G'night, Gracie.

It's over. On July 10 we went and signed the papers to destroy the three embryos at Big Shiny Fertility Factory, the last of the Nine.

It was just too much. In the end, my desire for another child was overwhelmed by the sense that the time for that had passed. I'm almost 42. Her Indoors is 50. Small Boy is 6. In the end, I'm unwilling to gamble the time, the money, the sorrow, for an unlikely payoff. I put ten embryos in my uterus. Presumably, if there were a tiny soul that were meant to be part of our family, it would have taken one of the ten fucking chances it had to hop aboard and stay for the ride.

But nope. It's over. It no longer matters how much scar tissue my uterus has. My super-light periods are now nothing but a convenience. Small Boy will never have a full sibling; I feel intensely lucky that we have met some wonderful donor siblings via the Donor Sibling Registry. I will never pee on a stick again, never hold on the end of a phone with blood roaring in my ears waiting to find out a beta number. I will never, ever have another goddamn miscarriage. Sometimes thinking that makes me want to weep with gratitude.

During the last one I held the infinitesimal thing in my hand and thought "welp, this is it, it's over." I then immediately thought "no, no it's not, I'm not at the end, there's still a lot of road left." But my first instinct was correct. Gravida 5 Para 1, that's me, and that's how I shall die. Gravida 6 Para 1 if you count the chemical. Despite a wee Google I can't figure out if you're supposed to count chemicals.

I did not carry these embryos home and burn incense over them. Big Shiny Fertility Factory definitely didn't seem set up for that kind of malarkey. Really, they had a hard time finding someone to witness the forms at all since there was some kind of staff meeting going on; I just wanted to get out of there. Maybe it's because the embryos from Al's were Small Boy's batch. If the embryologist had gone one to the right, one of them would be with us instead of Small Boy.

Or not. Maybe that somewhat crappy-looking embryo, which turned into a perfect little boy, was the only one in the bunch. Maybe it was the only one in both of my ovaries that was fit to make a baby, or whose peculiar chemical balance could overcome whatever clusterfuck is going on in my uterus. Maybe in all worlds it's him or no one.  I can't know.

I had to try, though, didn't I?

Disposition

I just mailed off a notarized form requesting to have our remaining vial of Small Boy's donor's sperm destroyed.

I asked our donor-parent group and nobody wanted it. I think the ones who wanted more kids have already all had them now. They're done.

Saving the vial didn't make any sense. I'm 40. My eggs are now problematic. If I want to try again, my best bet is my remaining frozen embryos.

I'm continuing to reconsider how good a bet that is at this point. I started trying for #2 at 37. It looked different, then. Her Indoors is older than I am. I've had four miscarriages at this point, three of them consecutive. There are lots of different ways to parse the statistics from here on in. None of them look good.

And there's another thing I have been resolutely ignoring. I loved being pregnant. Loved it. I had little to no morning sickness. Never threw up once. Slept beautifully, the sweetest, deepest, most satisfying sleeps I've ever had. Somehow I managed to carry Small Boy in a perpendicular fashion, poking straight out from my (extremely shortwaisted) body -- I was simply enormous, measuring five weeks ahead for the whole thing, everyone assumed I was having twins. But because I was carrying him in such an absurd way, it was darn comfortable. He wasn't pressing on my lungs, stomach, bladder. I could breathe fine, I could eat a full meal, and I didn't have to pee THAT often. Because I spent about two months looking like I was about to give birth at any second, I was vastly amused by the mingled fear and solicitousness my condition constantly inspired from bystanders. Totally fun. I could've kept going. And having Small Boy be part of me like that was pure magic. I would lie awake at night and thrum with joy.

But. But. But. All that aside.

I had insulin-dependent GD that was only barely controlled with large doses of insulin. I've since then developed high blood pressure, which is a strong risk factor for preeclampsia.  I had a totally un-fun flirtation with peripartum cardiomyopathy, which can, oh yeah, kill ya.  It took ages for my liver function to return to normal after the pregnancy. I felt fantastic. But I wasn't fantastic. My body was successfully juggling something that wasn't at all easy for it, and managed to keep all the balls in the air long enough to carry Small Boy full term and get him here safely. I will never stop being grateful for that.

But. Getting real old. High chance of miscarriage. High chance of complications.  A few years ago I was willing and able to plug my ears and forge on ahead. Who can pay attention to statistics when there's a chance of a wee tiny baby with soft soft skin and little fists? Who could be cold-hearted enough to consider the numbers when there's an entire life, an entire family member on the line?

Me, I guess, increasingly.

Small Boy is an funny little independent soul, an introvert who likes his quiet time. He's not begging for a sibling. Her Indoors thinks that one is the perfect number of kids. It's just me who's having trouble letting go.

Never is such a long time, though.

Hobby Parents

The other day I heard the term "hobby parents" used to describe parents with one kid. I winced, then I laughed, and I winced again, and laughed again.  I googled it and found some sneering about how parents-of-one aren't real parents and how we have no idea and need to shut up about everything ever coz we have it so easy. That was painful. Then I saw this video by the comedian who may have coined the term, and I had to laugh again, because, yeah, fair cop, guilty as charged with most of that. 

Then I mentioned the term to Her Indoors, who found it charming.

Her Indoors: Well, yes, you don't need to make it pay.
Me: Hrm?
Her Indoors: Hobby parenting. You can just do it for fun, it doesn't have to be a paying proposition.


Which gave me a minute of self-reflection. I immediately ouched when I heard the term, but that's not surprising, as practically everything related to pregnancy, childbirth, or siblings makes me ouch right now. "Hobby parents" immediately struck me as fake parents, pretend parents, toy parents. But her interpretation's just as valid and is a damn sight cheerier. Reframe, reframe. I devote so much time to reframing that I might as well open my own (re)framing business.



Part of it is this conversation I have had to have over and over lately. I've been meeting a lot of people on kindergarten tours, and one of the first things that gets mentioned is how many children you have. People want to know: is Small Boy my only child? or do I have more at home?

I struggle a bit with what to say. I don't like saying "just the one" or "yes, he's only child." The words just and only imply some inadequacy and no matter how much I want another child I'll be damned if I'll let anyone imply that I should have one. Some people have snappy comebacks, but I don't like those either: We got it right the first time!  What, like I'm going to act like first children are mistakes? That's awful.  I've uneasily settled on "yes, he's my one and only."

Last year we got our tree on December 19. I know it was December 19 because we had planned to go tree-shopping right after the 8 week ultrasound. Even after we got the bad news, I wanted to go anyway. Damned if I was going to give up my tree too. We wandered through the tree lot; I was in a haze. We bought a beautiful, expensive tree. I'm glad we did.

We don't have a tree yet this year. It's time.

Okay, breaktime's over.

I'm ready to start again.

It's been a good extra month. I am hypertensive, and there is a rather short list of pregnancy-safe medications (which of course I've been on temporarily for, oh, two years now while TTC). I was on a high dose of labetalol, which worked okay but made me super tired all the time and also dizzy whenever I bent down.

At the start of last month I thought "fuck it, I have to start living my real life, baby or no baby." So as part of the reclaiming-my-life project, I marched down to my GP and told her I wasn't happy on labetalol.  I've found an alternative (nifedipine) that appears to be working, and omg how much do I love not dreading buying something from the bottom shelf at the supermarket. I hadn't realized what a drag constantly trying to not squat or bend down was. I feel freeeeeeee!

My energy has come back, too. I'm in a positive feedback loop right now where because I'm not so tired, I'm getting a lot more exercise, which in turn energizes me. I've also put some major effort into upgrading my diet. Her Indoors was away for a whole week and I was rather afraid I'd starve, and so bought some meal-replacement spirulina-peatmoss-whatever protein shake mix.  That got me started on a smoothie kick,and I discovered that having breakfast and lunch smoothies seems infinitely easier to me than preparing and packing breakfast and lunch. I got a one-serve portable blender and have been going wild. For breakfast this morning I had coconut milk, soy butter, kale, and strawberries.  Lunch was avocado, kefir, spinach, cilantro, lime.  Nommm! I don't really do the protein powder shakes any more, but it's comforting to have them as a backup in case I just can't be arsed to cook (in the past, when I couldn't be arsed I'd just eat whatever random crapola came strolling by my desk). I haven't eaten this well in years, and I am actually approaching a so-called-"normal" BMI for the first time in about a decade.

And yeah, did I mention more energy? I've been taking Small Boy to the playground every day, which is awful good for both of us. Small Boy is an awesome small boy, and does something side-splittingly funny at least four times a day.

I dunno, things have just been good.  The last miscarriage is far enough in the past that it all seems like a dream now. Come on, what was I thinking? Pregnancy seems mysterious, remote, something that happens to other people.  Remote feels much better than just-outside-my-reach.

So of course, now that I'm feeling calm and happy and healthy, what I need to do is fuck it all up. Get back on that crazytrain of tests, hormones, appointments, waiting uncertainty, peeing on strips of cardboard, squinting at lines.

I'm expecting my period to start in the next few days. Between days 5-15 I'll have an HSG. If that looks okay (please) I'll start another FET cycle.

Really, with that much fun? How could I stay away?

Begin again

I keep starting posts and fading out.

The Asherman's surgery in May was, by all accounts, a success. Dr. Isaacson was lovely, in accordance with all the recommendations I got from the Asherman's mailing list. He found one major band near the cornu (where the tube attaches) and some minor adhesions near the cervix. He feels pretty sure that the largest adhesion was from the c-section; apparently, when they're done popping out the baby, they sponge down the uterus. And either I was sponged too hard or -- more likely -- my body simply didn't like being sponged, and reacted by forming an adhesion.

Learning that it was probably the c-section, not the D&C, is kind of mixed. On one hand, it's comforting to know that it probably couldn't have been avoided. If someone asked me if I would pay the price of Asherman's to safely have Small Boy, I'd agree instantly. At least I got something out of the deal, you know?

On the other hand, it means that Dr. Stewart missed the adhesions during the quite-hasty SHSG. And that last year's pregnancy never had a chance, and that those embryos might have well been flushed down the toilet, and that all that horror could have been avoided.

Second-guessing does no good in the real world, so of course I try to spend no more than 80% of my waking hours running mental simulations of alternate universes.

---

But all that's old news. See? I put a line under it.  It's old news because yesterday I had my first Delestrogen shot for my FET cycle. HOLY CRAP that hurt. I'm a spoiled little princess who's only ever done progesterone in ethyl oleate with slender 25ga needles. The 22ga was like sticking a fucking drinking straw into my glute.

Her Indoors was, as ever, both charming and useful. After giving me the shot, she eyed my prone, gasping form sympathetically.

Her: Does it hurt?
Me: YES
Her: If I slap you, it might help.
Me: SURE WHATEVER
Her: delivers ringing slap to my buttock, right where the shot went
Me: ... wow, that totally helped.

This brief domestic scene illustrates two points about our life nicely:

1) Her Indoors is smart about all sorts of things. There's an explanation having to do with the dissipation of oil in the muscle and circulation and nerve endings and stuff.

2) I trust her really a lot.

---

So yeah, new cycle!

If my lining does as it ought -- and that's a big "if" -- my scheduled transfer date is November 12. In 2008, on the cycle that resulted in Small Boy, my transfer was November 15. In 2011, on the cycle that resulted in the zombie pregnancy, my transfer was November 10. I guess this is just the time of year that I like to put embryos in my uterus.

Here we go!
Here we go.
Here we go...

Day 6 embryo report

Nine. Nine. Beautiful, beautiful nine fucking frozen embryos.

Two made the grade yesterday at 7 am or so; one more joined them at 10:30 am, so that's three frozen on day 5. An additional six joined on Day 6.

Day 6 have been sometimes found to be less likely to implant than are day 5; a 2001 study found a 50% reduction (from 60% to 30%) -- but a much larger 2006 study found almost no difference (32% vs 28%).  The fact that the 2001 5-day blast group had a pregnancy rate of 60% makes me think that their population must have been a bit unusual, anyway -- I don't know of anywhere that can claim a 60% pregnancy rate, unless all their participants were 20!

Anyway, even the worst represents a good solid pregnancy rate, and did I mention six of them fomg.

And -- I might need them. I freaked myself out yesterday by reading a lot about Asherman's Syndrome, and it sucks. Makes it harder to get pregnant, and makes miscarriage a lot more likely; one source reports a miscarriage rate of 45%. Just what I need, huh? But it's also easy to find stories of women with Asherman's who have three or four miscarriages and then a live birth. If I have the balls to keep rolling the dice, there's a decent chance I'll eventually win.

Basically, if I go ahead here, I have to be prepared that it may take a few false starts. I have to figure out how to not go completely mental the way I did with the other two miscarriages. I have to figure out how to stay sane. I probably have to stay out of the forums where people assume that a positive pregnancy test means a baby.

This all sounds grim, and I was pretty damn down last night when I thought I had two embryos, or just one try. But now that I have 9, which could well be four tries, I'm feeling much more hopeful.

I think I am tough enough for this. I think I can do this. It helps to know that I can stop any time. Her Indoors is more than okay with keeping our family the way it is -- frankly, she's indulging me on this endeavor. There will be zero pressure on me to keep going. If it's too much, I can pause or walk away. It's not like my family sucks the way it is, you know? Yes, the wordless longing of my heart is for one more. Yes, I feel like there's still someone missing. But really, I could be wrong. I've been wrong before. Maybe our family's the way it's supposed to be. I have to try, though.

For the historical record, our family roster now consists of:

Hatching blasts:
2 - AA Good
2 - BB Fair

Expanding blasts:
2 - AA Good
2 - AB Fair
1 - BB Fair


FWIW, I'm not particularly hung up on embryo quality. Have I mentioned that a little 2BB blastocyst (different rating system, but prob equivalent to the BB Fair) turned into our entirely acceptable son? And I have seen many perfect embryos come to naught. Anecdotal, yeah, but it's anecdotes that make up my story, so.

In conclusion, beautiful, beautiful nine!