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?

the closing of the year

So Al's IVF Shack shut down, or... was shut down, or something. The upshot is that Al's was no longer going to be offering the service of changing the ice packs and playing developmentally-enriching Mozart to my Tiny Frozen Americans. I had to get 'em out, and get 'em out by December 1.

They notified us in November, and it sent me into a bit of a tailspin.I have been moving towards making a decision... very, very slowly. Not with two weeks to decide.

Now here's the point at which this could be a different story. I could say, dear reader, we did a crazy whirlwind cycle, it was all a blur, my lining came up surprisingly well despite the lack of fussing and greymarket drugs, and surprise! I'm pregnant! and I didn't want to tell anyone until I'd seen a heartbeat!

But that's not what happened.

It was unseasonably warm and sunny on November 25. I called the lab and they agreed it was a fine time for me to come over. I went to the lab. I signed papers. They handed me an medical-supply envelope containing five tiny plastic tubes. The tubes were covered in frost when they handed them to me, but by the time I reached my car they were already just cold. I took them upstairs. I sat in Small Boy's room, which I had thought would keep being the nursery, as it's the smallest room in the house. I wanted to sit in the rocking chair but we had already sold it on Craigslist, to a nice couple with three small children who needed it for #4. I sat on the rug instead. I cried. Then I found the pack of wood-resin incense that I burned back when I was pregnant with Small Boy, praying with every cell of my atheist's heart that he would be okay. There was one stick left in the pack. I stuck it in the little bowl incense holder. I snipped open the tubes and emptied them into the bowl. Five straws of embryos made half a teaspoon or so of fluid. I had the urge to swallow it, to at least have it in me that way, but I'd talked about it before with Her Indoors and she reminded me that there are some serious chemicals that go into embryo culture medium, and I agreed that it would be an incredibly fucking stupid way to get sick. I lit the incense, and it burned.

And that was that.

I still have three embryos left at the Big Shiny Fertility Factory, three out of the nine. I'll have to make a decision about them in April or May. Or, more correctly, I'll have to make the decision about them in April or May. The evidence keeps piling up. I know what I have to do.  But oh, do I shrink from doing it.

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.

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.

A third of a way through the hiatus: some peace and gratitude.

I record the hard times here, but I rarely bother to record the good times.

Today I'm feeling very peaceful and very grateful. I am a human being and humans look for patterns, no matter how spurious. For a while I, mired in self-pity, imagined my theme as I don't get to have what most people have, what I always thought I'd have.

I always thought I'd have a big wedding, with an enormous white dress and dancing till dawn. But when real life hit, we didn't have the money for a huge wedding, and getting married quickly seemed more important than getting married in the way I'd fondly thought we would. So this is what we had: a tiny, beautiful wedding, with our very dearest close to us.

So I'm trying this on as my new theme: Small things, done with great love (HT Mother Theresa).

Small things, done with great love, are not a bad way to make a life.


My beatific mood is helped by the fact that we've gotten some very good news. Small Boy was offered a place at a private school that we love but could never afford, with enough financial aid that we will be able to pay for it and eat food.

So yeah, feelin' lucky. Feeling peaceable with my uterus. I'll see where I am in a few months, but right now, the where-is-my-infant pain seems to be fading, not increasing.

A year and a day

Yesterday felt like a day to get through. A year and a day ago I was at home, high on painkillers, and waiting for the Sea Monkeys to exit my body, which they did in a thankfully orderly fashion. I'm glad to have that day behind me. When it was happening, I didn't think that a year from then I'd be where I am now. I'm glad I didn't know. It would have only made it harder. 

So yeah, yesterday felt like a day to just make time pass so it'd be over. I bunked off work and went to IKEA. I flippin' love IKEA. I wandered slowly up and down each aisle. IKEA is a very family-full place and I felt a bit wobbly at times, but was generally soothed by the mountains of affordable Swedish midcentury modernity.

12 weeks ago I was examining a blood clot in the palm of my hand. I saw a little pale nugget in it, no bigger than a piece of arborio rice, with a dark dot in the middle. "Crap," I thought. "Doesn't look good." I was right.

I've been studying. That's the only way I know how to process anything. I recently read a rather good book on only child-dom, a collection of essays.

The first section was first-person essays on what it was like growing up as an only child. There was quite a range of experiences, as sibling'd children also have a range of experiences, stretching from loneliness to tranquility.

An interesting part was the section of essays by only children who were themselves facing the decision of how many children to have. Of the four essays, two of them spoke of the fear of having something happen to your only child.

This is something that's been clawing at my mind. I'm not proud of it. It seems kind of awful, like it's simultaneously devaluing the child you have (replaceable!) and the child you want (a backup!).  What, like children with siblings aren't mourned? But I am so very aware of the enormous state-change between being a parent of a living child and not being the parent of a living child. The loss of an only child is the loss not only of that irreplaceable person, but of the state of parenthood. I was a bit comforted to find that two of the four only children decided to have multiple children for precisely that reason.

Here's John Hodgeman, who surprised me by being not only a funny guy but a deft writer.

Like a farmer who needs children to till the soil and cannot risk having but one, so I need more than one child to lower my risk of absolute awful heartache.

To be honest, I do not know how this will work out. I, the only child, find it difficult to understand how love can be dispersed between two children. And there will be other shortages... For, yes, you will live in an apartment, and you will have to share a room.

But you will be freer to fail, as your errors will be outshadowed by Hodgmina's and vice versa. And thus you will free yourselves of the unfair burden to avoid death at all costs. By having you, unnamed male child, I have chosen to give you both less so that at the end, as point by point, the shape of our family disappears, you will not have lost everything.

-John Hodgeman

Yeah, that was pretty much enough to turn on my waterworks when I read it, and again now. He's captured something I couldn't articulate, the fragility of a family of three.

In the end, though, my decision is driven by sheer terror: I worry that something will happen to my child and having another would be the only thing that could get me through that.  I wish there were some braver, deeper, or more theoretical underpinnings behind my ultimate motivation for two, but that's what I come up with.
- Amy Richards

This quote doesn't offer me any insight, but it does make me feel less alone. I mean, these people were able to choose to have more children, and did (at least John Hodgeman did, I don't know if Amy Richards has yet).  But it's comforting to know that this is a fear shared by other parents, parents who were themselves only children. It's not the sole reason I want another child, even the major reason, but it's there and it's something I'm going to have to work out if I'm going to learn how to live comfortably with this.

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.