Kris Kringle and Tim Riggins are Helping Me Make a Baby!

When my husband comes home from work and there is a giant cardboard box on the front-porch, he usually assumes that I had too many glasses of white wine and spent $200 at J. Crew again.  This is followed by a lecture from him about how we need to watch our spending, to which I explain "I needed four additional cardigan sweaters in various pastel colors (and one more in navy blue because it goes with everything), new black cafe capri pants, and a florescent necklace/bracelet combo that brings out my summer tan. Plus, I got it on clearance and saved $79!"  If he remains unconvinced, I always like to add in "Honey, it's for work. I can't look sloppy, and the alums from school usually donate extra money if I am wearing a lavender cardigan!"  Eventually he will give in, stop arguing with me, and mumble begrudgingly to himself as he goes upstairs to change while I sit on the sofa and celebrate my victory.

A giant cardboard box arrived today, but this one is filled with something much more delightful (and way more expensive) than over-priced preppy women's wear.  Take a look inside, because evidently Santa Claus came early for this Jewish 29 year-old this year! What did he bring me, you ask?  Well take a peak, because this shit is on every child's wish-list:

(to be fair, this is not a picture of my actual medications--half of my meds are currently at the doc's office, and I pick them up this weekend!  For the sake of "shock value" I stole this one off of Google Images. Thank you to whomever snapped this photo.)

Needles, and creepy drugs, and estrogen patches and gauze pads, and a special container bio hazard container to throw them all away when I am done! Thank you, Kris Kringle...it's just what I asked for! No more IUIs for this chick, I am pulling out the big guns (and big needles) and moving on to IVF. My first appointment is this Sunday, and if all goes as planned I will start the injections on Sunday night.

I have mapped out how the first evening is going to go. I will lay down gracefully on the bed and ice my stomach while listening to soothing tunes and thinking about Tim Riggins. My husband will then swiftly inject me with his doctor-y precision, and I will fail to notice any pain or discomfort. Then I will emerge from the bedroom, and take a lovely stroll to the freezer, where I will return my ice-pack and exchange it for a large portion of Ben and Jerry's ice-cream. Whose the bitch now, infertility? I'm coming for you!

           

Facebook check-in: Still Totally Barren, Thanks for Stopping By!

I stayed away from Facebook for 5 months after I lost the baby. Recently I decided that enough time has passed, and that I was emotionally strong enough to resume the online stalking and silent judging of people I haven't spoken to since middle school.  Well perhaps I should have thought more critically about restarting my Facebook habit, because evidently, everyone I have ever met is pregnant. So are all of their friends.  Are any of you ladies out there looking for a quick and easy way to conceive?  Friend me on Facebook.  It's like magic.

Now don't get me wrong.  I am not entirely disillusioned; I get it. I am almost thirty years old, which is prime "we're expecting!" time.  For most people, you get married (this step is optional, especially if you are a reality television star) wait a few months to settle in to domestic bliss, have some sex without a condom, and make a baby.  Of course all the happy expectant folks out there want to share their joy and post incessantly about their pregnancies.  That's essentially what Facebook is for if you are married and ready to start a family.  If I could, I would do it to.  I assure you all...I love looking at your daily bump pics, every sonogram photo, the tiny little booties you made with multi-colored yarn, the baby names you are considering, and how bloated you feel.  Let me update all of you on how things are going with me:

• "Day 5 of my fertility drug regimen! Night sweats, insane and blinding rage, and painfully engorged ovaries!  Now who wants to have sex with me?"
• "Daily cervical mucus check-in! For more details, check out my chart on fertility friend!"
• "Lying on table with dildo cam inside of my hoo-ha. Uterine lining looking strong this month at 10.6 [insert tasteful photo of internal ultrasound here.]"
• "Blood pregnancy test is negative. What's for dinner? A 6-pack of Dale's Pale Ale. Dessert? A bucket of my tears."
• "Drinking for 2 at the friendly neighborhood bar! Visibly barren for 6 months and counting :) "

Everyone told me that once I got pregnant the first time (no easy feat) getting pregnant again would be a walk in the park.  I heard countless tales from women who had tried for a year, taken Clomid to conceive, delivered their baby and then magically they fell pregnant with their second/third/fourth/fifteenth child after only one month of trying.  After I lost the little one, I told myself that I would be one of those magic women.  It would only take a month or two, and then I could restart my pregnancy journey.  I knew all the tricks, I had my fertility drugs ready to go, and I was ready to give this baby thing another try.  Well it looks like I missed the fertile ferry, because I am still waiting at the dock and it seems the ship has already sailed.

Next month I am supposed to start IVF.  In 24 days (not that I am obsessively counting) I will have graduated to the place where I get to stick needles filled with viscous medication into my stomach and ass-cheeks.  How's that for a Facebook photo-op?  Who wants to be the first one to "like" my bruised ass?

It's Cinco de Mayo...Who Peed in my Margarita?

Today was my due date.  I have spent the past four and a half months trying to ignore how many weeks pregnant I was "supposed" to be, and now I've finally reached the end.  When my husband and I found out we were expecting on Cinco de Mayo, we laughed and joked about serving margaritas in the delivery room. We had announced the pregnancy at 12 weeks after our Level 1 ultrasound came back "perfect" with a photo of the two of us riding a fake burro and wearing giant somberos and ponchos.  We had taken the photo several years before when we were on vacation in Mexico, and had just spent the afternoon downing rum punch and stumbling around the streets in an attempt to make it back to our cruise ship.  Ahhhh, the good old days.

I don't really feel much like celebrating today, but I could definitely use a very strong margarita (or twelve.) The past 9 months have been the best and worst of my life.  The day I found out I was pregnant, the first time I heard my baby's heartbeat, feeling the little guy move and hiccup were all amazing and indescribable. I was so happy that I literally woke up smiling every single day, even when I had been up until 3am the night before, gnawing on chalky Tums and grimacing through extreme heartburn.  The day that my husband and I went in for our Level 2 Ultrasound and found out that our baby was suffering from a lethal skeletal dysplasia, and the 48 hours of procedures and pain that followed the diagnosis were my rock bottom. 20 weeks have passed since then, and I am still waiting to wake up in the morning with a smile.

I wanted SO badly to be pregnant by my due date; a small victory that would help to dissipate the sadness I feel. After getting the "go ahead", we tried Clomid for one cycle, and then Clomid + IUI last month.  Of course neither worked, and all I got were a wastebasket full of negative pregnancy tests and a bunch of empty wine bottles.  Currently we are trying our third round of Clomid (they only let you do 6 rounds total before you move onto IVF.)  I've been so worried about our 3/4 odds that I think I forgot just how difficult it is for me to conceive in the first place.  My husband keeps telling me to focus on the big picture, that it won't matter ten years from now which month we ended up conceiving our healthy little one(s).  I know that he is right, but every month that passes is another month that I don't have the baby I was supposed to bring home today.

Back in the Stirrups Again

So it's been awhile since I have posted anything to this blog, but this morning someone out there in cyberspace (and no, it was not my mother) contacted me to say that she was in the middle of reading my entries.  In her message to me, she told me that my blog was a blessing to her, as she was in the midst of her own tough pregnancy prognosis and feeling very alone. I assumed that my "page view count" was inflated due to the fact that I'm constantly clicking on it and waiting for someone to spam me with pop-ups directing me "how to date hot, xxx, local singles in your area"...but evidently my ramblings have resonated with someone. I started writing this blog so that I didn't feel isolated in my grief and fear, and I am so glad that putting my words and stories out there has helped someone else.  It is estimated that about 6 million women in the United States deal with infertility, and that 1/33 babies are born with some type of birth defect.  This blog is for each one of you.

Moving away from the sentimental and on to the speculum...let's talk about my vagina.  (How's that for a transition? Subtlety has always been one of my strongest qualities.) Having recently come to terms with the fact that the $16,000 we plunked down has gotten us absolutely nowhere in the genetic testing realm, my husband and I have decided to try and conceive again...the old fashioned way! Of course, in my case, old fashioned includes: a bunch of fertility drugs, freakishly unpredictable rage, a dildo-cam transvaginal ultrasounds, sex scheduled down to the hour, and a teeny catheter filled with the highest quality semen that my dear husband can produce with 30 minutes notice. Cue the romantic music and soft-core porn lighting--it's time to make a baby!

9 days ago, I had my second IUI.  The first one ended up getting me preggo, so I have to admit that I have high hopes for this one.  I know there is only about a 20% chance of it working, but shitty odds are kind of my specialty, so I'm keeping my head up.  I went in to the procedure with the intent of being super calm and zen-like about the whole thing, even bringing in a playlist made of amazing songs by Explosions in the Sky (they did a ton of the music for THE BEST SHOW EVER IN LIFE, Friday Night Lights.  Also any band with "explosions" in their name seemed appropriate since I was being shot full of sperm.)

The procedure was super easy and only took like 3 minutes. My doctor kept apologizing profusely for any cramping or pain I was experiencing, but after the horrors of a laminaria insertion while 21 weeks pregnant, I could get a flexible catheter threaded up my cervix hole all day, every day. #YOLO (just kidding, I don't even really know what that means, or why I typed it, but I am feeling a little punchy.)  After she was done, I lay on the table with my hips up and listened to my calming songs.  Then I got dressed, picked up a giant Dunkin Donuts iced coffee, and went home.  I took a pregnancy test twenty minutes later.

Just kidding.  But I really want to take one now.

Fertility Drugs Make You Mean.

May the Odds be (N)ever in Your Favor

It's been a while since I've posted anything. I had nothing new to say since we had been ordered by our fertility doctor to hold off on trying to conceive.  Waiting was absolute torture for me, and I felt like I was just wasting valuable time (and eggs!)  My husband kept reminding me that one month is not going to make any difference in the grand scheme of things, but the crazy voice in the back of my head kept telling me that this might very well be the month I was supposed to get pregnant, and that this baby would be healthy! Luckily we managed to adhere to the doctor's orders and now I am waiting for my next cycle to start.

Whenever I wanted to poke holes in the condoms or trick my husband into having sex with me while he was intoxicated, I would remind myself that soon we would have our genetic tests back! In a matter of weeks we would know for sure if IVF PGD was an option for us, and we could do everything in our power to ensure our next baby was healthy.  We were told that with the micro-array and specific panel, there was a 70% chance that our mutation would be found.  70% sounded good to me and I told myself every night that our luck would finally change.  Why wouldn't we be in that group?  It was the most likely scenario, and the universe totally owed us a favor.

Well, last week we got our genetic testing results back.  They sucked.  

We are in the 30% category...otherwise known as the "sucks to be you, hope you like 25% odds of having a baby that is not compatible with life" category. Seriously? How bad can our luck be? 

It is estimated that around 1/50,000 people has the EVC mutation, so the fact that I have it is very rare.  I have no family history of the disease and show absolutely no symptoms that would lead anyone to believe I am a carrier.  In fact, the condition is seen predominately in the Amish community, and although I did enjoy the show "Breaking Amish" on TLC, I have no real discernible ties to the community.  In fact, I would probably be the worst Amish person ever.  Now add in the fact that both my husband and I have the mutation and you are left with a possibility that is almost statistically impossible (1 out of 2,500,000,000.)

Two billion five hundred million.  I don't even know how to wrap my mind around those odds. 

Need some perspective on what those odds mean?  Because I know I do!  The following things are all more likely to occur (in order from most to least)

• Odds that you’ll live to 100: 1 in 50
• Odds of finding a four-leaf clover on the first try: 1 in 10,000
• Odds of having quadruplets: 1 in 700,000
• Odds of dying from parts falling off an airplane: 1 in 10 million
• Odds that you will die from a falling coconut: 1 in 250 million
• Odds that you will die from a shark attack: 1 in 300 million  (how is this less likely than dying from a falling coconut!? Those things must be super unpredictable!)

Reviewing this list makes me wonder which will happen first.  Will I die tragically from a rogue falling coconut, or will I finally get pregnant and have a healthy baby?

Black Magic Ultrasounds

Lucky for our friendly fertility doctor, we failed at getting pregnant last cycle despite taking Clomid and timing things just right. The doc made it very clear that he thought we should be abstaining until we get our test results back, and to drive his point home I secretly think he put a voodoo spell on me! This is because my day 21 progesterone level came back super high (22.9, indicating a very strong ovulation) and also because I sense that he has an evil residing in his heart that is usually associated with black magic!  Dark arts aside and truth be told, I knew immediately that I wasn't pregnant. Things didn't feel the same way that they did back in August the cycle we conceived.

My mother used to tell me "I knew the minute I was pregnant with each one of you girls".  I assumed that she knew this because she and my father only had sex 3 times EVER.  The first time created me and the other two, my sisters. Also, for the record, they had sex in total darkness and there was a very thick sheet between them.  I hate to admit this [cringe] but I guess if I am being realistic, they probably had sex 4 times. I'm guessing the initial encounter occurred on their wedding night...you know, to make things official. According to all the books out there, feeling pregnant before week 6 when the nausea takes over your life and you fall into a sleep-coma every day at 2pm is impossible, because your hormones have not built up enough to take effect.  Those stupid books lie, because just like my mom knew immediately that she was knocked up, I knew that I wasn't.

Two weeks have passed since then, and I have gone in for a billion blood tests and some pretty fantastical procedures to get me ready for possible IVF PGD.  Just around a year ago, the first time I ever had an internal ultrasound done, I felt super violated and creeped out. When I booked the appointment nobody ever
had the decency to tell me that the ultrasound tech basically invades your lady-parts with a camera dildo (not the fun kind) and jabs it around while you lie there and stare at the ceiling. Anyone else having a flashback to losing their virginity? Well it turns out that those ultrasounds are actually a lovely walk in the proverbial park compared to the IVF prerequisite testing.

Hey ladies, you know what is super fun? Getting saline and dye injected through a catheter up your cervix, into your uterus, and through your fallopian tubes! Don't believe me? Try it! It's the perfect combination of comfort, relaxation, and intimacy with your physician and his trusty nurse practitioner! Thankfully for me, I was two Vicodin deep and, like the mature and professional woman I am, giggled through most it while making tasteful jokes about vaginal infiltration.

I did find out that (at least for now) my ovarian cysts are in hibernation and are nowhere to be seen. I am also happy to report that I am totally and completely done with the pre-IVF checklist.  The only thing I am waiting on, is to hear back from the genetics laboratory about whether or not they were able to locate our mutation.  If not, it seems I went through all these tests for the pure pleasure of the camera dildo.

Almost Famous?

When I was in middle school, I used to want to be a famous actress. My best friend and I dreamed about going to UCLA together where we would both major in theater, have amazingly handsome boyfriends, be co-presidents of our sorority, and have the perfect year-round tans.  After graduation, my friend was planning on moving to New York City, where she would promptly land a lead role on Broadway and pick up a couple of Tony Awards before she hit 30. I knew that I was a great actress, but due to my grating singing voice and the complete inability to master complex dance choreography, I figured that I would just stick around Los Angeles and audition for CW dramas until I landed on the next "Dawson's Creek."  The prospect of making out with Joshua Jackson fueled me alongside my desire for fame.

Fast forward 15 years, and I still have not appeared on any CW shows, not even as an extra (though I do watch many of them regularly despite my advanced age.)  I was active in theater throughout high-school and college, but quickly realized that I would never be a famous actress. To be fair, the odds were never in my favor; my parents are not Hollywood royalty, I have super small boobs and an ample bottom, and despite what my first semester of college suggests, I will not sleep with strangers to get ahead in life.  Although things turned out a little bit different than what the middle-school version of me had imagined (I live in Connecticut for god's sake) I sometimes do feel like I am a professional actress, especially lately.

Over the past couple of months, I have had countless people tell me how brave I am.  They say things to me like "I just cannot believe you well you are doing!" and "You handle this with such grace."  When I take a step back and look at my life, I have to admit that it looks pretty damn good.  I've gotten a great promotion at work, I'm going back to the gym again (okay, I've been twice, but it still counts!), I go out with friends and drink beers and smile and laugh,  I have Sunday dinners with my family.  My life seems totally normal because I act like it is.  Most days, I am totally faking it...so I guess I might just be a professional actress after all.

I am supposed to be 32 weeks pregnant and complaining about how often I have to pee, and how nothing fits me anymore.  I am supposed to be having my baby shower this month and opening adorable onesies and diaper genies and stuffed animals to decorate the farm-animal themed nursery.  I am supposed to be excited for one of my friends who is very newly pregnant after struggling to conceive for a long time.  I am supposed to someone completely different; I am supposed to be happy, but I'm not.

Honestly, I feel like a zombie at work and have to close my door for 20 minutes every afternoon so that I can cry.  I make thousands of to-do lists because my mind is too fuzzy to remember everything that I am supposed to get done, even when the only thing I've assigned myself is "send back the Netflix".  I only want to eat pizza.  I can't sleep because I have dreams about holding a baby that doesn't exist anymore.  When I find out that my friends are pregnant, I am filled with anger and jealousy and it makes me feel sick.  I am starting to worry that if I tell people how I really feel they are not going to want to hang out with me anymore because they have to handle me with "kid gloves" (unfortunate term!) Even I am sick and tired of hearing about how miserable I am.

On top of it all, my husband and I have been told that we need to take a break trying to conceive until our test results come back.  We still have weeks to go, and every day that we have to wait makes me feel worse. I hate just sitting around, not doing anything to get back what we lost. Lucky for me, I am super great at acting like everything is okay.                        

I Shaved My Legs for This?

Today my husband and I met with the fancy infertility doctor who specializes in IVF with PGD.  Since we are still waiting on our test results for the EVC mutation, I was afraid that the appointment would be pointless...but it is so hard to get in to see this guy that we figured we would just go.  I went above and beyond this morning by shaving my legs for the first time since 2011 since I figured I would be revisiting the silver stirrups for an examination.  Turns out that I have been poked and prodded and tested enough recently, so we just skipped ahead to the awkward part where we get to talk with the 20 year old medical student about all the shit that is wrong with me.

My husband and I sat down in the exam room and the medical student took my lengthy history.  Hubby sat there silently, probably wondering why nobody cared about his fascinating background (like that time sophomore year in college when he broke his arm playing flag football. Yup, a non-contact sport...)  Prior to the appointment, I had filled out 20+ pages of forms detailing everything from "do you have any allergies to medications?" to "what is your favorite color of Starburst, and why?"  I completely understand that medical students can only learn by seeing patients and practicing their skills, but watching her get all flustered as she flipped back and forth through my ginormous chart was a little bit painful.  How was it possible that my chart had already grown to such a preposterous size?  I'd only been in the office for 8 minutes! What was in there? 

The first question that she asked me, was "so tell me about your baby."  I paused, took a deep breath, and told myself that the answer she was looking for was not "well, he's dead."  I know that is terribly morbid, but the truth is that I didn't know him at all.  I never had the chance to.  I wish I could have told her "well, he is wonderful and healthy and has brown hair and big brown eyes.  He loves the color green and plays with trucks and is afraid of the dark so he sleeps with a nightlight."  Instead, I started listing off all of the abnormalities that were seen on the ultrasound.  This laundry list of fatal flaws is all I know about my baby.  Can we move on to the next question, please?  By the way, I enjoy the pink Starbursts most of all because they are super refreshing and delicious, and make me feel fancy.

Meeting with the doctor was fine, I guess.  We had been warned that he was all business, and not the warm, fuzzy type.  I can deal with serious...all I cared about was whether or not he would laugh at my hilarious jokes!  He showed us some generic diagrams of an embryo dividing and we pretended to be fascinated, even though we had seen it before.  Then he told us that we can get through all of the pre-IVF tests (bloods, semen analysis, saline ultrasound and trial transfer) as soon as I start my next cycle.  That way, we'll have all the ducks in a row the moment that our genetic results come in.  If the gene mutation cannot be identified, we will resume the Clomid and IUI protocol.  He recommends that we do a total of 3 IUIs and then move on to IVF if none of them result in a pregnancy.

When I mentioned that I took Clomid this cycle and am now 4 days post-ovulation, he was NOT pleased. I finally saw that "prickly bedside manner" I had heard so much about.  "Well most couples in your situation are using birth control, not trying to actively conceive a child" he said brusquely.  "You realize that you have 1 in 4 odds, and had you just waited a month or two, you could very well avoid another terrible outcome."  Awkward silence ensued.  The poor medical student (she was sitting in the room during the consult) looked at me with sad, pained eyes, and I made a smooshed up face and tried to think of something mature to say, but then just focused on not crying.

Thanks for the newsflash, Dr. McDouche--I came here so that you can get me preggo, not scold me over a decision that my husband and I agonized over.  For the love of god, I put a thermometer up my hoo-ha every single morning at precisely 7:30am to check my basal body temperature. I pee on tiny sticks 15 days every month and cry when they are negative. I wanted to scream out "HAVEN'T YOU READ MY BLOG!? My mom reads it all the time and she says it's well written and very good! Highly informative with a bit of whimsical humor!"  Of course I realize what my odds are.  They are 3/4 that I will have a healthy baby and 1/4 that I will not.  Now give me my drugs, schedule my blood draws, and help me make a baby.

Future Olympic Curling Champion

Happy Valentine's Day everyone!  This morning has been extra sweet because my school had a delayed opening due to the terrible snow storm yesterday, so I got to sleep in a bit.  The extra rest was much needed considering my hubby and I stayed up super late watching the Olympics together.  One of my favorite parts has always been the human interest stories that NBC peppers in throughout the sporting events.  I will watch every single one of them while choking back tears, even the ones about men's curling, which I am convinced is actually just average dudes in parkas sweeping little brooms super fast (which I guess is kind of spectacular considering my husband has never picked up a broom in his life.)  When I have a son or daughter one day, I am totally going to convince them to devote all of their time to curling.  I figure any child that has half of my genes will have absolutely no athletic prowess to speak of, so sweeping is probably the place to focus.  [Side note: if anyone who reads this blog--though I am pretty sure it's just my mom--is actually super into curling, I am sorry. Way to go! Curling is so hip!]

Last night, there was a feature about Noelle Pikus-Pace, an American skeleton racer who is competing in her third Olympic games.  Noelle retired the day after the 2010 Olympics so that she could spend more time with her husband and daughter (she now has a son, too) and continue to build a family.  In 2012 she found out she was pregnant again with a little girl, but she lost her at 18 weeks; the doctors could not find any medical reason for her loss.  As a way to heal, Noelle's husband encouraged her to get back into skeleton racing...and she now finds herself in Sochi going for Olympic gold.  Here is a link to an article that speaks more about her loss and journey.

Obviously I connected with Noelle's story in a way that is far deeper than your average television viewer, but I cannot stress enough how refreshing it felt to hear from a brave woman who has gone through something devastating, and managed to come out stronger on the other side.  Every time I check out a celebrity gossip website it seems like another young celebutante with a cocaine addiction and a string of failed marriages is announcing her pregnancy.  The girls from Teen Mom have gaggles of tiny babies following them around, and half the time they don't even know how they got pregnant in the first place (hint: it's because you had unprotected sex in the back of a Chevy truck after your seventh glass of pink Franzia.)  As I struggle with infertility and loss and trying to conceive a healthy baby, stories like Noelle's make me realize that I am not alone.  I am not about the pick up skeleton racing--curling is much more my speed--but I know that ultimately I will come out stronger on the other side just like Noelle.

The "New Normal"

Close to 95% of the time, I feel "normal" now.  I still have moments where I see a chubby little infant swaddled in his mother's arms in line at Chipotle and find my eyes filling with tears, or nights when I wake up and instinctively put my hand over my stomach to feel my baby, but most days pass exactly like they did before I ever got pregnant.  I drink too much wine on Tuesdays (I use the term "Tuesday" loosely.  I originally wrote "weekday", but it made me sound like a lush), I try and convince my husband that eating 32 pieces of sushi in one sitting is standard, if not below average, and I put on my eyeliner every single day to prove that I am not depressed. I'd say that the hardest part of returning to my old routine, is how much of my time revolves around trying to conceive.

Recently, my fertility doctor advised me to wait two full cycles after our loss before we took "extra measures" (IUI/Clomid to induce ovulation) because even though my body healed quickly, he wanted to make sure that I was in [insert long pause to convey sensitivity and thoughtfulness] the right place emotionally.  Little does that poor doctor know, I have never been able to settle comfortably in the "right place" emotionally--I prefer to teeter between "inappropriately compassion-less joke machine" and "I'm sobbing uncontrollably because I just paper-cut my finger on tinfoil and it hurts way more than I thought possible."  I agreed to forego any procedures this month, but insisted on taking the Clomid, because I like how it gives me uncontrollable anger and makes my ovaries feel like golf balls.

Ovulation is now just around the corner, and once again I've found myself jolting out of bed in the morning the moment my alarm goes off so that I can take my temperature and pee on 3 different brands of OPKs (ovulation predictor kits.)  Yes, I fully comprehend how insane it is that I use three different brands--but what if one of them malfunctions?  Or the line is too hard to read?  Or I drop it in the toilet?  You have to prepare for these things!  I line them all up on my windowsill and study them intently at least three times a day, looking for marginal color-shifts to indicate hormonal changes or a tiny invisible neon sign that blinks "WARNING: EGG IS RELEASING. SUPER FERTILE".  As you can likely imagine, this is exhausting, and only one step in the monthly whirlwind of trying to conceive.

I suppose that one of the ways that I know I am approaching "normal" again is that I can allow myself to be this crazy. The rituals and insanity bring me an odd sense of comfort and something to focus on.  Speaking of something to focus on, I should probably go; it's been four hours since I last studied my OPKs.

Poverty or Hammock Sex?

So I finally got the news I'd been waiting for from the genetic counselor, and it was totally lame and unsatisfying.  The micro-array sequencing came back "normal" and no mutation(s) were found on the EVC genes.  Hearing "normal" almost made me laugh since absolutely nothing about our baby or this experience falls into the normal category.  In a pathetic attempt to make me feel less discouraged, the counselor told me that only around 10% of EVC cases are spotted through this micro-array, and that we would have a much better shot if we sent the cell cultures to a different lab for a more specialized test.  This new test will take 40-60 days and 60% of cases can be confirmed with it.

Let me get this straight... I had been waiting on pins and needles for a craptastic 10% shot? Why wasn't this made clear to me?  It took every ounce of patience I had to wait out those 8-10 business days, during which I tore through 22 episodes of The Vampire Diaries to distract myself.  I am 29 years old, there is NO WAY I should be watching that show.  Now I am supposed to wait 60 days!?  There is not a show on television that is trashy enough to sustain me for that long!  I begged the genetics counselor to find out about expediting the new test assuming that we would just pay out of pocket for the extra cost, but then I found out that the test needs to be run three times.  One for me, one for my husband, and one on the little dude.  Expediting the tests would run about $2,400 and at the end of it we still might not have any answers.  $2,400?! I would rather take an all-inclusive tropical vacation where I can drink myself into a stupor and have hammock sex with my husband, thankyouverymuch.

Speaking of that handsome dude, last night my husband and I sat through a 3-hour informational session on IVF.  The fertility center that we have been considering using moving forward requires attendance at one of these sessions before you can meet with one of their specialists.  They made us sign in at the beginning and then sign out at the end, so they knew we were there for the entire thing.  I would make a sick joke about how it was so intense that we had to promise them our first born child, but that just doesn't seem right.

Why did we go to this? It was not for the snacks, which were sub-par.  It's because if we want to use PGD as an option (which seems like a more distant possibility with every passing day, as locating the EVC mutation is IMPOSSIBLE!) we need to be cleared for IVF.  We cannot do one without the other.  So now, I know everything about subcutaneous injections, blastocysts, and Ovarian Hyper-Stimulation Syndrome. However, I still don't know anything about how I am supposed to have a healthy baby.

This morning I got a "high" reading on my ClearBlue Fertility monitor.  Welcome to fertile territory?  I should ovulate in 4-7 days, which means that if my hubby's sperm show up to do their job (they only work part time) I could get knocked up very soon.  Those 1 in 4 odds are staring me in the face right now, but I want to see those 2 pink lines SO badly that I think I might take them.

7-10 Business Days

It has now been 8 business days since the laboratory in Palo Alto received the DNA samples from our little guy. We were told that the micro-array/EVC panel would take 7-10 business days, which means that at any moment, my phone could ring with the results.  It's too bad that staring creepily at my phone doesn't make it ring.  I can't decide if I am feeling anticipation or dread, or a strange combination of both. Dreadipation? Anticidread? Whatever it is, no amount of red wine or US Weekly magazine can get rid of it.  I bring my phone into the bathroom at work just in case they call me while I am peeing, and I call the lab every single day at 4:55pm just to "check in".  I am waiting for them to block my # or file a restraining order.

I have played out the two different scenarios in my head over and over again, usually at night when I am trying to fall asleep but my mind won't quiet down.  In the first, the lab tells me that there is a definitive diagnosis.  All of the ultrasound findings were correct, and our little guy had Ellis Van Creveld.  It's a diagnosis that is almost always fatal, and is not something that I would have ever thought I wanted to hear...but it's clear and comprehensive and I can look it up on WebMD.  I can tell people "we are carriers for this syndrome, and here is a print-out which explains the details!" Knowing exactly what we are dealing with also opens up new options in terms of trying to conceive.  IVF with PGD (preimpantation genetic diagnosis) is the first thing on my mind, as long as I don't think too hard about all of the injections and hormones and giant needles.  I already have a meeting scheduled in 2 weeks with an amazing doctor who specializes in the procedure, and hope I don't have to cancel it.

The second scenario is the one I am more scared of.  The one that I hold my breath for because it makes me  feel dizzy and off-balance.  "The results were inconclusive".  "Unfortunately we weren't able to pinpoint the mutation".  "The sample was compromised because the lab tech accidentally urinated into it". "Your luck is shitty and so are these results!" Not knowing is terrifying, because it makes me feel even more out of control. Accepting that I will likely have to end another pregnancy sometime in our journey makes me feel sick and incredibly angry.  All I want is to have a healthy baby, and I may have to lose a piece of my heart every single time I try.  How many times can I do that?  Sometimes I can't even believe I already managed to do it once without permanently falling apart.

Whichever scenario we are faced with, it's the one we have to live in. Knowing or not knowing. IVF PGD or 1 in 4.  Heartache in the best way, or heartbreak in the worst.  If only that damn phone would ring so I could stop feeling so stuck.

My Silent Grief is Overwhelmingly Talkative.

The "silent grief" that so many women struggle with surrounding infertility and losing a baby is not something that I suffer from.  Don't get me wrong--the grief part, I get...but I've never been a fan of being silent.  I am gregarious and loud.  I love to laugh and make jokes and tell stories. I am emotive and emotional and a chronic over-sharer.  I can have entire conversations with myself, with my dogs, with the television (or, lucky for all of you, with this blog!)  I am going to put it all out there so I don't have to feel like the grief I feel is wrong, or bad, or permanent.  This is my story.

I met my husband in college, stalked him for a few months, and convinced him to fall in love with me.  We dated for years, moved around for medical school and jobs, and finally got married seven years later, in April of 2011.  Of course I had been dreaming about the super adorable children that we would have since the first time I spotted him in the college dining hall...and now we could finally make it happen!  We both had good jobs, an adorable 4 bedroom house, a savings account (mostly empty, but still!)  Now all we had do to was throw away the birth control pills and Magnum condoms (you're welcome, honey) and get busy! Right!? 

We tried (and tried, and tried, and tried) to get pregnant the old fashioned way.  At first it was fun! Unprotected sex felt exhilarating and dangerous, like when I stole a lip gloss from Claire's in the seventh grade.  "This could be it. The day that I got pregnant! I am such an adult with my hip unprotected sex."  I thought to myself each time.  But after months had passed without so much as a pregnancy scare, I went to the doctor to figure out what was up.  I assumed they would tell me that I was just being anxious and that I was perfect and healthy with A+ quality ovaries filled with little baby-making eggs.  Instead, they told me that my ovaries were covered in cysts, and that I wasn't ovulating.  No ovulation, no pregnancy.  Epic fail.  They diagnosed me with "lean PCOS" and sent me home with a pamphlet and a prescription.

I thought that the diagnosis of PCOS was devastating, but quickly learned that all I needed was a little bit of Clomid to help me ovulate every month.  HUZZAH! I am victorious! Just needed a some light medical intervention in the form of a tiny white pill that makes me super mean and gives me headaches of doom and intense hot flashes. Right?!  Well it turned out that I wasn't the only one with a problem.  Despite more and more unprotected sexy time, complete with eggs galore, I still had no baby.

My husband's sperm was tested and it turns out that they are the only part of him that has ever "underachieved" at anything. This guy is brilliant and kind and handsome as hell, but evidently his sperm did not get the memo.  A urologist couldn't find any medical reason, and although his counts were bad, they weren't terrible, so I put him on some supplements I found on Amazon (they are legit! I promise!) and we moved on to IUI to improve our chances.

Had an IUI in August of 2013. I waited patiently for 11 days without peeing on a single stick.  Got home from an exhausting day of work and took a pregnancy test.  POSITIVE.  Holy shit.  We did it.  THERE IS A TINY BABY IN THERE!  Got through the blood draws, the first ultrasound (heard the heartbeat!), blood panels and tests, 12 week ultrasound, more tests.  Everything was perfect.  I could feel the baby kicking. We told everyone, and counted down the days until our 20 week appointment/ultrasound where we would find out the gender of our little bean.  

This is where shit gets real.  My husband and I walk into the appointment filled with joy and anticipation. The dreams we have for our family are immense, and filled with a million possibilities.  I secretly want a little girl, and I know he wants a little boy...but I don't really care either way because the two of us made a baby and he/she will be perfect.

Two hours later, we walk out of the office completely devastated. Our baby has been diagnosed with a fatal short rib polydactyly syndrome (exact type unknown, they needed to do a series of extensive genetic tests.) Before we left, we scheduled an appointment two days later to terminate the pregnancy.  The little one would never be able to breathe on his own because his lungs could not develop due to his extremely short ribs and small chest.  He had heart and brain defects and limb deformities.  He didn't even have 10 fingers or 10 toes.  How many times do you hear the doctor on television say "Congrats! A healthy baby with 10 fingers and 10 toes!"  Well, if you are me...you don't.

The news got harder.  Whatever syndrome our little one had is almost certainly auto-recessive.  This means that my husband and I both carry a silent genetic mutation and have a 25% change of passing this terrible syndrome on to a baby.  Right now we are still waiting on the genetic tests to get a definitive diagnosis, but 1 in 4 is always 25%, no matter what the official diagnosis is.  I thought getting pregnant was the hard part, but now I realize how it was just the first step in a terrifyingly difficult process.

Fast forward 6 weeks, and here I am.  The procedure is done, and the physical healing was quick.  The emotional part of me is something that has been irrevocably changed.  I am starting to feel "normal" again, but my new normal is different.  The thing I struggle most with is how badly I want to be pregnant again.  I yearn for it, I crave it, I think about it all the time.  But now I understand that simply being pregnant is not enough. I want something which I had always assumed would be a given; I want to be pregnant with a healthy baby. One with ten fingers and ten toes.  One in the 75%.  One that I can bring home.