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?
Thursday, July 30, 2015
Monday, December 22, 2014
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.
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.
Friday, September 19, 2014
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.
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.
Monday, June 16, 2014
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.
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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.
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.
Friday, May 2, 2014
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 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.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
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.
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.
Friday, February 28, 2014
And today's a sad day.
Today's a day when everyone around me is casually swinging around one of those portable car-seats. So very many babies. I don't know what I should do.
I think there are more peaceful days than sad days. I should track it. I'm sure there's an app.
I think there are more peaceful days than sad days. I should track it. I'm sure there's an app.
Sunday, February 16, 2014
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.
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.
Monday, December 30, 2013
And this is why I stay off Facebook
Within 5 minutes of scrolling, I am presented the very pregnant bellies of two friends from my high school class (one with #2, one with #3). People I really like. I wish them nothing but the best. It's still a kick in the gut.
No, actually, I stay off FB because I suck at keeping up with it, I feel compelled to drink from the firehose and then get frustrated when I fail. But cripes, the constant stream of bellies and babies doesn't make it easier to go back.
On the other hand, my existential angst was nearly balanced out by my genuine guffaw at this, also encountered via FB:
FB giveth and taketh away?
No, actually, I stay off FB because I suck at keeping up with it, I feel compelled to drink from the firehose and then get frustrated when I fail. But cripes, the constant stream of bellies and babies doesn't make it easier to go back.
On the other hand, my existential angst was nearly balanced out by my genuine guffaw at this, also encountered via FB:
FB giveth and taketh away?
Friday, December 27, 2013
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.
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, November 4, 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Where do we go from here?
Merciful things: my hcg is below 5. I did not have to use my DIY Uterine Evacuation Kit. It is over, and was pretty painless.
That was my last shot on insurance. I have no idea what comes next. Crazy Al's IVF Shack? He has a clutch of my embryos from when I was a mere slip of a girl at 34. They're probably in better shape than my creaky miscarrying 38-year old eggs. Although it's possible the uterus is just broken. On the other hand, Al froze them in a second-hand popsicle maker, so the thawing attrition is likely going to be ugly. Al's documented success rate with frozen embryos is like 13%. If I wait until January I could have one more cycle covered at Al's, and out-of-pocket cycles are likely to be cheap because hey, Al.
From the clutch of 9 at Big Shiny Fertility Factory, I have three left. I could do at least one more cycle with them. It would be out of pocket, and expensive. I'm a bit resentful about how expensive, considering that I now know exactly what the insurance reimbursement they received for the same cycle was, and believe me, it's less than half the amount I'd be shelling out.
Search terms recently typed into google
secondary infertility g-
Google helpfully supplies
secondary infertility guilt
secondary infertility grief
secondary infertility giving up
I don't know what's next. I didn't honestly believe that I'd be here. I somehow trusted in the narratively satisfying ending of my third attempt succeeding. I am beginning to suspect that my uterus is not all that invested in my narrative satisfaction.
I would like to tag this with "moving on" but I'm not at all sure where I'm moving on to.
That was my last shot on insurance. I have no idea what comes next. Crazy Al's IVF Shack? He has a clutch of my embryos from when I was a mere slip of a girl at 34. They're probably in better shape than my creaky miscarrying 38-year old eggs. Although it's possible the uterus is just broken. On the other hand, Al froze them in a second-hand popsicle maker, so the thawing attrition is likely going to be ugly. Al's documented success rate with frozen embryos is like 13%. If I wait until January I could have one more cycle covered at Al's, and out-of-pocket cycles are likely to be cheap because hey, Al.
From the clutch of 9 at Big Shiny Fertility Factory, I have three left. I could do at least one more cycle with them. It would be out of pocket, and expensive. I'm a bit resentful about how expensive, considering that I now know exactly what the insurance reimbursement they received for the same cycle was, and believe me, it's less than half the amount I'd be shelling out.
Search terms recently typed into google
secondary infertility g-
Google helpfully supplies
secondary infertility guilt
secondary infertility grief
secondary infertility giving up
I don't know what's next. I didn't honestly believe that I'd be here. I somehow trusted in the narratively satisfying ending of my third attempt succeeding. I am beginning to suspect that my uterus is not all that invested in my narrative satisfaction.
I would like to tag this with "moving on" but I'm not at all sure where I'm moving on to.
Sunday, October 6, 2013
It's all over but the bleedin'.
Hcg 115. Game over. Not too surprised -- after the bleed on Thursday night, on Friday I passed something suspiciously... embryo-like. I had this wild fantasy that maybe it was one of twins (really, self? With those betas?) but yeah, no. Honestly, I knew it was over then.
At least the timing is actually pretty good. I'm about to go to Vegas for a week for a conference, and now I won't have to bring shots. And I can drink coffee, and take the antihistamines I've been denying myself for the past two weeks. And it is blessedly not dragging me through beta hell, meandering across and down in a laggardly fashion -- that's a damn good sharp plunge. Almost as if I'd, you know, passed the entire sac on Friday. So I hope that's a sign that this will be over cleanly.
If not, though, I'm going to Vegas equipped. In my cosmetics bag I have a DIY uterine evacuation kit, leftovers from the last round: misoprostol, Zofran, painkillers. If this drags on in a painful way I can take care of it quickly. I probably won't use it, but I find it incredibly comforting that I have it.
At least the timing is actually pretty good. I'm about to go to Vegas for a week for a conference, and now I won't have to bring shots. And I can drink coffee, and take the antihistamines I've been denying myself for the past two weeks. And it is blessedly not dragging me through beta hell, meandering across and down in a laggardly fashion -- that's a damn good sharp plunge. Almost as if I'd, you know, passed the entire sac on Friday. So I hope that's a sign that this will be over cleanly.
If not, though, I'm going to Vegas equipped. In my cosmetics bag I have a DIY uterine evacuation kit, leftovers from the last round: misoprostol, Zofran, painkillers. If this drags on in a painful way I can take care of it quickly. I probably won't use it, but I find it incredibly comforting that I have it.
Sitting here
Sitting here at the fertility clinic with my four year old I can honestly say that I've never felt like more of an asshole. There was truly no choice, but that's cold comfort for other patients. We're in a small side waiting room and I've promised Small Boy any toy he wants from Target if he only keeps his trap shut. So far he's complying, good kid.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Beta #3: still truckin' along
952, for a doubling time of 44.23. No complaints.
Ultrasound a week from Monday..
from 19dpo-22dpo:
from 16dpo-22dpo:
Ultrasound a week from Monday..
from 19dpo-22dpo:
from 16dpo-22dpo:
gulp.
Monday, September 30, 2013
19dpo: a surprise comeback?
Recap: After coming out of the gate strong with good pee-sticks, she managed to muff the first fence, scraping over beta #1 with a score of less than 100. Her form has improved considerably between the first and second fence. Beta #2 came back at a very respectable 308, for a doubling time of 44 hours. She's clearly rattled by the first fence, but let's not write her off just yet. This one may yet have a chance.
Okay, I'll... stop talking about myself in the third person as if I were a horse now. I'm a little punchy and adrenaline-y. My heart was pounding as I clicked open that email.
So! Here I am. Her Indoors is going away on a trip and then I'm going away on a trip so I get to learn how to give myself IM injections. Thank goodness my bum's mostly numb by now.
I'm grateful. What I wanted was either
1) A clearly good results, like this, or
2) A clearly bad results.
And, of course, I rather preferred #1.
I dreaded getting a 180, a 200, something like that -- not quite low enough to pull the plug immediately, but far too low to be healthy. So I'm damn grateful.
Next beta on Thursday.
Okay, I'll... stop talking about myself in the third person as if I were a horse now. I'm a little punchy and adrenaline-y. My heart was pounding as I clicked open that email.
So! Here I am. Her Indoors is going away on a trip and then I'm going away on a trip so I get to learn how to give myself IM injections. Thank goodness my bum's mostly numb by now.
I'm grateful. What I wanted was either
1) A clearly good results, like this, or
2) A clearly bad results.
And, of course, I rather preferred #1.
I dreaded getting a 180, a 200, something like that -- not quite low enough to pull the plug immediately, but far too low to be healthy. So I'm damn grateful.
Next beta on Thursday.
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