Letter to my donor

I have some unfinished business I need to settle. For the longest time, I've been putting off writing a letter to my egg donor. You see, I picked her off of an egg donation website, and never actually met her face to face. I feel a little weird about that, and want to express to her that she is so much more than a contractually obligated ovum donor. So I finally drafted a thank you note. (The term thank you note sounds so inferior for such an important letter, doesn't it?) Anyway, here it is, at least a first draft.

Dear XXXXX,

Let me start off this letter by letting you know it is a long time in the making, and I apologize for getting it to you so late. I’ve often sat daydreaming about what exactly it is I wanted to say to you, and how to say it. My name is XXXXX, and last December I was the lucky recipient of two embryos created with your eggs and my husband’s sperm. Today I am six and a half months pregnant with a baby that would not be here without your precious contribution.

When I first saw your profile last summer on XXXX, we were still at a place where my husband and I were dreaming, saving our money, and wondering if we ever would become parents. My journey to motherhood started six and a half long years before that, when I was first told that I had a problem. Strangely enough, I found out about my fertility issues when I was undergoing testing to become an egg donor for someone else (my sister). As you can imagine, those years were fraught with much emotional pain and suffering, as we tried treatment after treatment to get pregnant on our own. It took me a long time to make peace with the fact that egg donation might be the only way to our goal. Looking back now, I wonder why I let myself suffer so long. I am blessed beyond belief to be anxiously awaiting this miracle baby.

You might be wondering what it is that made me pick you. For starters, we have similar ethnic backgrounds. I am half Mexican, and the other half Danish and German. I have curly dark hair, and although it may sound silly, was hoping to find someone who might pass that trait on to my child as well.  I was thrilled when they told me you had already done this successfully before—anything to increase my chances and avoid more heartache. Beyond that, something inside of me just said “this is the one”. It’s such a surreal process, picking your egg donor, and I had to go with my gut.

I imagine it wasn’t totally easy for you, taking all the shots and making every appointment, especially since you had to travel to California. I hope you don’t think me rude for not meeting you face-to-face; it was something I struggled with deciding whether or not to do. In the end I thought it might be awkward for both of us, so I passed on the chance. We plan on being very open with our child about where they came from, so if he or she decides one day to communicate with you or meet you, I hope you would be open to that. Maybe then I could meet you too, and thank you in person.

You may think in donating your eggs that you were just doing a job, and probably glad to have it finished. But I want you to know that I never considered your role in this as that of just some paid attendant. Together, you, myself, and my husband have created a new life; and that to me is something magical, significant, and blessed by God. 

So although the words seem hardly sufficient, thank you for making this all possible. I wish you the very best in life; and trust that in treasuring your own child/children, you will know exactly what this all has meant to me. 

So, what do you all think?

What pregnancy looks like

For me, pregnancy looks pretty much what non-pregnancy looks like. Meaning a slightly flabby belly that still fits into my size 8 jeans (albeit snuggly). I'm at 21 weeks now, folks, well into my second trimester. And what do I have to show for it? A pile of hand-me down maternity clothes I fear I'll never use.  


A woman I met this weekend actually patted my belly in that adoring way women do when they find out you are pregnant. This is the first time this has happened to me. I won't say I was bothered by it (I know this can be a point of contention for some women but for me, I say finally, hallelujah!) However, it was slightly awkward because to the casual observer, it might have looked like she was just congratulating me on finishing a whole cheesecake. 


Well, there are other ways to know when a woman is pregnant, right? Like when she "glows". Now I'm not sure if I'm glowing or not, but at least I'm not green with nausea anymore. I see that as a step in the right direction. Or when she waddles. My husband accused me of starting to waddle last week but truth be told, I was just gassy and exhausted and trying to shake out a leg cramp. Also, when she wears one of these:

Now I've looked through the boxes of hand-me-downs and I can't for the life of me find one of these. Luckily my mommy friends have better taste than that. And that's probably a good thing, because I'm starting to get desperate on my morning commute ferryboat ride for an empty seat, and why can't people see that I'm 21 weeks pregnant as I lovingly rub my muffin top?!? Is chivalry completely dead? 


My sister actually suggested even though I can fit pretty comfortably into my own clothes, that I start wearing the maternity clothes anyway "for the fun of it". Now I don't know about you, but I do have my limits, and I will not resort to wearing pants with that stretchy panel thingie I'd have to stuff with onesies just so people will be nicer to me. Besides, I'd hate to suffer some kind of pre-natal wardrobe malfunction. Like what if those big pants drop to my ankles as I'm running to cross the street before the light turns red? Mortifying. And potentially dangerous to my unborn child.


So for now, I guess I'll just have to be satisfied with the fact that yes, my baby is growing normally even if I'm not (phew!). And, I will have my reward, it's just that it's not due for another 19 weeks or so. But until then, I might have to get myself one of these:

My status

Too.... nauseous.... to........  blog.*


*Disclaimer: I always said if I ever became pregnant that I would never complain about it. But I have to admit, being pregnant is harder than I thought (especially if you're approaching 41, work full-time, and commute 2.5 hours a day). I can hear all my friends who are mothers saying "I told you so."

Ohmigosh!? And also... an update.

I logged into blogger the other day for the first time in a while, and HOLY HELL I have all these new comments! Thank you, LFCA! So if any of you out there are still reading, I just want to say how grateful I am to you for reading, and for congratulating me, and for generally being awesome. Maybe it's the hormones, but I'm feeling a bit verklempt. What would I do without knowing that there exists this amazing army of women in a very similar boat as me, powering thru as proudly and earnestly as they can, at the same time giving me strength thru their struggles? Does that make any sense? If not, cut me some slack because HORMONES. 


On the pregnancy front... today marks the beginning of week 10. WEEK TEN—we're in the double digits, folks! And yet I still have moments where this hasn't quite sunken in yet. According to the experts, my babee is a little over an inch long, the size of a kumquat, and is starting to grow fingernails. At least, that's what today's ultrasound showed. 


Speaking of ultrasounds... there's nothing like seeing that little being actually moving around, heart beating strongly, making himself at home. But afterwards, when the doc prints out the picture? All I see is fuzz. I've had 4 of them now, and each one is like a new rorshach test waiting to be decoded. I show my sister and mother the pics, and they kinda scratch their heads, nod, and politely offer a little "Ahhh...Mmm-hmm". A definite "you had to be there" moment.  


Case in point: Ultrasound #2. It sorta looks baby-ish, if you squint and rotate your head 10 degrees. But when I go back and look at it, I'm just reminded of a certain 80s video game. 

I'm thinking I shouldn't have played so much Attari in my youth. 

I don't know how to write this post.

Trying to get pregnant for six and a half years can really take its toll on a woman's life. There was a time once when I felt nothing but hope and possibility with every new doctor, treatment, or supplement I tried. But time and repeated failure have a way of hardening you, of making you immune to faith and belief.  


Which is why, even after 2 successful betas and 2 subsequent ultrasounds, I'm still having a hard time believing that I am pregnant.


I am pregnant. 


I AM PREGNANT!!

Maybe a female anatomy lesson is in order?

The nurse at my R.E.'s office is a moron. (Her Kate Gosselin reverse mullet should have clued me in, but I try not to judge people based on their hairdos). Anyway, correction: I do NOT have 48 embryos. What she meant to say was that my donor gave up 48 mature FOLLICLES. 


You'd think maybe a nurse at a fertility clinic would know the difference... MAYBE??


Anyhow, I'm not gonna hate on her for that because even still, we now have 30 EMBRYOS. According to my new calculations that works out to a thousand bucks per embryo. Still a bargain, right?


Transfer most likely to happen Tuesday. This weekend I plan to do as little as possible; lounge around a lot in sweats, take the dog for his last major run with his momma, get a bikini wax in preparation for the big show, and think peaceful, fertile, zen-like thoughts. 

Like a hen on speed

So Tuesday I get a call from my R.E.'s office. My donor is in town for her retrieval and they just wanted to call to tell me that, ya know, after her ultrasound they counted 82 eggs. 


Eighty-Two. EGGS. 


Kinda leaves my sorry-ass, 5-egg-bearing ovaries in the dust.


After I picked my jaw off the floor and administered the smelling salts, my doctor informed me that it's OK, it's not all that unusual (huh?), she's doing fine, and that we should get a good 20 or so mature, usable eggies out of this batch. 


Well, today was the retrieval and fertilization and.... are you ready for this? We have, ya know, 48 embryos. 


Forty-Eight. EMBRYOS.


Not surprisingly, since I got off the phone with this latest news flash my head's been spinning. It really hits home now, I will be pregnant from this cycle. I mean, even if, God forbid, this transfer doesn't take, we'd have like, 20 more chances. I'm liking my odds.


(On a side note... I'm suddenly feeling like I got my money's worth. I mean, at $30,000 a cycle that works out to about $625 per embryo. Whata bargain!)


But seriously, aside from feeling relieved, I'm just so grateful right now. Grateful to my donor, grateful to my doctor, grateful to God almighty.


We haven't crossed the finish line yet, but it sure feels a hell of a lot closer.

Big Screw Up

I've never been that great at managing my calendar. Usually when I make a new commitment, it goes something like this: I have a mini-moment of excitement over it, vow to lock it in my memory (because, you know, it's so important that I couldn't possibly forget about it so why bother writing it down), and then resume whatever activity I was already doing. The problem is I have supremely crappy short-term memory. So things inevitably get forgotten. Like ICLW.


So I forgot that ICLW fell during Thanksgiving week. And I forgot that we were taking the week off to drive to Washington to be with relatives. And I forgot that I don't have a laptop. (Actually, that last point I didn't so much forget as just fail to acknowledge.)


What I'm trying to say is this: I screwed up. If I didn't leave you a comment during ICLW it's because I didn't leave anyone a comment, and I didn't leave anyone a comment because I didn't read any blogs, and I didn't read any blogs because I was stuffing turkey and playing Scattergories. Bottom line: My bad, and I apologize. If you still left my sorry-ass a comment, then thank you; you're a better woman than I. Now if you'll excuse me I've got a ton of catching up to do.

Sorry and yes, I'm still alive.

Seven months is an awful long time to let a blog collect dust. I literally had to claw my way thru the muck to find it, buried deep beneath a huge pile of illegible 1s and 0s. I started this thing 2 years ago with the best intentions, but like many things in my life, it eventually got neglected. Sometimes it's the same way with TTC. I'll go months where I'm all about the healthy living, acupuncture, and prenatal vitamins. Then I'll get so discouraged and just say to-hell-with-it-all and break open the nearest bottle of tequila. Such has been my margarita-marinated summer.


But it hasn't been all parties and rock salt. You see, our goal for the past several months has been to raise money for the Last Bastion of ART: the donor egg cycle. This alone has taken much discipline, patience, and heartache, considering we needed to save $30,000. Let me repeat that figure for those of you out there cuddling your free babies: thirty-thousand dollars. Our child isn't even a zygote in a petrie dish yet and we've already spent his first year's college tuition.


But please don't let me get all caught up in my pitty-party, because we all know that is a slippery slope and I'm wearing banana peels for shoes. **INSERT DEEP CLEANSING BREATH HERE**.


Instead, I'd like to elaborate on how exciting this process is for me. For the first time in 6 years, I feel like getting pregnant is actually a true possibility, instead of just a far-off pipe dream. My donor is picked. I'm on birth control pills, and our cycles are coordinating across state lines. My RE actually asked me which hospital I'd like to deliver in. As in a baby. She says I've got to start thinking about these things because SOON I WILL BE PREGNANT.


It's time to dust off the ole optimism and leave the neglect for the tequila shooters.

I got nuthin'

So, obviously I haven't written anything here for quite a while. And it hasn't been because I don't want to. Or I forgot about it. It's just this plain, simple fact: I've been digging deep to unearth any recent fertility musings and guess what? I got nuthin'.


Rather than bore you with the other mundane facts of my life, I've stayed mum. But I've still been lurking here and there. And I'm glad to report that most of you aren't as boring as I am.


I guess if you put a gun to my head and said "spill it, Wannabemommy!!" I'd have to tell you about the book I just finished, Making Babies. Most people might think I'm into porn from the sound of the tawdry title, but I know you guys get me. This one was co-written by an acupuncturist and renowned reproductive endocrinologist. Even though I can appreciate the balanced point of view, I was pretty sure there wasn't anything new for this ole veteran to learn. Well, I was wrong. Take for instance their advice to douche before luv-making. (Good God, I said douche.) Seems that some women harbor a slightly acidic environment in their lady-parts, and douching with an alkaline solution of baking soda and water might be enough to shift them over to the baby-friendly side. Stranger things have happened. 


All this got me thinking about my own pH balance. I've read before how some doctors believe that over-acidity is at the root of all disease, and that if we can just achieve optimal pH balance, we'd be completely healthy (and fertile?). So last night I ran to the store and bought some litmus paper. Since then, I've turned my body into a living science experiment, constantly spitting and peeing on the stuff. (I guess I never got enough of 8th grade biology class). The verdict? My own pH level runs anywhere from a horrid 5.5 to a healthy 7.5, depending on the breeze, I guess. Once, I got creative and actually peed and spit on the stuff at the exact same time. The two results were about a point apart. I'm either completely mad or on the verge of a major scientific breakthrough.


So that's my boring, slightly insane life lately. Bet you're sorry you put that gun to my head, aren't ya?

Day One Curse Strikes Again... or does it?

First off, let me just apologize for my long absence from the blog scene lately. I can blame it on the holidays, right? Those pesky holidays, taking me away from what I should really be doing: bitching over the internet to my imaginary friends. 


Speaking of the holidays, mine were great, thank you very much. Christmas is all about children, right? So instead of staying home, staring at my tree and wishing my dog was a baby that I could dress up and plop on Santa's lap, the hubby, my mom, and I travelled to a far off land to spend with a real, live kid: my 5-year old nephew in Texas. (It was just a lucky coincidence that this also involved visiting my sis and bro-in-law). We had a blast watching the Nutcracker, tearing open presents, decorating a gingerbread house... and then dropping a gingerbread house ass-end up on the living room rug. I guess booze + loud Christmas carols + dancing around stoopidly while carrying said gingerbread house to the fridge = minor yuletide disaster. Mental note taken and filed away for next year. 


New Year's Eve was equally memorable. We spent it frolicking in the snow at our friend's home in Lake Tahoe, one of my favorite places on earth. So what if 2 of the 3 women staying with us were pregnant, more champagne for me, right? I'm still patting myself on the back for surviving the pre-natal yoga class we all went to on new years day. Maybe I was still drunk, because I actually—are you ready for this?—enjoyed it. I feel like I've turned a corner, folks. I'm actually happy to be around pregnant women. Not like I'm some weirdo stalker who follows them around on the street or anything. It's just that, if I actually want to be one someday, maybe I shouldn't avoid them like the plague, ya know? I recently finished reading Pulling Down the Moon, and it's all natural-yoga-acupuncture-meditate-your-way-to-pregnancy type stuff, which I'm really down with, don't get me wrong. It's just hard sometimes to walk the walk and not just talk the talk. So one of my new years resolutions is to just let it go.... the jealousy, the heartache, the need to control. And to just BE HAPPY. That's what my grandma Caroline always said, BE HAPPY. Of course, she gave birth to 13 babies. Go figure...     


Anywho.... I wanted to tell you all it's cycle day 1, and you know what that means... some random friend is sure to pop out of the woodwork and announce her pregnancy. (I really do have special powers in this category as evidenced here and here.) I honestly thought there were no girlfriends left. Then I had to go and email an old work colleague. I know, I asked for it, and lo and behold she's five months preggars. But you know what? I wasn't even sad. Ok, I felt about a nanosecond's worth of a jealous twinge, but then... just happy. Happy because another beautiful, innocent baby is soon to enter the world. Happy because my friend is excited beyond belief about the imminent miracle to enter her life. Happy that it is happening to someone, somewhere. Happy that these pregnant women seem to be circling around me; slowly closing in until the baby dust finally settles my way.


And happy that, for once, I just might have a new year's resolution worth keeping.

Does this hospital gown make my ovaries look fat?

Last Friday I had a laparoscopy.


Laparoscopy is a surgery where they insert a camera ("laparoscope") through your bellybutton, along with various other implements through additional small points in your abdomen, in order to definitively diagnose and remove endometriosis. Now going into this surgery, I didn't naively expect it to be a magic panacea for my overall lack of fertility. Well, not totally. Sort of. 


Ok, maybe just a little. 


But can you blame me? As a veteran sub-fertile and part-time problem solver, I'm always on the look out for the Next Big Thing: a legitimate plan of action in a positive direction to finally turn this thing around. And when my doctor suddenly suspected endometriosis a month and a half ago, something (bingo!) went off in my head. It was a disease. With a NAME. And a KNOWN TREATMENT. Maybe this infertility stuff wasn't so hard to lick after all.


Even so, it actually took me a while to latch onto the endometriosis label. I still can't believe I actually possess it ("I have endometriosis" sounds so weird coming from my mouth). I've never met the standard criteria of having heavy periods and unbearable cramping. I've always thought I'd had quite mild periods, actually, and wrote the disease off years ago in my early inferti-education. I kinda half-expected to come out of the anesthesia to my doctor apologizing for having wasted my time. Nevertheless, there I was in my matching hair net and hospital gown, ready and willing to go under the knife to explore this new finding—and hopefully rid it from my body.


For the next 2 hours the surgeons did their best to remove all the offensive tissue. Turns out I do in fact have endometriosis, and not a mild case either. My doctor labeled it "moderate" and told me she found evidence of it on pretty much every available surface in my gut. End of story, right? Umm... no.


She sent me home with some saltine crackers and a handful of digital pictures. "Whaaa, what is thiiis?" I thought as we weaved our way home, me dreamily swaying in and out of awareness from the passenger's seat of our car. After fully coming to, my husband explained that the doctor said I have fatty ovaries. 


Let me repeat: Fat. On my ovaries. I guess you could say I'd never been so insulted in all my life.


Now fatty ovaries was something that NEVER came up in my google studies. PCOS, yes. Blocked fallopian tubes, yes. But fat ovaries? Is this a joke? Please tell me there is someone out there that makes a slim-fast for my reproductive organs!!


After spending the weekend in pain, confusion, and a little embarrassment, I called my doctor first thing Monday to get some clarification. Turns out the fat isn't so much ON my ovaries as IS my ovaries. It seems that as the ovaries age, the active ovarian tissue actually turns into fat and becomes non-responsive. Just like our thighs. 


Beings as I'm only 39, she was quite surprised to see my ovaries in such a state. Usually women much closer to menopause present with ovaries like these. Guess I'm an early bloomer.


Looks like the only thing for me and the ovaries to do is go on a diet. Just what do you feed overweight ovums? Eggbeaters?

Warning: Cranky, Bitchy Post Ahead

Today is cycle day 1. Now for me right now, CD1 carries with it no hopeful RE appointments, no new fertility drugs, and no ultasound viewings. CD1 is just what it is: a day full of cramps and crankiness and not-pregnantness and tampon-changing. Sorry to be graphic, but, well, it's CD1 and let's just be frank and not sugar coat this day with silly little acronyms. I'm on my period, y'all, and it sounds about as good as it feels.


This is my first full period after a failed IVF cycle. And while I shouldn't be so surprised it's here, I kinda am, because I naively trusted my acupuncturist when she told me "it's not uncommon for women to conceive the month after a failed cycle". Hear that laughing? It's the universe. Apparently I'm once again the butt of their sick joke.


But I had my reasons to be hopeful. Such as a perfect, positive OPK right on CD 13 like textbook clockwork. I even had what I *thought* was implantation spotting on CD 18 and 19.


Then, on day 26, I'm awakened at 5:15 to find my little monthly surprise. WTF? Does tampax get a cut of the profits everytime this happens?


But that was just the beginning. Oh, it gets worse.


There's this strange natural phenomenon that follows me around like a dark cloud whenever my progesterone levels drop. It's as if people feel a strong magnetism toward me and decide it's the perfect day to tell me that they're pregnant. At least this latest friend had the courtesy to tell me in private over email. I'm thankful for that small favor. Of course, my email back to her was all CONGRATULATIONS!! And that's soooo GREAT!! What else am I to do? Tell her it's not fair and that baby should be mine??


The piéce de résistance came when Preggo's husband sent out ultrasound pictures to all his guy friends. My hubby's heart sank, and with it mine too. Often I feel so responsible for his sadness. This is my physical affliction, after all. Sometimes I wonder how I'd feel if our IF was due to male factors. 


Anyway, whatever. I have no useful insights or lofty bits of wisdom to dole out right now. I think I'll just go change my tampon.

"Mom" is another word for Love

Life has been so crazy for me lately, I haven't paid much attention to the poor little blog. And now, woah... ICLW is here. Now I know you all aren't exactly waiting around with baited breath to read what WannabeMommy has to say, but it is about time I wrote something for the 1.5 people out there who might care. 

So this post may take a bit of a departure from the same old fertility blah-blah-blah. This post is about my mom. She has been suffering from a condition called atrial flutter/fibrilation, where her heart suddently and out of the blue races at more than double the normal rate, for the better part of a year. Her home is about one and a half hours away from mine, and I'm pretty much the only close family member she has around the area. I worry about her a lot, as she is 72 now and dealing with this worsening heart condition. In the last 3 weeks alone she has visited the ER 3 times. And on top of that she takes care of my severely disabled brother. He can't walk, talk, go to the bathroom, or eat on his own. My mom takes care of every basic human need for him. Or at least she did until last week.


Last Thursday, I was sitting at my desk in my office doing the usual (probably reading blogs) when I got a very distressing call from my mom. In a weak and warbly voice, she told me her heart was racing uncontrollably; that she thought this one was "it" and she "wasn't going to make it". I of course panicked; my mom isn't one to be overly dramatic so I took the call very seriously. But unfortunately, there isn't much you can do when you're an hour and a half away.


She managed to call 911 and have the ambulance rush her to the hospital. Frantically, I bolted to her side as fast as I could, and met her in the ER. She was very glad and relieved  to see me, but I could tell this time was serious. She held my hand and told me that she remembered the day I was born, that she was indeed there when it happened. I stared into her eyes and noticed there was something different about them; a peacefulness amid the chaos. It scared the shit out of me, but I tried desperately not to show it. Three hours later, she was moved to a different hospital and whisked into surgery—a procedure called catheter ablation. Thankfully, it was deemed a success, and mom is now living at my house, recuperating until we figure out what's next. 


Meanwhile, with my mom's frail health, it finally became apparent that she could no longer care for my brother. He is now living in a care home with 13 other disabled people and a full staff. I worry about him a lot now, too. Is he scared? Is he eating? Will he be happy there? These are all questions I slowly tried to answer for myself as I traded visits between his new home and my mother's hospital room. I think they are both taking it one day at a time.


Needless to say, this craziness has left me little time to obsess about my fertility, and maybe that's the silver lining here. I can't imagine getting pregnant without having my mom around to share in the joy, the planning, the shopping, the excitement, and the worry. It has crossed my mind a few times that maybe my IVF failed for a higher reason; maybe right now it's time to focus on Mom. So that's what I'm going to do. 


That, and maybe a little frenetic, obscure blogging on the side.

Follow-Up

Today we had our follow-up appointment with the R.E. Terrified I'd crumble into a blubbering mess, I was actually quite proud of myself when I only required one tissue.


Luckily, the meeting didn't turn into a finger-pointing melee like it had with the first IVF ("Well... YOU have diminished ovarian reserve so it's really all YOUR fault".. or at least that's how my little mind remembers it). My R.E. calmly explained that the latest revelation of the endometriosis is most likely affecting my egg quality, if not also my fallopian tubes. We will know more, of course, after my laparoscopy. I told her that I'd basically do the surgery tomorrow if we could. I want answers, damn it, the sooner the better.


She said that with women with endo, their highest chances of getting pregnant occur 1 - 6 months after a lap. With that in mind, she said we should decide SOON how we want to proceed. (Meaning... if we want to jump right back into another cycle). I'd rather remove my toenails one-by-one with a pair of rusty pliers.


I just don't get how some women do it... cycle continuously for months at a time. Any of you girls out there do this? I just don't have the stomach for it. I need time to lick my wounds and pick up the pieces.


While we're asking questions... anybody out there undergo a lap? How'd it go? What did you find? And of course... anybody get knocked up after it??


Oh... before I forget. Much love and thanks goes out to fellow SF-bay area girl Melissa from "Banking on It" for my Kreativ Blogger award. Behold: 

 

It was so sweet of her to think of me, and I of course could really use the boost. So, here's the rules that accompany this esteemed honor:

1-Thank the person who nominated you for this award.
2-Copy the logo and place it on your blog.
3-Link to the person who nominated you for this award.
4-Name 7 things about yourself that people may not know.
5-Nominate 7 Kreativ Bloggers.
6-Post links to the 7 blogs you nominate.
7-Leave a comment on each of the blogs letting them know they’ve been nominated.


Here's my 7 things you don't yet (but are about to) know about me:


1. I used to think that when I grew up, I'd be a nun. 

2. I've been addicted to Chap Stick since the first grade.

3. My favorite color is red.

4. One of my most unforgettable moments in life is when I sang at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland and helped my band win first place in the 'Battle of the Corporate Bands'. I've definitely lived out my rock n roll fantasy!!

5. I met my husband and love of my life on match.com.

6. As a kid, I used to hole myself up in my room for hours at a time, just drawing and drawing until my hand hurt. Guess I always knew I'd end up doing something creative for a living.


7. I'm a huge animal lover and just can't get enough of snuggling up with my hairless mutt, Grady. I vow never to live without a pet ever again!

So to pay it forward, I'd like to pass on this award to A Woman My Age, Eclectic Effervescence, My Mind's Ink, This n' That From the Mountain, Womb for Improvement, Conceiving Insanity, and Circus Children. Enjoy!

Grieving

When I got my news, I couldn't wait to get off the phone with that goddamn nurse and cry my eyes out. She blabbed on for what seemed to be hours as my face slowly turned red and my eyes welled up. The second thing I did, after bawling like a child, was call my husband. His initial reaction was to yell "FUCK!!!!" as loud as I've ever heard him say it. 


I drag through the next day like some kind of zombie on downers. That evening, I race home as fast as I can to commence another session of unabashed wailing. My husband gets home and proceeds to slam every door, yell at the dog, and otherwise just act very pissed off. 


We grieve very differently. We are a sad, mad, sorry mess-of-a-couple.

BFN

All I can is that I'm totally deflated and heartbroken right now. I feel like I can't even trust my own intuitions anymore. What's left when you don't have that?


Oh yah, and now the doc says I have endometriosis.

All good things come in threes.

On Tuesday I had 3 lively, perfect little embryos deposited into my uterus. I picture them there now, bouncing off of each other, their cells multiplying like crazy, deciding exactly where the perfect spot in my womb is to nestle in for a nice 9-month long stay. 


So of course, these last few days (weeks?) I've been a little preoccupied. The hardest part of this process, by far, is learning how to stay present—how not to fall down That Black Hole of worry located in my mind. That Black Hole was bad before, but now it's like a super-charged magnetic vortex. If I even so much as glance toward it, it takes that as an open invitation to grab me by the shirt collar and drag me down into it's dark, bottomless core.


I've done everything imaginable to elude That Black Hole: meditate, sing, pray, go to church, lay in the grass and stare at the sky, snuggle my dog, listen to classical music, watch funny movies, go to the acupuncturist, walk in nature. I'm running out of ideas. Normally, I'd just drink massive amounts of red wine. My R.E. doesn't think that's the wisest of choices right now.


My husband and I diffuse the seriousness of the situation by coming up with silly names for the 3 embies. He likes Larry, Curly, and Mo or The Three Musketeers. I just call them "Em", "Bree", and "Yo". (We're wildly creative, aren't we?) I've put their picture in a little frame beside my bed, and the other night, I fell asleep gazing at the photo perched atop my chest. That night, oddly enough, I had 3 dreams:


*** Cue the harp music ***


In the first dream, I was wading in a river. I looked up river, and saw Bette Midler standing in the water singing God is Watching Us. ("God is waaatching uuuuus..... God is waaaatching uuuus.... God is watching uuuus... from a distaaaaance"). Suddenly, a huge tidal wave flowed downstream and engulfed Bette. All I could see is a big tuft of blonde curls consumed in the gush. I, luckily, managed to grab onto a tree. Out of nowhere a big hand reached over and helped me to safety.

In the second dream, I was camping with my husband and some unknown ex-girlfriend of his. The 3 of us stayed together in a cabin with one bed. Next thing I know, my husband is naked in bed with the ex-girlfriend, as I sit at the end of the bed watching my husband initiate his affair. I'm understandably devastated, and the two of them carry on as though I'm not even there.

In the third dream, I'm sitting quietly. A voice (God?) tells me not to worry, that I'm already pregnant, and that the 2 additional embryos are just there "to make sure". Suddenly, I'm sitting there cuddling a newborn baby girl.


What does it all mean? Well, I'll tell you what I think. I've always thought that Bette Midler song was a little ridiculous. I mean, I believe that God is RIGHT HERE, that there is no "distance", as symbolized by the hand right beside me that saved my life. And he isn't necessarily "watching us". He's in our hearts, he's all around us; we just don't always realize it because it's covered by all the bullshit and worry our minds conjure up (like the irrational fear that my husband would cheat on me). 


And the third dream? Well, no crazy symbolism there. I just choose to believe it's gonna come true.

Ironic

I have a new lyric for Alanis Morissette and her song "Ironic", and it goes like this:


It's like takin' BCPeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees, when you're tryin' to get pregnant....


It's like feelin' nauseoooooouuuuuuuuus, when you know that you're not.


(Okay, sorry for that. I just had to get it out of my system because that stupid song has been running through my head all morning. And homegirl Alanis.... she don't know nuthin' 'bout "ironic" unless she's been through an IVF herself. In which case I do apologize, Alanis).


Anyway...


I am officially into my second IVF cycle. And yes, taking birth control pills. They make me sick. Is this why they make you take them? To prepare you for what morning sickness will be like?


Funny thing is, I, like about 90% of all women out there, have been on these pills before. And I don't remember ever once feeling nauseous on them back when I was actually taking them for their intended purpose. Maybe because I was so busy enjoying all that free-wheeling casual sex, unencumbered by worries of accidental pregnancies. 


Yah... that wasn't quite it.


I guess this is nothing, really. I mean, BCPs are only a gateway drug to the Luprons and Repronexes and Follistims of the world. Am I ready for all that?


Well, break out the alcohol pads and unbuckle my pants, because the answer is a Big Fat POSITIVE!!


How ironic is that??

Appearances

Some of you who have been to my blog before will notice my new banner graphic and layout. Why did I change it? Because for whatever reason, I believe in appearances. Not in a superficial, overly-cosmetic kind of way, but in a putting-my-best-foot-forward kind of way. Sort of like a visual form of positive thinking. Couple that with the fact that I actually design stuff for a living, and I guess you could say it was just time.

Fact is, the designer in me couldn't wait to get my hands on this boring template. Yet I struggled with the idea of using a photo of myself. Even a blurry one. Now I know that many of you other sub-fertiles out there openly label yourselves by name. And I applaud you for it. It's not that I think I have something to be ashamed of. But for the past four years, I have been living something of a double life. Happily child-free on the outside, desperately infertile on the inside.

It started when I took this job. In my mind I thought I'd be here maybe 6 months—max—then out the door on maternity leave. (Pause here for laughter.)

Naturally, I didn't want anyone at my new job to know of my intentions, should they think of me as anything less than a serious professional. It also didn't help that my office is kind of ... impersonal. I didn't really "connect" with anyone here the way I had at my old job. I wasn't comfortable confiding that sort of personal information. (Incidently, just about everyone at my old office knew about my TTC.) When my secret plan didn't quite hatch, well, I just figured I needed more time. And more time is what I got. And more, and more, and more ....

... Till I found myself here. Passing myself off as an "I'm-above-all-that-mommy-mumbo-jumbo", "childless-by-choice" happily married woman. See how deceiving appearances can be?

In my defense, I had to do it. When you're knocking on 40's door without any kids tugging at your coat, people start to ask questions. I always just brush them off with indifferent responses like "Oh, I'm in no rush"... or, "I love being an aunt". I figured that would shut them up and leave me to do my job without any fear of being stepped over for promotions or key assignments. And it worked. I was promoted last quarter.

Anyway, I'm starting to veer off course here. (I blame it on the meds). So in conclusion I'd just like to say: hope you enjoy my new layout. But please don't forward it to my boss!