with nothing to show for it.
Sleep?Not that much, since I’m waiting to see what instruments are going to be stuck up my uterus in the coming weeks.

Best moment of the week: The one day when I went into my google reader and didn’t see a single post with this ridiculous meme.

Movement: I’ve been told to start doing half hour walks to both relieve my anxiety and prep my body to actually hold a pregnancy to term. Does that count?

Symptoms: Well, I’ve got this recurrent stabbing pain in my right side, which is a constant reminder that there may be something wrong with my tubes. Other than that, it’s a sore throat and stuffy nose… Oh, right, sorry, those last two are symptoms of my COLD, not a pregnancy. Oh wait, I’m not pregnant! So I guess it’s all good.

Food cravings/aversions:I’ve been told to move to a low sugar diet to help ensure a baby sticks around next time. And I really want a hot chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream to comfort me while I feel endless grief and frustration. Ahh well, too bad for me!
Gender:Up until a few months ago, I would have said I wish it would be a girl. Now I don’t give a crap. Just give me a baby.
Belly button in or out:In – and will most likely remain that way for the unforeseeable future.
Stretch marks: Oh! Yeah! A bunch! But they’re mostly non-pregnancy related.
What I miss: Morning sickness. I loved living off of crackers and knowing that this meant that I had a baby growing inside of me.
How is Mommy Feeling? Bitter. Haven’t you noticed?
How is Daddy Feeling?  Depressed and nihilistic. Check out his blog post from a couple of days back.
Total weight gain? About 15 pounds during the last three pregnancies. Mostly due to numbing my feelings with carbs.

What I am looking forward to: A day when this blogging meme gets wiped off the face of the earth.

Message sent. Hopefully it will be received.

An Apology

13 May

Ok – so I’ve not been completely present in the blogoverse as of late. I’ve been going through a lot. I have a lot to say, but I haven’t been able to find the energy to say it, and on the same token, I haven’t been as active as usual with the rest of the blogoverse. I’ve been bad about reading, commenting, and even answering comments on my own freaking blog (though some of it is blogger’s fault. anybody else having issues commenting on blogger blogs?). Anyway, Shmerson is making me look bad on that one. Wasn’t his post yesterday awesome BTW? I love my hubby.

I think I’ve just been in processing mode. Trying to get used to this “new normal”. This world of HSG’s and SHG’s, looking for blockages and karyotyping and IVF being brought up by a doctor for the first time (yeah. It was brought up for the first time, and it’s kind of sinking in just now). I am officially “in the club.” It’s a lot to take in.

But before I start writing about everything we’re facing and are about to face, I need to explain something to all of you. Something that’s kind of hard for me to mention, because, well, I feel both grateful and guilty.

When it comes to my own country, I kind of live in a bubble. I don’t know many Israeli infertiles. Just by the mere fact that I blog in english – it means that most of my readers are American/Canadian/Australian/British etc.

Most of the IF bloggers I follow regularly are American. This means that their decision making process regarding their fertility is almost always in some way related to finances.

Now that I’m on my own journey of testing and looking at possible “artificial” ways of achieving pregnancy, I realize, that I am, in fact unique.

Here’s the thing: In Israel, Fertility treatments are (practically) free.

Yes. You read that right. Free. The government subsidizes everything. Including IVF. Up to two children it’s free and with the third, it costs a little bit -but also free if you have a bit of supplemental insurance.

Yes – you read right. Up to two CHILDREN. Not cycles. CHILDREN. As in – if it takes 20 IVF cycles to reach 2 kids, you will still only pay the equivalent of about 200 US dollars (mostly for meds) per IVF cycle.

At our appointment with Twofer the other day, the term IVF entered our lexicon for the first time.

As in – “if we find there’s a problem with your tubes, worst-case scenario we’ll have them blocked and start you on IVF”.

It was that casual. Because here – it is casual. We don’t need to choose between buying a car or trying for a baby. IVF is not a last resort. It’s a viable option, sometimes even preferable to many other supposedly cheaper ones. So I’m in a complete bubble. My support system (i.e. you guys) is mostly made up of people who go to IVF as an almost last resort. For me, it’s always going to be an option (unless of course we find out something is wrong with my uterus, then it’s not. But let’s hope that’s not the case and just ignore that possibility for the time being. Ok? Ok).

Let me say this: knowing what a lot of IFers go through, and the financial sacrifices they have to make, I am eternally grateful to be living here. And yes, I highly recommend all of you convert to Judaism and move in with me and Shmerson. Just in case you’re wondering.

But before I go forward, before I start getting poked and prodded and diagnosed, I have to apologize. I’m sorry that all of you can’t have the same amazing options I have. I’m sorry if when writing about our options I may, in the future, casually refer to IVF as just a next step (though let’s still hope it won’t have to come to that). I know this is something that should not be taken for granted, and I hope you don’t hate me for it.

I’ve got a lot to process and a lot to write about. We’ll hear from twofer most likely on Sunday regarding our next steps. I’m back to being a googling freak because I remembered he also mentioned a possible histeroscopy, so now I’m playing a nice game of “guess the object/liquid combination to be shoved up my uterus” until we get the verdict.  Of course, I’ll keep you all updated.

And – consider the offer we made as a standing one. Shmerson and I have a very nice futon. You’re welcome to crash on it at any time. Luna would appreciate the company.

Twofer Says…

11 May

Ok I think I’m coming down with something so I’m in bed iPhone blogging. Just wanted to thank everyone who chimed in yesterday and update you:

Twofer is sending me for karyotyping, and is consulting with a specialist tomorrow to figure out what combo of HSG/SHG/Possible lap we’ll do to get a full picture. Bottom line is more or less this:
He doesnt want to send me for unnecessary testing that is not based on my current history. His educated guess at this point is that the blighted ovum was a fluke, and that either the D&C I had caused an infection that created a blockage, or possibly endo.
What I love about him is that he is very upfront about things: basically he said that chances are the workups will show nothing and my next pregnancy will be fine ( He says this happens with about 70% of his patients in my situation), and if we do find something then we have plenty of options. I have a lot more to say about all of this but I think I’ll keep that for tomorrow when I hopefully will not be pecking a post out on my iPhone. Until then!

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