Looks can be deceiving

I've spent a good amount of kitchen time today letting my mind wander . . . and search . . . as I try to remember, "What the heck was I feeling last year on Thanksgiving?"

I clearly remember both Halloween (transfer day for IVF #3) and Christmas (not long after my D&C). But Thanksgiving? Not so much.

I know I was thankful to be pregnant. So, so thankful. And, as evidenced here, pretty thankful to still be married. Skimming old blog entries helped me zero in on Thanksgiving Day 2008 and recall a few details:

We were alone for it, just like this year; an exhausted DH had flown back from a business trip the night before, just like this year; I started the turkey later than planned and forgot to thaw the dinner rolls, just like this year; and, despite worries about early pregnancy biz that was testing "normal" but didn't feel that way to me, I was filled with hope that we would, finally, add a child to our family before the next holiday season rolled around. Just like every prior Thanksgiving since 2003. But absolutely nothing like this year.

Funny that I spent most of today thinking I needed to put my finger on what I felt then, when what I really needed was to put my finger on what I feel now.

This probably doesn't look like a musing on thankfulness.

Well, why not!

Why did I chuckle (and leave it at that) when my hairstylist playfully smacked me on the shoulder and said "You're so lucky you don't have kids. You really are!"?

Why did I decide to pursue a professional writing project on the topic of IVF?

Why has Celine Dion already announced a pregnancy not due to culminate until next May?*






*And, btw, is her p-stick even dry yet?

Ouch

Like my webby screen shot?

I just changed the age in my sidebar to reflect the reality ushered in 2 weeks ago today.

In the biggest picture, I am fine with owning and acknowledging my real age. But in certain picture-in-picture moments, I am somewhat less than fine with what I know to be true.

19 Things

It's June 14, an anniversary for DH and me: 19 years ago today, we had our first official date. (Saw Eraserhead at the art-house theater. Debated its meaning over drinks, tortilla chips, and fiery-hot salsa that really was too hot to take. And so on. For those familiar with the flick, I ask you: Should I make anything out of the fact that the movie we credit with starting our relationship begins with a creepy sperm-like creature and features a mutant baby?)

That date was on a Thursday. By Saturday — after we'd both spent Friday scrambling to tie up any loose ends that might interfere with us spending every spare second together for the rest of "who knew?" — we were ON with no looking back.

To honor our shared journey, I thought I'd do one of those sweet tribute posts listing good stuff about my DH. I'll keep the items topical to the blog's theme.

19 Things I Love About My Husband That Led to My Wanting to Start a Family with Him, Helped Me Cope with IF, and/or Served as the "Positives" I Focused On This Past Year to Keep Me from Killing Him (or Worse)

1. He has never said an unkind thing to me or tried to humiliate or "stick it to me." Not in public and not in private. Not ever.
2. I can still see the total devotion on his face as he held a newborn niece for the first time and cured her hiccups by draping her over his arm (tummy first, her head supported with his hand and chest) and tapping out a simulated heartbeat on her back to help slow her breathing. He just made that up on the fly. The baby's mother, grandmother, and aunt-to-be (me) all swooned, and we still talk about it behind his back 15 years later.
3. His smarts and dry wit make me happy.
   
4. At family gatherings, he'll patiently play/talk with the nieces and nephews for hours on end.
   
5. He was my "nurse" through two lengthy recovery periods after major surgery, and each time — despite knowing him as well as I do — I was blown away by the amazing level of care he provided.
   
6. He makes great waffles, pancakes, French toast, biscuits, and pizza dough.
   
7. I never have to wonder whether he's telling me the truth.
   
8. When it was time to do his fertility testing, he acted like a grownup — not a baby.
9. He was often pretty quiet at the clinic but came alive during strategy/statistic/scientific discussions with the REs.
10. He's able to laugh about such things as bad sperm and bad clinic porn.
11. Once while he unpacked from a business trip, my heart soared upon seeing a baggie full of Mu.cinex and a few pairs of brand-new, moisture-wicking, "crucial area"–cooling underwear. He'd done all that on his own.
    
12. Although thoroughly skeptical about potential benefits, he completely backed and encouraged my use of acupuncture, supplementation, diet changes, and meditation during treatment cycles.
13. For 2 years prior to starting IVF, he traveled a lot — but he always made it his business to make it home for the ol' fertile window. (Such that it was.)
    
14. He would have been content to not pursue fertility treatments at all. But he supported every last minute of my need to push on. He made my need, his need.
15. Each time I was pregnant, he immediately jumped into "What can I do for you?" mode.
16. The dog has a giant, obvious crush on him (and vice versa). It's very cute.
    
17. He gamely takes on the list of items to fix and problems to solve that my parents/his parents present to him each time we visit.
18. He lives to try to make me do a spit take.
    
19. A longer anecdote from the day I knew that I would always choose being with DH over the alternative: One Saturday about a year and a half into our relationship, I felt crazy-desperate for some alone time. I decided to go bra shopping. Solo. Then-boyfriend DH thought he'd tag along, but I said no for the first time in our history. This was fine with him, of course, and he set out walking to his downtown office to occupy himself till I was done. About 19 minutes later, I passed him in the car and gave him a beep. He waved, looking cheerful; I felt good that he felt good instead of left out. Soon I was parked, in the store, and standing blissfully alone in Lingerie, thinking beyond bras to perhaps socks, makeup, and even calling a friend for coffee. As I zeroed in to touch — and I do not exaggerate — my very FIRST bra of interest, I felt a familiar hand on my back. My heart actually sank for a split second. Guess who???!!!??? Why, it was my beloved. The one I'd tried to ditch. The man I would joyfully marry down the road. He grinned, hit me with his full-of-adoration brown eyes and said, "Surprise! I saw you drive by and figured I'd pop in for a quick hi. Are you enjoying your time alone?" With that I realized just how glad I was to see him . . . even when I didn't want to see him. Being with him felt right, as it always had and always would.

A funny thing happened on the way to wherever I'm going

The pooch and I strolled past a neighborhood playground today, and a woman with a distinctive look caught my eye. Once I focused and processed, I quickly picked out her husband and son from the sunny-afternoon crowd.

I don't personally know this family — not once in 5 years have I seen them around the 'hood — but they'd made a lasting impression when I encountered them last March in the clinic's lobby. For 40 minutes one day (I was there to discuss starting IVF #2) I listened to the cute rocker-chick woman dissect her stims progress for her hat-and-shades-indoors-wearing, Black.berry-fixated hubby, who sat next to their adorable hat-indoors-wearing, Game.boy-fixated son. She had just 3 follicles developing, 1 way ahead of the others, and they were there to discuss canceling the cycle.

I kept on walking at first, thinking just "Huh. Small world." But then something compelled me to stop and turn around for another peek. (This was an excellent time to have a happy-to-sniff-every-inch-of-the-ground dog along.)

Can you guess what I wanted to know?

In that first moment of reconnaissance, the woman's hands were stuffed into her hoodie's kangaroo pockets, making it difficult to immediately tell whether she was pregnant. The next moment she was applauding her son's jungle-gym prowess, and the answer appeared to be "Not visibly so." I felt disappointed for her and sent a couple of stranger vibes — "Good luck with any future cycles! Or whatever you've got going on!" — across the park.

Well, then I saw the woman's ears perk up. She swiftly marched to the sidelines of the playground . . . toward what the slo-mo scene maker in my head eventually identified as a double stroller. For some reason the real-live babies option hadn't even occurred to me! I spied just long enough to see the mommy scoop up one fussy baby and stroke the second as her men rushed over to help with the cooing.

I was startled, and yes, it gave me quite the where's-mine pang. (This was an excellent time to be wearing sunglasses.) But as I turned away and steered us toward the wide-open beach — my furry kid's playground — I took a deep, cleansing breath and broke a slightly teary, but deep-down genuine, smile.

It felt good to see that "The Big It" had worked for somebody who's using my neighborhood park, walking my neighborhood streets, driving my routes to wherever she needs to go, standing in my check-out lines, living her life where I live mine. And in my world, that . . . has got to be that.

Nutshell goings-on

Hanging on, and in. Still flinging, but not as much. Feeling sad, mad, and nowhere near the glad.

Trying to make sense of everything that came before and everything still to come. Knowing what has come but not fully "getting" how we got here. Questioning. Answering. Surrendering. Accepting.

Reminding myself what's good. Seeking more of the same. Trusting we'll come out the other side. Getting up every day to give it another whirl.

It's hard.




*****
Saturday morning chuckle: I noticed that nutshell also reads Nuts Hell. How unintentionally apropos. :)

I've been flinging myself

No, I haven't been flinging myself off anything. Mostly I've just been flinging myself at everything. As many things as I can think of and as soon as I can think of them. I've joined new groups and resurfaced in old ones. I've drummed up lots of work. I've made travel plans. I've volunteered for volunteer duty. You name the activity unrelated to TTC and ART, and I've probably done it, planned to do it, planned to plan to do it, or looked into it and said "Pass."

What else can I do, really?

You see, DH and I have officially decided — and confirmed aloud while in the same room — that we're done trying to add to our family. (I'll save the whats and whys for another time.) That ship has sailed and sunk with no survivors . . . unless you count the two of us. We're alive, functioning fairly well even, but I can't necessarily say that "we" survived or that "I" did or "he" did. We're different as individuals and we're different as a couple. And we are still in flux.

Of course change happens to everyone, everywhere, every day, every way. But this is one of those wacky periods in which our identities are changing at warp speed. They have to for us to keep going. Flinging helps me deal.

I don't mind saying that I hate the ride right about now. Or that I refuse to call it a roller-coaster. (I quite enjoy that ride. It's innocent and FUN.) But I am still strapped in and holding on to my dearest DH for dear life or whatever payoff surely must exist.

*****

"Smile, Please" is an appropriate theme song around our house at the moment, with me dedicating it to DH on even days and him returning the favor on odd ones. There are brighter days ahead.

Hanging on

I'm hanging on by a thread, and — right now, bless its little heartbeat — the baby is still hanging out.

I went in a day early for my ultrasound because I woke up to red blood this morning. Strange thing is I usually keep the light off for my 5:45 bathroom trip. But today I flipped the switch and then flipped my lid to see a grape-sized red clot and some red flow. That soon turned to pink mucus and then, later, to the brown spotting and steady cramping I'm still sporting this afternoon.

My RE fit me in at lunchtime to see what's what. DH was able to meet me at the clinic for the ultrasound.

Good news first is that the heartbeat is at a healthy 125 bpm. I'm at 6w4d today, so everyone was pleased with that reading.

The rest of the news is that both the sac and the fetus are measuring behind. Also, the sac is located fairly low in the uterus. Lower than they normally see but not so low as to say that in itself is "bad."

The baby measures at 5w5d, and the sac was 5.7 something. I remember thinking "She doesn't mean 5-weeks-7-days because that would be 6 . . ." and so I assumed she meant 5.7 millimeters, but I honestly don't know more about this detail because I asked one of the many other questions populating my head at the same time.

Frankly, the RE was concerned to see the smaller sac, sac-to-fetus ratio*, low uterine placement, and bleeding all in one package: aka my "less than pristine uterus." (Yeah, she said that, but I knew what she meant and it's true — that there uterus has seen lots of action!) At one point she zeroed in on an enlarged vessel (it had its own pulse), but she found no clot, hematoma, or any other physically viewable cause for the bleeding.

Officially, the RE has deemed this a threatened miscarriage. So we've entered another round of wait-and-see. I'm to go back in anytime the bleeding picks up, but if it doesn't we'll meet next Wednesday for another look-see.

I know it's not supposed to mean anything, but darned if my pregnancy symptoms don't seem to have vanished.



*Do not go looking for information about THIS with measurements like mine.

First beta in

Today's beta was 91.8 at 15dpo/12dp3dt.

After IVF #2, my first number was 192 at 14dpo.

"And —?" you say.

Well, even though the only thing I should have wanted was a positive, normal-range number today, I secretly had my sights set on something higher than what I got.

I know that each pregnancy is different, that the doubling time we'll see on Monday is what matters, that at face value a lower normal number is not "worse," that I need to suck it up and feel the joy . . .

I UNDERSTAND ALL OF IT, promise. Just wanted to cop to where the infertile, post-miscarriage mind goes, even with good news that has not one shred of negative substance to it. It's a sickness.

In the 2 hours since taking the phone call, I've been actively working on getting my heart to come around. Sometimes all it needs is a little push. Right now, happily, it's sidling up to my head, giving it a squeeze, and saying "Sorry I'm late . . . I'm here now, though."

To summarize, the number is perfectly normal. Yay for that!!

Day 8: Feeling the swings

Went in this morning for pokes and peeks. My 10 follies are still there: 6 are of a fairly uniform size at 14–14.5 mm, and the 4 laggers are at 10–10.5 mm. I'll stop stims when at least 2 reach 18 mm. Best guess is that could be Monday but might be Tuesday. Retrieval will happen during the second half of the week.

There's absolutely nothing wrong with the progress, but I got veeerrrryyy sad about the 4 smaller follicles afterward. They can still make it to maturity by ER. But there's a bigger size gap between the two sets than there was last time.

DH's first question was whether those 4 might just drop out of the picture . . . a reasonable q, and exactly the possibility that was making me blue. The NP who did the ultrasound today, though, assured me — in the "maybe not, mind you" way the clinic HAS to put things — that most/all of those will keep going, and that "Things will happen as they're supposed to."

I know that general sentiment is usually meant as a comfort, as something positive about the bigger picture (and in this case, I of course know the NP was really just being upbeat, saying that things look fine). But my personal belief is that things will happen as they will. I don't see that as a negative POV, just what is, and it's different from what's supposed to be.

So, sometimes — like after my miscarriage, or when I'm looking at facts that point to the possibility of something not going well, or when I'm pushing my own hormones on an old-school swing — hearing that things only happen because they're supposed to makes me feel a little bad.

I'm taking my antagonist shot each morning now (it counteracts all the stimulation meds so I don't accidentally surge and release those eggies before ER). Think that helps create my pitiful Debbie Downer moments? I do.

Lucky for me I'm just a few hours away from my nighttime batch of happy shots — 7:30 upswing, here I come. Whee!!!

Beta result near end of rambling post

"Your insurance will pay for this one."

Today was the first time I'd ever heard that as I checked out at the clinic. It was an all-around strange experience because I saw all-new-to-me staff. The whole thing felt totally impersonal, but what are you going to do.

I got in and out of there in just a few minutes. Back in my car, I turned emotional fast. I just wanted to KNOW. I wanted to know today's result, and Monday's, and Wednesday's. And I wanted to see a sac during one ultrasound and a heartbeat during the one after that. I wanted to make it past 6 weeks, 8 weeks, 10 weeks, 12 weeks, 17 weeks, 22 weeks, and all the way through. I wanted to hear that first cry at delivery and be told "S/he's perfect." I wanted to proudly watch my child grow and learn and work and live.

I wanted all of that OR for everything to end with this afternoon's phone call. I wanted all or nothing, and I wanted it before sundown.

I didn't cry in the car, but I thought about it. I just felt robbed of getting to hope for things and also silly for thinking about all the things that can go wrong. Of course today's news wouldn't tell me anything beyond today's news. And I had to live with that. It's out of my hands. Still.

So I reminded myself that we'd come this far. That's despite one well-respected RE telling us he wouldn't treat us, another pointedly and pooh-pooh-ing-ly saying "I wouldn't" when referring to whether we should try again after our failed cycle, and the other — our primary RE — stressing to us (as she should have) that our chances for a pregnancy from this cycle were only 10% and odds that we'd get a take-home baby, if something stuck in the first place, were just 1 in 5. This far is good.

Despite all the grim possibilities that haunt me, this day, in the churning sea of wary, weary days leading up to it, has ended on a positive note:

At 14dpo/11dp3dt, my beta came back at 192.

That is real. That is solid. That is really solid. Of course it has to be monitored, along with many things to come. But right now things are good, and I can work on making it to the next benchmark.

Tonight, though, I will relax.

A horse is a horse, of course, of course

And a line is a line — look at mine, look at mine!

This is from yesterday, aka 10dpo/7dp3dt:



I've frankly never understood why many in the POAS Club invert their HPT images; seeing it always kinda makes me chuckle. If you can see the line one way, you can see it the other way. Right? (That's why I used an inverted image of a negative test for the blog. My thinking was "no line is no line.") But I am determined to milk this new frontier for all it's worth, for as long as I have the privilege. So here's my same damn test inverted:


It is so, so, SO early. My beta test is still 4 days away, and I know anything can happen in the meantime. But right now I am pregnant. HPT lines darkened slightly today. For apples-to-apples's sake, I used both EPT and FRER each morning. I trust FRER the most — lines are pink and absolutely there but still too faint for a good photo. The pictures are from yesterday's late-afternoon Answer test, the most photogenic of the bunch.

I didn't post yesterday because I needed time to wrap my brain around things. Plus, I wanted to tell DH first! He's on the road, and I didn't get to talk to him until last night at 8:45. That was 15 hours after I'd hopped out of bed to just test already. I crawled back into bed at exactly 4:55, and I missed DH as I listened to a meditation CD and drifted back to sleep for a while. I dreamed that I was in a retail complex, looking for a drugstore so I could buy backup HPTs. No pants, no wallet. I ran back to the car because I remembered DH had wedged some cash into the console after paying for parking on transfer day. Would it be enough? Let's see, 2 ones (that won't help) and 1 $17 bill (yes!). And, oh good, I am wearing pants, they're just down around my ankles.

As I did my PIO shot later, with pj pants pulled down, I laughed at the dream and wondered what the deal was with the $17 bill. True, the 4-test FRER box I'd recently bought was $18.99, so the car-cash combo would have covered that (assuming no sales tax in Dreamland). But something about the number 17 was sticking with me. Then I remembered the work-related interview I'd given last week. It was a Q&A about how I got started in my business and when/how I made the leap to self-employment. I told the story of wanting to make the leap and waiting for the "right time." Of course I wanted to do so under sensible circumstances, which included having built up a body of solo work to point to.

One day, while doing my regular job, a potential freelance client called wanting to know how many of a particular type of project I'd done. "Quite a few, but let me put together a list and get back to you," I said. I was thinking 6 or 7. I hoped it would seem like enough to the client. Well, my final tally was 17. And I was stunned. When had I done all that? The answer was whenever I could, all the time, for several years. I remember that day because a switch flipped in my brain. I looked around my office, which I so deeply wanted to leave behind to pursue the type of work this client was offering, and I thought "Why am I still here? I'm already doing what I want. It's real. Time to admit it and act on it."

I liked that the dream helped change my initial reaction to an honest-to-goodness positive test: False positive. Faulty test. Tests done this early in the morning don't count. Figuring out that 17 connection made me refocus. There comes a point at which you have to believe what you see. If I see something else later, I'll believe that then. But a line is a line is a line is a line is a line. (One "line" for each test on my bathroom counter.)

Which reminds me — to Possibility, I must say, "Okay, then. Color me both surprised and corrected. PLEASE don't let me find out you've been messing with my head."

P.S. My FAVORITE part of yesterday was when I logged on to my email account and saw a note from DH with the subject line "Good morning, baby." He'd sent it at 4:51, my time — that's while I was watching the lines come up. So I felt like he'd been with me after all. His reaction to the news? A simply succinct "This is good."

Why today? Well, why not.

I'm at 9 dpo, sort of, I guess. Since the whole cycle was "staged," the correct phrasing is that I'm 6dp3dt. What I know is that by either 9 dpo or 10 dpo in a natural cycle, my body clearly tells me that AF is on its way: I have a restless night; my chest deflates and any soreness goes away; my basal body temperature starts falling; and I feel a sensation I can only describe as uterine gurgling (I've come to decide it's the endometrium starting to break down).

All I can say to those tell-tale signs this Mother's Day at 5:30 a.m. is check, check, check, and check.

I don't write this to solicit a flurry of "don't give ups." I'd prefer not to get any. I just write what I know. I know it on the surface. I know it from years of cold, hard experience. And I know it in my heart.