It's a crazy hour of the day called 4:30am, and my house is filled with beautiful, sleeping people. I awoke because I needed to fill my stomach with Ritz crackers and cheese to calm the heartburn, and as my mind would cease to spin, I decided to get up and write. The last week and a half have been surreal, peaceful, and a whirling roller coaster all at the same time. My beta came back at 790, and now I count down the hours until Tuesday when I can see the sac(s) on my first ultrasound.
We've been heading nonstop towards our goal of starting a family, and it's been laced with heartbreak, depression, jealousy, self realization, growth, acceptance, and change. Now I sit here officially pregnant, and I'm euphoric, but also aware that my dream could rumble like a gentle earthquake in many ways. I'm five weeks and 3 days pregnant, which is more pregnant than I've ever been. That alone is a giant milestone, so I am treating my body like a rare, precious feather I found. I'm sleeping when tired, I'm drinking tons of fluids, I'm eating when hungry, and I'm exposing myself to nothing that could harm my precious embryo.
I've been staying relaxed, I've been visualizing the embryo dividing, thriving, living. However, I am a woman who wants this more than anything, and if signs cease that I have it, I become concerned. Wait, my boobs stopped hurting, crap. Wait, I haven't had indigestion in nine hours, why? Why am I having period like back pain? Fudge. Why aren't I exhausted? Piss! Then a symptom returns and I let it wash over me, I place my hand on my abdomen and I say yes, good embryo, thank you.
I've told several people closest to us. I know it's early and they say not to tell until you are out of the woods, but keeping secrets, even one like this, is not how I live my life. I believe your life is rich because of the people who live it with you, because of the love and trust you put out there, you will get showered with love and trust in return, and then you are rich. So my whole life has been lived truthfully and raw amongst the people I love, and this is what gets me through, their endless love, support, excitement, and warmth as I go day to day. So yes, I've told people. It's our first success, and I honestly believe that it's just that, a SUCCESS. So celebrating and talking about it is what I do.
I've met amazing women on this journey of trying to succeed (or conceive), and the other day I sent one of them a flood of messages over Twitter telling her I was scared, euphoric, crazy, why don't my boobs hurt? She calmed me for the millionth time in two weeks, and ended with this. She said, 'relax, stop, and breathe, and realize that right now, at this very moment, you are pregnant and you are happy. Let that take you from moment to moment.' So I've done exactly that, and that's made this new series of waits bearable, and even cherished.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
Tick Tock Tick Tock
I'm on pins and needles. I have light in my heart and butterflies in my stomach, because I think, yes, I think we may have finally done it. I was ready to give up, and if it weren't for my husband's love, perseverance, and faith that we could do it, I would have already. Allow me to shed some light on our life, so that if or when we get there, you feel like you know us better.
We've been madly in love for twelve years. This is the kind of love that after I spent twelve hours with the man, I was mapping out our entire future. I was 24 and he was 31, and he was and remains to be the most amazing human being I have ever met. He's smart as can be, but not that smart that shoves it in your face and makes you feel inferior. He's creative. He can turn a normal day into a magical journey, coming up with activities so fun in the shake of a lamb's tail. He's generous. He loves spoiling the people he loves, and he knows people so well that he gives gifts that you didn't even know you wanted, but suddenly can't live without. He's funny. I pee my pants a little on any given day because of the stuff that comes out of his mouth. He's the one person I can spend hour upon hour with, and I still, after twelve years, get sad when he has to go to work. He's my everything.
Shortly before my 29th birthday, we started actively trying to conceive. I say actively because we never used birth control. The pill makes me a tad nuts, so we said forget it, and decided to throw caution to the wind. I started using ovulation kits, and we'd do the deed then boost my hips up on a pillow. Every month I would be greeted by my period, but neither of us would be too surprised. We then moved onto IUI. No luck. After two cycles of IUI, we moved on to IVF, doing six cycles over two years, while nothing ever resulted in a pregnancy, and here we are.
Our problems are unexplained. No one knows why we have such a difficult time. Two months ago I had surgery to look for Endometriosis, they found a little and cleaned it up. They also did a D&C, just to refresh my lining. So here we are, on our sixth cycle. Dave said he was willing to try three cycles with our new and improved Reproductive Endocrinologist. I felt tired and heart broken.
So on Wednesday, which was 11 days past a 3 day embryo transfer, I peed on a stick. I haven't done that since our first cycle, as it can lead to insanity and severe depression. However, something told me to do it, and poof, there was a second, faint line. I have never in my life felt so euphoric. I knew it could be a false positive. I knew any number of things could go wrong. But I let myself feel that happiness, because I thought no matter what, I deserved a day of walking on a cloud.
So I peed on sticks Thursday and Friday, and the line kept showing up. Finally, on Saturday I bought a digital in the middle of the day. I peed on it. It read YES+. On sunday I did it again, a different test, and it read PREGNANT. So here I am. I just got my blood drawn, and I am insane about knowing the number. I have never been pregnant, I have no clue what the number means, but I know I want to see it. To know I haven't peed on fifteen faulty sticks.
Just seeing the second line gives me renewed hope. My uterus isn't broken. It still works, so my goal is visible now. This could be it, and I beg that all the good karma I have put into the Universe is going to come back to me. That the dream I've had since I was a little girl may come true. That my husband and I can witness the beauty of the world through a child's eyes. Tick Tock Tick Tock. It's mere hours now. Tick Tock Tick Tock.
We've been madly in love for twelve years. This is the kind of love that after I spent twelve hours with the man, I was mapping out our entire future. I was 24 and he was 31, and he was and remains to be the most amazing human being I have ever met. He's smart as can be, but not that smart that shoves it in your face and makes you feel inferior. He's creative. He can turn a normal day into a magical journey, coming up with activities so fun in the shake of a lamb's tail. He's generous. He loves spoiling the people he loves, and he knows people so well that he gives gifts that you didn't even know you wanted, but suddenly can't live without. He's funny. I pee my pants a little on any given day because of the stuff that comes out of his mouth. He's the one person I can spend hour upon hour with, and I still, after twelve years, get sad when he has to go to work. He's my everything.
Shortly before my 29th birthday, we started actively trying to conceive. I say actively because we never used birth control. The pill makes me a tad nuts, so we said forget it, and decided to throw caution to the wind. I started using ovulation kits, and we'd do the deed then boost my hips up on a pillow. Every month I would be greeted by my period, but neither of us would be too surprised. We then moved onto IUI. No luck. After two cycles of IUI, we moved on to IVF, doing six cycles over two years, while nothing ever resulted in a pregnancy, and here we are.
Our problems are unexplained. No one knows why we have such a difficult time. Two months ago I had surgery to look for Endometriosis, they found a little and cleaned it up. They also did a D&C, just to refresh my lining. So here we are, on our sixth cycle. Dave said he was willing to try three cycles with our new and improved Reproductive Endocrinologist. I felt tired and heart broken.
So on Wednesday, which was 11 days past a 3 day embryo transfer, I peed on a stick. I haven't done that since our first cycle, as it can lead to insanity and severe depression. However, something told me to do it, and poof, there was a second, faint line. I have never in my life felt so euphoric. I knew it could be a false positive. I knew any number of things could go wrong. But I let myself feel that happiness, because I thought no matter what, I deserved a day of walking on a cloud.
So I peed on sticks Thursday and Friday, and the line kept showing up. Finally, on Saturday I bought a digital in the middle of the day. I peed on it. It read YES+. On sunday I did it again, a different test, and it read PREGNANT. So here I am. I just got my blood drawn, and I am insane about knowing the number. I have never been pregnant, I have no clue what the number means, but I know I want to see it. To know I haven't peed on fifteen faulty sticks.
Just seeing the second line gives me renewed hope. My uterus isn't broken. It still works, so my goal is visible now. This could be it, and I beg that all the good karma I have put into the Universe is going to come back to me. That the dream I've had since I was a little girl may come true. That my husband and I can witness the beauty of the world through a child's eyes. Tick Tock Tick Tock. It's mere hours now. Tick Tock Tick Tock.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
A True Comedy of Errors
We have two amazing dogs. Bosco's almost two, and he's a blond beauty that looks exactly like a mini Golden Retriever but acts like a Chow Chow. Bowie is a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel who will be a year next week, and he's a mischievous, but brilliant, trouble maker. We had been petless for ten years, neither of us realizing what we were missing. Around my 3rd failed IVF, I cried that I needed something to love, something soft, furry, and amazing. Enter Bosco. Then nine months later, enter Bowie. We now have two beautifully behaved (most of the time) canines that we are nuts about.
Nearly every night we either take them to the dog park or out for a nice, long stroll. Last night it was a stroll. We have a series of canal's where we live that are a mile long on each side, with water in between, all separated by streets. We have a normal route that the dogs know very well, but we like to switch it up and challenge their brains. Normally it works out fine, the key word being normally.
It's been about 112 degrees during the day, so we walk around 7:30 or 8:00 in the evening. Last night we were trying to catch up on Mad Men, and realized we better walk before it got too dark out. So off we went, smartly deciding to mix it up on this very night. We headed across the road to a different section of canal, one we've only walked during the day, and not very often.
The way this part is different are the following: there are NO lights, the canal recesses steeply into water drainage, and is made of cement that comes off on a steep, vertical incline. We should have just turned around, but we didn't. We proceeded ahead, and here begins our comedy of errors.
Dave and I are walking along casually, completely calm, as the dogs are off leash. They are very responsive, we've been practicing off leash walking, and we hardly have to worry. They run a few feet ahead of us, sniffing, smelling, peeing, tails wagging in euphoric delight. Bowie walks closely to the bank of the canal, exploring, peering in the water, zig-zagging back and forth. All is going as smooth as can be...
Suddenly, Bowie goes to the bank of the canal, peers over the side, and is suddenly sliding down the cement bank and plunging head first into the murky, green, smelly water. Bowie is NOT the swimmer of the family, and he's 19 pounds, so there's not much to him. He's swimming, trying to make it up the slippery cement, only to slide back down. His yelps of fright fill the air.
Dave goes into instant action. The bank is too steep to lean over and pull Bowie out, so he sits down, throws off his Nike 6.0's (cause that's what they do in the movies), and jumps into the water in his clothes and socks like Superman. Bosco then decides he either needs to join this rocking party or rescue Dave and Bowie, we're not sure which. We now have both dogs swimming around and yelping, and Dave trying to get them both out of the wicked canal.
Dave then boosts first one dog, then two, onto the dirt path. Bowie is now running in circles barking, obviously upset that Dave's still in the canal. "I'm going to need a new Iphone 4," Dave says, as he realizes he took time to take off his Nike's (which he has at least 50 pairs of), but not to remove his cell phone, aka his life, from his shorts pocket. I bend down to anchor myself, giving Dave both my hands, but the cement is so mossy and slimy, and I have embryo's hopefully nesting in my uterus, so he didn't want me lifting. He tries to get himself out, but his socked feet just slip right back down to the bottom of the water.
Poor Dave then ends up having to walk down for at least a quarter mile. The murky water is up to his waist, the sludge sloshes under his socked feet, his stomach crawls as he thinks of what he is walking through. I slowly walk beside him as the dogs run around in agitated chaos. I wonder if I should call 911? Should I go home and get a ladder? Should I scream for help? I realize now that things weren't nearly this bad, but I was hormonal.
Finally there is a cement recess that goes straight up instead of at an incline, so Dave is able to hoist his messy, damp, algae rich body up and onto the dirt. He rescued not only our Cavalier, but himself. I am ecstatic. He is Captain Cavalier! My hero! He deserves a Brownie Button. We trudge home with two wet dogs and a wet husband. We march past the suspicious eyes of our neighbors, into the back yard, and throw the trio in the first bathing station, our pool. Everyone is still alive, but there is a causality, a beautiful, shiny, new Iphone 4 has died...
I couldn't help but laugh hysterically all the way home. It was funny. It was a great story. and my awesome husband was a great sport about it. Like I said, just call him Captain Cavalier.
Nearly every night we either take them to the dog park or out for a nice, long stroll. Last night it was a stroll. We have a series of canal's where we live that are a mile long on each side, with water in between, all separated by streets. We have a normal route that the dogs know very well, but we like to switch it up and challenge their brains. Normally it works out fine, the key word being normally.
It's been about 112 degrees during the day, so we walk around 7:30 or 8:00 in the evening. Last night we were trying to catch up on Mad Men, and realized we better walk before it got too dark out. So off we went, smartly deciding to mix it up on this very night. We headed across the road to a different section of canal, one we've only walked during the day, and not very often.
The way this part is different are the following: there are NO lights, the canal recesses steeply into water drainage, and is made of cement that comes off on a steep, vertical incline. We should have just turned around, but we didn't. We proceeded ahead, and here begins our comedy of errors.
Dave and I are walking along casually, completely calm, as the dogs are off leash. They are very responsive, we've been practicing off leash walking, and we hardly have to worry. They run a few feet ahead of us, sniffing, smelling, peeing, tails wagging in euphoric delight. Bowie walks closely to the bank of the canal, exploring, peering in the water, zig-zagging back and forth. All is going as smooth as can be...
Suddenly, Bowie goes to the bank of the canal, peers over the side, and is suddenly sliding down the cement bank and plunging head first into the murky, green, smelly water. Bowie is NOT the swimmer of the family, and he's 19 pounds, so there's not much to him. He's swimming, trying to make it up the slippery cement, only to slide back down. His yelps of fright fill the air.
Dave goes into instant action. The bank is too steep to lean over and pull Bowie out, so he sits down, throws off his Nike 6.0's (cause that's what they do in the movies), and jumps into the water in his clothes and socks like Superman. Bosco then decides he either needs to join this rocking party or rescue Dave and Bowie, we're not sure which. We now have both dogs swimming around and yelping, and Dave trying to get them both out of the wicked canal.
Dave then boosts first one dog, then two, onto the dirt path. Bowie is now running in circles barking, obviously upset that Dave's still in the canal. "I'm going to need a new Iphone 4," Dave says, as he realizes he took time to take off his Nike's (which he has at least 50 pairs of), but not to remove his cell phone, aka his life, from his shorts pocket. I bend down to anchor myself, giving Dave both my hands, but the cement is so mossy and slimy, and I have embryo's hopefully nesting in my uterus, so he didn't want me lifting. He tries to get himself out, but his socked feet just slip right back down to the bottom of the water.
Poor Dave then ends up having to walk down for at least a quarter mile. The murky water is up to his waist, the sludge sloshes under his socked feet, his stomach crawls as he thinks of what he is walking through. I slowly walk beside him as the dogs run around in agitated chaos. I wonder if I should call 911? Should I go home and get a ladder? Should I scream for help? I realize now that things weren't nearly this bad, but I was hormonal.
Finally there is a cement recess that goes straight up instead of at an incline, so Dave is able to hoist his messy, damp, algae rich body up and onto the dirt. He rescued not only our Cavalier, but himself. I am ecstatic. He is Captain Cavalier! My hero! He deserves a Brownie Button. We trudge home with two wet dogs and a wet husband. We march past the suspicious eyes of our neighbors, into the back yard, and throw the trio in the first bathing station, our pool. Everyone is still alive, but there is a causality, a beautiful, shiny, new Iphone 4 has died...
I couldn't help but laugh hysterically all the way home. It was funny. It was a great story. and my awesome husband was a great sport about it. Like I said, just call him Captain Cavalier.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Why am I here again?
Add insomnia to my list of ailments. Lots of them self diagnosed, except for one. Infertility. I have proven doctor after doctor correct in this diagnosis. However, my fertility does not define me (this is a mantra I say to myself out loud in the mirror daily. "My fertility does not define me," and "my weight does not define me").
I tossed and turned all night, and awoke from what little sleep I received with a pounding headache. I knew I had to do something, but what? What could make me feel better? Then my therapist's words came rushing back to me... "When you feel aggitated, write. Journal. It really helps." It's not like I've never journaled before. I kept a daily journal for years, but that was of a different time, a different era, and for very different reasons.
I was young, beautiful, without a single care in the world. I had the world at my fingertips, I was organized chaos spinning through a hedonistic life. I felt that all the wrongs that occured as a child were being righted, and that from here on out, I would never feel suffering again. I had earned unlimited happiness. Like I said, a different time, a different era.
Now I'm almost 37 years old, struggling to keep my head above water as I fight for the one thing I never thought I'd have to live without. I'm doing my 6th cycle of IVF, and I find out a week from today if this is it, if my patience, determination, and burning desire pay off. I'm doing my very best to maintain sanity, to keep busy, to act normal, but all I feel is a burning need to carry, hold, raise, love, and mold our child.
As a child myself, I didn't know what I wanted to be, who I wanted to be, or what I wanted to create out of my life. Instead of playing dress up, I'd play Mommy. As a child of 6 years old I had names picked out for my future children. I knew how I wanted to raise them, how I wanted to love them, and what I wanted to give them. A mother. Yes, that is what I wanted to be when I grew up.
So here I am, sitting at my computer blogging again. But this time it's for myself only. It's an attempted tool to maintain my sanity, to get through, and to possibly find myself again. There is a life I am missing, that I have lost, so I will attempt to find balance in letting my thoughts and feelings that are locked within stream out through the keyboard. Ready... Go.
I tossed and turned all night, and awoke from what little sleep I received with a pounding headache. I knew I had to do something, but what? What could make me feel better? Then my therapist's words came rushing back to me... "When you feel aggitated, write. Journal. It really helps." It's not like I've never journaled before. I kept a daily journal for years, but that was of a different time, a different era, and for very different reasons.
I was young, beautiful, without a single care in the world. I had the world at my fingertips, I was organized chaos spinning through a hedonistic life. I felt that all the wrongs that occured as a child were being righted, and that from here on out, I would never feel suffering again. I had earned unlimited happiness. Like I said, a different time, a different era.
Now I'm almost 37 years old, struggling to keep my head above water as I fight for the one thing I never thought I'd have to live without. I'm doing my 6th cycle of IVF, and I find out a week from today if this is it, if my patience, determination, and burning desire pay off. I'm doing my very best to maintain sanity, to keep busy, to act normal, but all I feel is a burning need to carry, hold, raise, love, and mold our child.
As a child myself, I didn't know what I wanted to be, who I wanted to be, or what I wanted to create out of my life. Instead of playing dress up, I'd play Mommy. As a child of 6 years old I had names picked out for my future children. I knew how I wanted to raise them, how I wanted to love them, and what I wanted to give them. A mother. Yes, that is what I wanted to be when I grew up.
So here I am, sitting at my computer blogging again. But this time it's for myself only. It's an attempted tool to maintain my sanity, to get through, and to possibly find myself again. There is a life I am missing, that I have lost, so I will attempt to find balance in letting my thoughts and feelings that are locked within stream out through the keyboard. Ready... Go.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)