A year later

Coming up on a year since I was last pregnant, with what is looking increasingly like my last pregnancy. September 16 was the FET. It was all over by October 6.

At some point over the last three years -- I think it was between miscarriages #3 and #4 -- I started taking Prozac. I was so incredibly fatigued that I couldn't get anything done, so I went to my GP. She looked at my recent medical history and said "Hey, I think you might be depressed. Prozac?" Sounded plausible to me.

It turns out that the Prozac did nothing for my fatigue (changing my blood pressure medicine was what fixed that) but it did lift and steady my mood quite a bit. Better living through chemistry, yay.

At the beginning of August I stopped taking it. I just wanted to see what was under there. I felt like I didn't want to make any decisions that I couldn't live with unmedicated.

The verdict: now everything makes me cry. It's not necessarily a bad thing. The Prozac muffled my affect to some extent, and although I'm very grateful for it -- my affect was in great need of muffling -- it's kind of nice to have life in full-HD again. But everything makes me cry.

Things I have given away or sold in the past few months: baby gates,  baby wipes, strollers, carriers.  Maternity clothes. Baby clothes. I keep telling myself, if I find myself pregnant, I'll buy more.

I'm premenstrual, and possibly perimenopausal. A good stiff breeze can make me cry. Driving time is pretty much crying time for me. American Pie on the radio made me cry, for chrissake.

Dreaming

I've been feeling emotionally pretty steady, but my subconscious is working hard. I dream about children almost every night.

Last night's: I had two children. Small Boy was 6 and the other one was maybe 1 or 2 (in real life, Small Boy is almost 5 now.) Small Boy asked if he could take the baby for a walk and I said "Sure".

He returned later without the baby. I was panicked and started searching the town, running up and down streets calling out, crying, looking all around. In the pit of my stomach I knew the baby was gone and we'd never find (her? I think it was her.)

In my dream, I didn't blame Small Boy at all -- I blamed myself for letting him take the baby, for not thinking it through well enough when he asked.

Sometimes I comfort myself by thinking about this: there's a decent chance that my secondary infertility was caused by the c-section. I never had lining problems before. The two miscarriages due to SCH, that's an implantation problem, which is something I also didn't have before. It seems likely that my uterus just reacted really badly to being swabbed out after the surgery.

I have finally accepted that the c-section was about as necessary and inevitable as they come. See also: obstructed labor, impacted fetal head, obstetric injury, obstetic fistula, stillbirth, maternal mortality. I am goddamned lucky. I needed a c-section, and I got it, promptly. I spent the months after Small Boy's birth angsting about breastfeeding and PPD, not dealing with grievous injuries and the death of my baby.

If while I was in labor someone had said to me: hey, I'll cut you a deal. You give up your future fertility, and I'll guarantee you that Small Boy will be healthy and happy and everything awesome.

I would have taken that deal in a second. I cared about nothing at all more than getting him here safely.

Maybe I did take that deal; I just didn't know it at the time.

Everyone rewrites narratives until they find one they can live with. Maybe this is mine: that there is no world in which I got to have Small Boy and another baby. The price of Small Boy and his truly enormous 98th percentile noggin was my future fertility. It's a price I would have agreed to.

In Sandman, Death once tells someone who -- upon dying after a long span of time -- says "I did pretty well, didn't I?" and she says "You got what everybody gets: a lifetime."

Maybe I got what everybody gets: a family. This is mine. Railing about wanting a different one makes no sense, because if it were a different one, it wouldn't be mine.

I guess it's realizing that wanting more family for me really means wanting a different family. And I don't want that.

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.

I Am Your Mother?

A while ago I stumbled across this retelling, helpfully tagged "children's stories made horrific":

Are You My Mother? by Mallory Ortberg, courtesy of the Toast.

I read it a few times, with a big ol' lump in my throat. Got me right in the gut. I felt it from both sides -- the horrible vulnerability of the little bird, the dog's desperation. Sometimes the membrane between this universe and the one where I didn't have Small Boy seems way too thin. I wonder if part of my drive to have more kids isn't wanting to put more distance between myself and that universe.

We were at the bookstore last week and I told Small Boy that he could pick out a book. He made a beeline for Are You My Mother? I visibly recoiled. "No, that one's creepy, don't get that."

He looked a bit disappointed and then, in his generally easy-going way, shrugged and said "You pick."

Well, didn't I feel like an awful mother then, inflicting my infertility-damage on Small Boy. I guiltily bought the book, and read it to him that night in the very brightest tones I could muster. And I'm going to keep reading him the goddamned thing until I can do it with a real smile.

Also, when we got home, I discovered we already had a copy. So now I have two copies. Okay, Universe, very funny. I get it.

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.

Taking a break, or, Shore Leave for the Pequod

When Small Boy was born, I went into labor at 6:30 in the morning. I wasn't fully dilated until 2:30 a.m. or so, and that's when I started pushing.

I pushed hard. I pushed really hard. I wanted Small Boy to be born. I wanted to stop laboring. I pushed really hard for more than 2.5 hours. I'm in mediocre shape at best, and by the end I was so tired I could barely breathe, but I knew I couldn't stop. After 2.5 hours Small Boy had progressed downwards not at all. My cervix was good and swollen, but the situation was otherwise unchanged.

Then Small Boy (who had been a trooper the whole time) started having some decels, and the OB called a c-section for fetal distress and failure to descend. He had been monitoring me remotely; when he burst into the room and was like "lady, you are done here" I burst into tears.

I had rather wanted an unmedicated birth. I had badly wanted a vaginal birth. But when I burst into tears, I wasn't upset because I wasn't going to get the birth I wanted. I cried because I was so relieved and grateful. I knew that I could not keep going much longer. I was just too tired.

We later found out that Small Boy's head was severely impacted in my pelvis, and that there was no way he was exiting in any direction other than out of my abdomen. I could have pushed for hours more, I could have been twice as strong and determined, and nothing would have changed.

I'm too tired. I'm putting this down for six months. My plan for spacing my kids is scuppered. My plan for giving birth to both kids before 40 is scuppered. I'm never doing a fresh cycle again. The embryos aren't getting any older. I need to stop for a while. My family needs me to stop for a while. I need to let this white whale go, for a time, at least. Maybe I'll return to it and maybe I won't.

Maybe I'll learn that I can live with this, and that the pain of the missing person grows less over time. Maybe it'll get worse.

In any case: right now, I am putting this down. In six months I'll see where I am.

The good and the bad and all kinds of beautiful

First, I'll get the bad out of the way: the bills are coming in and they're fucking depressing. Transfer, beta, beta, beta, ultrasound (pregnant uterus), beta, the end. I would prefer just to forget about the whole thing, you know? Pretend it never happened? But people deserve to get paid, and so they shall.

On the happier side: this weekend I took Small Boy to his soccer lesson. Then we went on  a walk through the woods in the crisp fall day, all oranges and yellow and reds and crunchy leaves and good smells. We turned out of the woods and found ourselves at the zoo, where we happen to have a membership and I happened to have the membership card on me. So we went to the zoo. And we dawdled and wandered and looked at lots of animals and somewhere in there I started humming a song. Pop lyrics are the bardic poetry of my generation and it's how my subconscious communicates with me. OnceI was on an elevator and started humming "Miss Otis Regrets" and only noticed on the way out that the elevator was made by a company named Otis. Anyway.

The song lyrics I was humming turned out to be


one life
is all we ever get
and all we ever give up for it in return
is all of 
the ones that might have been
just one kind of beautiful, each in our turn...

 I walked, and thought about it. One kind of beautiful is what I get. This life is one kind of beautiful. It's sleeping in and spontaneous zoo trips and money and time and just a very relaxed, civilized way of living. Since we have him outnumbered, when one of us is out of patience it's very easy to say "here, you deal with it." I wouldn't have that luxury if there were two.  We never have to operate at the edge of our ability to cope. It's just all very comfortable and peaceful.

Would I trade for the infinite richness of a larger family? Hell yeahs. There's no question. The material and lifestyle advantages are all things I would throw away in a minute, if I could. I mean, for the past two years I've been attempting with both hands to throw them away.

But if it turns out that I can't -- this is one kind of beautiful.

If I can hold onto this feeling, I'll be fine. I know these things tend to be a spiral, passing the same point again and again on a different plane. I know I'll be back to desperate sadness, jealousy, anger, grief. But with any luck this is one of the places in the spiral and I'll see it again, the place of feeling peaceful and grateful and wistful, not angry and grieved. And now I know that this place exists, that there is a world in which I never have another child and I am okay.

Two years later.

A lot of women who miscarry have problems with anniversaries. Sure, I remember some dates -- the very first time I was pregnant, the due date was supposed to be December 21; for my second miscarriage,  August 1; July 31 for the third and June 3 for the fourth.

I remember these dates but they really don't have any heat in them. I thought I was pretty impervious to date-ghosts. But the other day Her Indoors mentioned this year's Christmas Tree Festival. Now, I'm Jewish, but I love a good Christmas tree festival as much as the next girl, and of course Small Boy adores it.

And it was like a sock to the gut. 'Cause the last time time we were at the festival, I had a backache and was walking slowly because I was easily winded in that weird early-pregnancy way. That was what turned out to be the Sea Monkeys, miscarriage #3.

Why hasn't the date of my miscarriages bothered me before? Because duh, I've always managed to be pregnant again. First miscarriage, 5/08; in 5/09 I was pregnant with Small Boy. Second miscarriage, 12/11; by 12/12, pregnant again, although to no avail.

But I timed it wrong this round. By all rights I should have put off the transfer for another six weeks, so I could have been pregnant on the miscarriage-aversaries and then had that miscarriage at the traditional time of year.  But nooooooo. I had to do it early, so this year's miscarriage was in October, and so for the Christmas Tree Festival I'll be walking around not only not pregnant, but not even in the middle of a cycle.

I can't believe I'm here a year later, not only not having made any progress but having made negative progress. I have fewer embryos stored and I'm at higher risk for miscarriage, having had three in a row.

But I guess in a way I have made progress. I'm further along the road I'm going down, and I know that road is not endless. I'm closer to the point where I give up and start to Deal. If I'm going to subject myself to years of this pain for nothing, at least those years are drawing to a close.

Right now I feel like I'm grieving in slow motion. Not really, just kidding, maybe a little, if I mourn properly does it mean I'll then get what I want? I don't know whether to hang onto hope or just let it go. I wish I knew which the operative cliche was.

 I find myself reassuring people, friends, medical professionals. "It's okay!" I chirp. "I got my little guy!" And it's true but it's also not true. It's what good infertiles say, grateful ones, ones who don't think I should get to have what so many other people have. I am grateful, every day, grateful beyond breath for Small Boy and how he's spun my life and heart right around like a record, baby, I am, I truly am. But at the same time I'm angry that I'm supposed to be grateful and content with what it seems like practically the whole fucking world takes for granted.

The other day I walked past a box of First Response Early Result Pregnancy Test with FREE Keepsake Due Date Calculator! And I audibly scoffed. A keepsake due date calculator, after the first pee stick? Getting a bit ahead of yourself, aintcha?  And that's assuming it's positive. How many of those suckers get bitterly tossed into the trash?

But then I realized it's not that ridiculous. Most pregnancy tests are probably purchased by women who already suspect they're pregnant. Most positive pregnancy tests result in actual children. A keepsake due-date calculator on a two-pack of FRERs is utterly laughable from my point of view, but my point of view isn't representative. It's just my reality.

Small Boy is four, and we're going on lots of kindergarten tours, meeting lots of other families. This is the age interval when most families are mid-spawn, or have recently spawned. Lots of babies, lots of newborns, lots of big bellies, lots of brothers and sisters. I suppose in another five years or so it'll all simmer down other than the occasional "oops". That will be easier.