Still Life

I haven't updated in a while.  I'm 14 weeks pregnant and last night had the lovely pleasure of finally listening to the baby on a Doppler at home on loan from a friend of a friend (thanks!). 

I wish I could say that I was happy.  There are moments of happiness, but generally I wake up each day feeling sad and angry about the state of my life.  I feel like I have been robbed of the life I wanted.  I can't seem to get over it.  Nothing has worked out like I hoped and planned and prepared for and I see most people around me achieving the goals they set for their lives handily.  I'm embarrassed at my failure even though I had not control over our infertility or Mackenzie's death.  I wish that instead of spending the past eight years trying to build our family I could have been focusing on my career and traveling and trying to qualify for the Olympics or something bigger than simply having living babies.   I know I should be grateful that our journey has been fruitful in that we have our healthy, wonderful children.  But, I miss who I was before all this.  I miss being ambitious and fit and goal oriented.  This girl was beaten out of me.  I merely try to make it through my days and be present in the happy moments that I do have.

I spent the majority of this week crying because we're having another boy.  I don't know why this was hard for me to process.  Part of me wanted Nugget to have another baby brother because he was so excited to be a big brother.  But, part of me wanted a girl so that it would be different and, honestly, I always imagined I'd have two girls and a boy. 

Though I shouldn't be, I'm surprised how difficult this pregnancy is for me emotionally.  I really thought that having another child would diminish the pain of losing one, but unfortunately this is not turning out to be true at all.  Having another baby only makes me more keenly aware that another baby is not here.  If I had to do it all over again, I'm not sure I would have tried again.  I guess that is a better question to ask myself if and when I have this baby.

My Life In Random Out of Focus iPhone Pictures

Little Baby at 9 Week Ultrasound...moving arms and legs all around.  HB of 165 and measuring on target.

 

BUMP PHOTOS:  I didn't take ANY bump photos during Mackenzie's pregnancy.  I was too afraid.  I want to have some record of this pregnancy, even if it doesn't work out.  My body sure knows it's pregnant...despite not having much morning sickness.

9 Week Bump

8 Week Bump

7 Week Bump

 

AND, Baby Girl's ankle is broken....let's just say it was all her daddy's fault and I'm not letting him forget it.

Baby Girl's Cast....Photo Courtesy of Nugget



Anxiety

I usually wake up in the morning with deep anxiety.  Worry over this baby.  Worry over the direction of my life.  Sadness and emptiness as I approximate the age that Baby Mackenzie should be. 

But, I tell myself that this is an emotion and try to carry forward with my day.  Most days I am able to drag myself out of bed at 5:50 to go on a 5-6 mile run/walk before I have to get the kids out the door.  In quiet moments, I convince myself that the baby is dead and my next ultrasound will contain those five dreaded words, "I can't find a heartbeat."  I've seen the baby three times now.  Heartrate at 5 weeks was 128, 6 weeks was 121, and 7 weeks was 151. 

In other news...Baby Girl likely fractured a bone in her ankle and is currently miserable in her knee height cast.  Nugget is really blooming and we've been in a good period where he's been such a good listener and a helpful big brother (with occasionally bits of whiny beyond belief behavior).

I have to go make some chicken nuggets before my class.  Life is busier than it should be and it's my own damn fault.

One Little Heartbeat

I was supposed to wait until next Thursday for my first ultrasound, but I was going crazy because I really don't have any symptoms.  So, we begged for an earlier ultrasound and got in yesterday.  We saw one perfectly measuring gestational sac and a strong little heartbeat (128 bpm).  So, that's good news.  As I was getting dressed after the ultrasound, my husband asked me if I was happy.  He didn't think that I seemed happy.  I told him that I was relieved, but am pretty guarded.  I was a little sad that there weren't two little heartbeats, as I felt that would be some redemption.  But, I know that one little baby is safest.  I've started running and exercising again, which is wonderful.  I miss my athletic self.  I miss being toned and in shape.  I miss being able to crack out really fast miles at the track.  I miss my running cronies.  I miss long runs and training for races.  I think the fall has me forlorn.  It is my favorite time of year to run. 

Third Beta

At 23 days past ovulation: 2537.
Not as high as my other cycles.  We're scheduling my ultrasound for next Thursday.....

Second Beta

My second beta was 1478, which was good!

Seems like things are progressing....

First Beta

Got a good strong beta today!

First Beta was 798 at 18 days post retrieval.

Betas with Nugget:
Beta #1: 632 (17 days post retrieval)
Beta #2: 1139 (19 days post retrieval)
Beta #3: 2331 (21 days post retrieval)

Betas with Baby Girl:
Beta #1: 866 (18 days post retrieval)
Beta #2: 1595 (20 days post retrieval)
Beta #3: 3122 (22 days post retrieval)

Betas with Mackenzie:
Beta #1: 196 (14 days post retrieval)
Beta #2: 360 (16 days post retrieval)
Beta #3: 789 (18 days post retrieval)

Beta #4: 2231(21 days post retrieval)

 

The few people I have told have asked if we are excited.  We are.  But, it is reserved happiness.  We are hoping to see a heartbeat and then we will just be holding our breath until the next phase.  I learned from losing my baby boy that I want to celebrate each moment of this pregnancy.  I even almost bought something for this baby, just so that I would have something tangible to hold on to if this pregnancy doesn't work out.

A First Step

Today at 16 days post retrieval, I was shocked to see this:

 

Beta on Wednesday (due to my own personal laziness and a family vacation at the beach) at 18 days post retrieval.

 

I still am in shock!  I thought that my symptoms last week were a sure sign that this cycle was a bust.  I should know by now that you can NEVER count on symptoms to mean anything.  Not really dealing with any symptoms yet, except a little constipation over the weekend.

99% Sure We're Facing Another Negative

I've been really crampy with loose stools the past few days.  My cramps were so awful last night that I had to lay down. I am crying all the time.  I can't believe that we probably have lost our last shot to have another child and am just so bereft that my baby boy is gone and I will never hold him or get to know his personality. 

Beta on Tuesday (rescheduled....).

Transferred

Those two little embryos that fertilized made it to Day 3 as Grade 1 8-cell and 7-cell.  In looking at the picture the provided, they didn't look that pretty to me. Part of me wonders whether they lied to me about the quality of the embryos (as I have been told has been done to us in the past).  But, I
just need to let it go because it is what it is.   What do you all think?  Looks like fragmentation to me.



In other news, I started my "trial run" class in Architectural Graphics.  I was so intimidated buying supplies for my class...tracing paper and "leads" and special erasers and sharpeners and drawing pads...I've never taken a class where I'm not sitting in a lecture the entire class.  There is something meditative about focusing on my work and learning a craft rather than learning an esoteric subject matter.  I'm learning how to erase, draw a line, hold a lead so that it makes even lines.  The class began with the professor showing us how to clean our work station.  For someone that always wants to speed forward and push my way through things, to slow down and take the time to ensure that I have a flat, clean surface...well...that's just sort of against my nature. 

Nugget starts his first day of Pre-K at a private school on Tuesday.  I've been crying a lot lately (drugs?) about the changing of seasons and the start of school.  I think part of my melancholy is because my big boy is growing up and going to school.  But, part of it is approaching the fall again, which was filled with so much anticipation and excitement last year when we found out that we were pregnant with Mackenzie.  I use to get excited about change and the beginning of the school year as a child, but now...I fear change.  I fear the loss of time.  I fear losing these precious stages with my children.  I fear moving farther and farther away from my once hopeful life with my little baby boy in my belly.  There is only one way but forward, though.  No turning back.

Not a good cycle

9 eggs.
3 mature.
Only 2 fertilized.

I've been down this path before.  I have to keep hope, though, because Baby Girl's cycle had 4 mature and only 2 fertilized.

I just don't know how much further down this path I want to go.  Is this it?

Sucky Sucky Blah Blah

I'm on day 11 of stimming (day 12 of my cycle).  Things are going pretty typically.  My E2 levels are very similar to those of Baby Girl and Mackenzie's cycle.  I have about 8 follicles that they are tracking, which is pretty on par for how these things go with me.  If I trigger tomorrow (likely), then I will be triggering on the same day that I did with Baby Girl and Mackenzie's cycle.  The two cysts that I started the cycle with do not seem to be impacting my E2 levels that much.  I'm trying so so hard not to let my hopes get up because my E2 and trigger days are similar to my two previous successful cycles.  I mean, heck, last cycle I transferred two beautiful Day 3 8-cells and no dice.  Previously, as long as I transferred a pretty 8-cell on Day 3, I wound up pregnant.  There is no rhyme or reason to this IVF stuff.  And, by my tenth cycle, you think I would know that.

Life has been pretty sucky, lately.  My husband (only my husband could do this) got a corneal abrasion and potentially long term eye damage by stabbing himself in the eye last week. My husband is also potentially going to lose his license because he got a reckless speeding ticket on Father's Day (that's a WHOLE other story).  We are in battle with some contractors about getting our porch remodeled.  They were trying to gouge us financially and we are trying to get out of the contract.  Lawyers, lawyers everywhere.  It all just feels so overwhelming, when I know this is just typical life stuff.  I just wish I could shout to the universe "hey!  can you just give us a break?  our baby died!"

Retrieval on Friday or Saturday.  Wish us luck.

Double Digits

I can't believe that this in my tenth IVF cycle.  Ninth fresh cycle.  I can't believe this is my life.  I can't believe my baby is dead. I can't believe that I was pregnant.  I can't believe that I started this process for a third child a year ago.  I find that I have little energy to do anything.  Completing one to two tasks a day, such as unloading the dishwasher or running an errand, is all I can seem to muster most days.  I am deeply unmotivated, which is completely unlike me.  I hate it.

In other news, I went to my first support group this week.  At the time, it was reassuring to see other actual human beings that had suffered the same loss, not just people I read about on the internet (no offense).  But, the day after, I had this horrible feeling of shame and embarrassment about talking about myself and our horrible journey with other people. I feel I shared too much, telling them about our IVF journey and losing Mackenzie's twin.  I'm not sure if I did actually share too much or whether I'm just sensitive.  Others in the group told about their child's death, using donor eggs, etc.  But, I just felt raw and open and embarrassed.  I'm not sure I'll go again in the upcoming months as I might have classes with my potential career change.

SO, angry girl, what good news do you have to report?

Baby Girl and Nugget seem to have such a close, happy relationship.  Baby Girl is definitely an extrovert and has to be touching, laying upon, or in very very very close proximity to her big brother at all times.  Nugget is more introverted, but he puts up with her generally.  The poor kid just wants to watch a movie or eat or lay in Mommy's lap and Baby Girl is always wanting to join in the fun.  My favorite moments are watching them in the bath together.  Baby Girl is obsessed with washing Nugget's hair and she will dump water on his head again and again and again and he just lets her.  They play this game in the tub where she tries to hide behind the shower curtain and he pretends he can't see her.  The sound of their laughter echoes through the upstairs, reaching me in my bed where I often lay exhausted.  I don't seem to have the energy to do anything.  But, their tinkling laughter can make me feel that all is well in the world.

Fireflies in a Mason Jar

I've been walking around in a daze the past few weeks since the negative, trudging through Mackenzie's due date and the birth of my friend's son that was due the same time.  My husband insists that I have pulled out of my darkest days because I am more interactive and making plans.  But, what he doesn't seem to consider is that I still sometimes wish that I was dead and I didn't have to live this life.  I know some may think that is melodramatic, but the pain of Mackenzie's birth....feeling his cold dead body fall out of my body, wet against my legs...and the pain of having to live in this world where people get to live normal lives where babies don't die and they don't have to do multiple digit numbers of IVF cycles to try and build their families.  Where people are constantly exuberant and expectant walking around with their big, pregnant bellies or complaining about how hard life is with so many young children under the age of XYZ. 

Every week I take Baby Girl to a music class.  I hate it.  I hate all the other mothers.  Particularly the one that had a baby on Mackenzie's due date.  I hate how sometimes they try and make small talk with me and I shut them down because really what am I going to have in common with you?  I know this is cynical and not particularly healthy and I will say that I don't feel this way all the time, but lately I feel this way the majority of the time. I continue to go to this stupid class, though, because I know Baby Girl enjoys it and I really need to have activities to do other than work through my massive to-do lists.  I wrote down today all the projects I want to get done around the house and it literally took two whole handwritten notebook pages.  I can do household updates and renovating and laundry and dishes until I'm 90.

But, this isn't what I wanted to post about.  I wanted to post about the fireflies.  Nugget finally grasped the enormity of the concept of fireflies.  They are amazing.  I've been trying to tempt him to catch them for the past few summers but he previously showed little to no interest. 

Not this year.

This year every night we tempt the mosquitos as we catch dozens of fireflies, dutifully stored in mason jars with holes poked in the top.  We've learned all their secret hiding spots.  My husband complains that I let him stay up too late and that our predation of fireflies will result in a decrease of the firefly population if we don't let the males out to mate.  I don't really care.  I love catching them and the parallel nostalgic memories of doing so in my youth in hopes that I could catch enough fireflies to read past my bedtime using their light.

After a four-day visit with friends down in North Carolina, we returned home just in time for our evening ritual.  After nearly fifteen minutes of searching, Nugget started sobbing that the fireflies were all gone.  I cried a little myself, heartbroken to lose one more summer of catching fireflies with my not-so-small little boy anymore. 

My husband and I spend 30 minutes yesterday looking at videos of my Nugget when he was Baby Girl's age.  That beautiful stage of life before they're really communicative in words and just emerging with little personalities of their own.  I was struck at how distant those videos seem and that the cobwebs of time and experience had made the memories more remote.  Why can't our brains hold more memories?  How could I have lost that moment when Nugget was obsessed with cleaning the sofa with windex?  How many more moments would I lose?  I should start living my whole life on camera so as to not let the beauty of these small moments fade into grey.

Testing again

I find it highly depressing that I have to do my mock transfer and infectious disease testing again.  It seems unreal to me that this time last year I was gearing up for my first IVF post Baby Girl and now...I'm still freaking doing IVF.  I swore that I would only do two cycles and then move on.  What's my threshold now?  How far am I willing to go?  Some days, I petulantly just want to throw in the towel.  Others...I accept that this is a freaking long process.

Can I just say that I hate the Royal Baby?  But, not as much as I hated getting my friend's announcement that her baby boy (due the same time as Mackenzie) was born and is healthy.  I don't really mean that...but it has been really hard to face Mackenzie's due date and realize how far my life is from where I thought it would be a few months ago.

Off I go to read books to my little boy and snuggle in bed.  Hopefully with just enough time for a glass of wine and a little T.V. tonight.

Failure

I couldn't believe it.  Two perfectly beautiful 8-cells.  Neither took.  Two different negative pregnancy tests.  Tons of what are typically uniquely pregnant symptoms for me.  Still no period.  I am devastated.  It is like losing Mackenzie all over again.  I can't help but feel that I am a failure.  That we will never get pregnant again.  That something is messed up in my uterus now and I'll never get to hold another baby of my own in my arms.  That my premonition that Josie would be my last child, the last time I would have a full pregnant belly again, was indeed true.  That my heart will never heal from losing Mackenzie and I will always walk around feeling a little more broken, a little bit different from the rest of humanity because my child is dead. 

My arms ache for my baby.  I am so angry to be doing IVF fucking again.  I am so angry to end on such failure.  I am so angry to have to cancel holidays and vacations and suck our financial resources into this.  I am so tired of being in pain and sad and crying and wanting so much to just be like a normal person that can make plans and implement them for my life.

Be gentle with me, dear readers.  Know that I am in a dark, sad place and the perspective that one gets when not depressed and utterly devastated is not here.

Please, tell me.  How will I survive losing my baby?  How will I ever get over losing him if I cannot have another baby? 

Oh, Mackenzie.  I am so sorry I failed you.  I am so sorry I didn't take the doctors more seriously and listen to them when they told me about a support group.  I wish someone had taken me by the shoulders and gently said this is not good, this is very very bad.  No one did that.  I didn't know.  I would have laid in bed and treasured every little moment with you if I truly thought you were going to die.  I would have never freaked out about being pregnant with twins.  I would have been more scared of losing you.  I would have loved you better.  I would have done so many things differently, my dear sweet boy.  I miss you forever.  I wish that Baby Girl and Nugget had gotten to be your big sister and big brother.  They love each other so much.  They would have adored you, too.  Come back, baby, come back and be in my belly.  Come back and be with me.  I love you, little one.  I love you so much. 

Not Strong Enough

I could test today.  But, I'm not feeling strong enough.  I don't think I can handle a negative.  I stay up at night until 2 or 3 am, watching random movies.  I did this when we didn't know what was going on with Mackenzie.  I would stay up all hours watching Shameless on Demand.  I couldn't sleep.  Waiting.  Anxious.  Unable to sleep, but exhausted.

I have mixed symptoms.  My boobs are a little more tender.  My appetite is ravenous, especially in the early morning.  But, I am not constipated.  I don't know if I should test tomorrow, two weeks from retrieval, and get it over with.  Or, if I should wait until Friday and test on the day of my blood test.

For now, living in limbo seems easier than living with the cold, hard failure.

What to do?  What would you do?  How did you handle testing after a cycle?

Morbid Book Club

Since Mackenzie died, I have been looking to learn from others who have survived tragedy.  I have found several books to be essential to my healing process and highly recommend them to those seeking to find examples of people that have chosen to continue living.  The first few weeks after Mackenzie died were excruciating.  I couldn't stand walking around in the world.  I felt too fragile, too broken to walk among "the happy people."  At the time, I couldn't imagine that this pain would ever end or be less raw.  I holed up in my house, refusing to leave.  Even a trip to the grocery store or a workout at the gym would reduce me to a mess of tears.  Upon reading novels of woman that had lost children, lost husbands, lost their lives and more, I began to see that I was going to have to chose to keep living and to not let this experience make me bitter and removed forever.  I am not sure if I am a resilient person, but I know that I have learned through all this that the only way I can control my life is to control the framework through which I view it.

The End of Your Life Book Club: A book club between a mother and her son during the last days of her life.

They Were Still Born: Personal essays about stillbirth and infant loss

I'll See You Again: A mother loses all three of her precious daughters in the horrific New York State’s Taconic Parkway car accident in 2009.

Wave: A woman loses her parents, her husband, and her two boys in the 2004 tsunami in Sri Lanka.

Stumbling on Happiness: Understanding human behavior and perspectives on happiness.

A few phrases that people said to me or stories that they told also were very healing.

I spoke with a woman that had lost her first and, so far, only child to stillbirth and I asked her how long would I be in so much pain and agony.  She shared with me what a friend once told her: "You won't feel this way forever, but you do have to feel this way right now."  Whenever my grief was overwhelming, I would calm myself with this saying.

I also talked with a friend who struggled to get over her father's death.  She visited with a shaman who performed and energy ritual repeating: "hold on to the love, let go of the pain."  Whenever the grief or guilt of losing Mackenzie sends me reeling, I concentrate on the love that I had for him and his twin and try to let go of my pain in losing them. 

This isn't the most poetic entry, but I wanted to write these nuggets down before I got lost in the minutia of every day living.

In other news, I am one week past transfer.  I am trying not to obsess about everything little thing, but as you all well know, it is hard.  I concentrate on the two beautiful 8-cells that we transferred and hope that they are burrowing away in me, so that I can carry them with me for the next 9 months.

What a Rollercoaster....

Our day two report wasn't so great: all 4 embryos were still growing, but they were all 2 cell.  I was sure that we weren't going to have anything but a crappy 4-cell to transfer on day three.  I ended up going in to the office early because I've had really really awful pain since retrieval....the type of pain that hasn't allowed me to get up off the couch at all since retrieval and has me dependent upon vicodin.  I've always used vicodin for the first day or two post retrieval, but I am four days out and still have a lot of pain.  Anyway, I went in early to have an ultrasound to see if anything was going on with my cyst or anything else that could cause this type of pain and they couldn't find anything.  At that point, one hour prior to transfer, they told me I had a good quality 6-cell and 8-cell.  I was ecstatic!  An 8 cell!  Then, I went into transfer and they said I had 2 grade-1 (highest quality) 8-cells, a 6-cell, and a 4-cell.  Amazing.  So, we transferred the 2 8-cells and the waiting game begins.  I'm really struggling with this pain...they said that the pain after retrieval gets progressively worse each time you do it and given that this is my 8th retrieval, I guess I shouldn't be surprised.

Fingers crossed, but I at least have some hope.

Not terrible, not great fertilization report

9 eggs, 5 mature, 4 fertilized.

Not my amazing cycle as with Mackenzie (15 eggs, 10 mature, 9 fertilized).  But not as horrible as Baby Girl's cycle (6 eggs, 4 mature, 2 fertilized).  So, I need to remind myself that these numbers mean nothing and what will be, will be.  I am so sad that we couldn't end our IVF career on Mackenzie's amazing cycle...which was amazing for my "diminished ovarian reserve" self.  Sigh.  I'll never know why it was so high.  It probably never will be again.  I feel sick to be doing this process all over again.  I miss my baby boy.  I wish he were still with us.

12 short weeks

12 short weeks ago I was sobbing because my sweet baby boy was dead and I was going to have to deliver him. Tomorrow, 12 weeks from his death, I will be going in for my 8th IVF retrieval.  I am hoping that there will be a living, viable baby among those eggs, but know that the chances of that happening are slim.  I miss my baby boy and wish that he were here.  Wish that this wasn't what has happened in my life.

A photo that makes me smile to counter balance the deep sorrow and sense of loss in my life.

Stim Day 6

Soooooo, I was supposed to be writing little positive memories of each day.  Fail.  I'm tired.  We're busy.  I can't make myself slow down to write because I don't know where to begin.  Or where to stop.

I can write you about our crappy Father's Day and how disappointed I was in my husband for his choice of activities...which included NOT being with his family.

I can write you about how as I was walking into my fertility clinic I ran into a woman that I have only met a handful of times and had heard from a mutual friend that she had lost a baby girl at 24 weeks in November.  I may or may not have cried out when I saw her that our babies had both died and hugged her. 

I can write you about how strange and unhinged I feel now that my daughter is out of daycare and the reality of not having daily interactions with humans is starting to settle in.  I fear that being a bit of a goal-oriented introvert that I will slowly become more socially isolated as I get absorbed in doing little tasks around the house.

I can write about how scared I am about making any next steps with my career for fear that there isn't anything in this world that I would actually like to do.

I can write about how I ran into an old college roommate and her older brother who was the Resident Advisor in my dorm freshman year.  It was embarrassing to see them and be so adrift in my life.  I can't help but feel like a failure about the way my life has turned out.  I had such plans.  They were little plans...but they were plans at least.

Let's just talk about my cycle instead.

My estrogen on stim day 6 is 491.  I keep my trusty little excel spreadsheet with E2 numbers and try to decipher the outcome of my cycle.  For my two most recent successful cycles, my E2 rose very slowly: by stim day 6, my E2 was 135 and 159 for these two cycles.  Waaaay lower. What does this mean?  My follicles are all 9-10mm, so they've got at least another 5 days of stimming, which would put me at 11 stim days.  Does that mean that there are more follicles this time?  Is my cyst secreting E2?  This cycle is most similar to the cycle in NJ.  On CD 6, my E2 was 486.  Will this cycle be another utter and total disaster? 

How much more of this can I take?

Happy memory: We bought a hammock a few weeks after Mackenzie died and hung it on our screened porch.  There is something deeply relaxing about gently swaying in the swing, reading a book, and listening to the light laughter of children in the background.  Tonight my son was showing a friend around the house and said, "That's my mommy's chair."  I had never laid claim to it out loud, but he knows it is mine.

I guess I'm really doing this; IVF#9

I've been kicking and screaming the whole way.  Refusing to admit that I was doing an IVF cycle again, despite the fact that I put $4K of charges on our credit card for a cycle.  Despite the fact that I had an HSG and endometrial biopsy done again.  Despite the fact that I have spent absolutely no time thinking about how our future might look if I do or don't get pregnant.

Since Mackenzie died, my horizon shortened.  In the first few weeks after he died, I didn't know what I would be doing in a few hours, let alone a few days.  I didn't know when grief would sideline me and I would find myself sobbing in my kid's play tent in the basement, lost in a reverie about struggling to curl my body up enough so that all three of us--Baby Girl, Nugget, and my big ol' belly--could fit in.  As the bouts of grief became less frequent (but no less intense), I could make plans days in advance, but only with close friends with whom I could trust to let me cry or cancel if necessary.  I still am not at the point where I can make plans a few weeks out, let alone bigger life plans like whether I will go back to school or return to my old job.  I honestly still don't know whether I'll go through with retrieval.  I might get a few days into this cycle and have a total melt down and decide that I can't put myself through this again.  I'm just taking every single day as a solitary event, subtracting in my mind the impact that today's decisions will have on tomorrow's outcomes.

To help me stay in the present and soak up my little life with my living children, I'd like to challenge myself to post a picture and/or a little memory from the day.

*******************************************
Day One: 10 weeks since I last held Mackenzie

This morning I was frantically trying to get out the door to go to my monitoring appointment at 8:30.  Having not had to deal with the morning rush in the past 10 weeks, I've grown quite rusty at the routine.  I was running around like a crazy person trying to find my cell phone before I left, screaming at my husband to try calling my cell phone and to "help me!"  My son, still sleepy eyed from just waking up, called out from the top of the stairs, "I'll help you, Mommy."  It broke my heart to have him see me in such a state over such a meaningless worry, but was so heartening that his reaction was to want to help.  Luckily, I happened upon my phone before he even made it down the stairs.  I dashed out to the car and he stood at the window blowing me kisses.  Slow down, Mommy.  Don't worry, Mommy.  This isn't worth the rush or the stress, Mommy.

Box of Drugs

My IVF drugs arrived on Thursday.

I've been in a fucking pissy mood ever since.

I don't want to do IVF again.

I don't want to be a crazy hormonal bitch.

I don't want to have to stick myself with needles.

I don't want to have to stress about whether I will get pregnant and how many cycles I can endure and how much all of this is going to cost.

I don't want to have to put all vacation plans on hold permanently until we know when our cycles will be.

I don't want to have to face the fact that my fucking baby died and now I have to do all this shit over again.

I've even managed to mess up my protocol.  I was supposed to start the estrogen patch TODAY not YESTERDAY.  I hope I haven't already screwed everything up.

I miss my baby.  I wish he was still in my belly getting ready to come out in a few weeks.  I wish I was starting to buy little baby boy summer clothes.  I wish I was getting all of the baby gear out again.  I wish my life was moving forward rather than standing still.  Again.

Waiting

I'm not a patient person.  I hate waiting.  I've done a lot of waiting in the past seven years since we stopped birth control and started to try for our family.  Unfortunately, practice hasn't improved my ability to deal with the anxiety caused by waiting.

I'm on cycle day 22 of my second cycle since Mackenzie was born.  The first cycle doesn't even count, though, because that period was induced by Provera.  I STILL haven't ovulated.  I've been spending two hours a day every other day driving to the clinic, waiting to be seen, being poked and prodded just to confirm that nope...my ovaries suck and they refuse to grow.  I have one follicle that is taking its own sweet time growing to the 20 mm minimum requirement for trigger.  I'm at 17.9 today.  But, it's only been growing about a maximum of 1 mm a day.  At this rate, I might finally be at 20 mm by cycle day 24, which will be a 38 day cycle.  Fucking forever.

Every time I go to the clinic I end up having a terrible day.  I'm reminded that just seven months ago, I left that clinic pregnant with twins.  And now I'm back at ground zero.  Doing IVF again.

Some days I think we HAVE to do IVF again.  We HAVE to have another child.  Our redemption.  I worry that in two or ten or twenty years we will regret not having more children.  I know that there are no replacement children, but I do think people that have lost a baby find salve in a "rainbow" baby.  A tangible evidence that if the pain of loss hadn't happened, this new child or addition to the family would not exist.

Other days I am so fucking tired of this process that I just want to stop.  Move forward with my life.  Enjoy my two healthy happy children.  Let go of all the pain that trying entails.

In other exciting news:
I am taking a year long leave of absence from my job!  I am loving not having the pressure of work or worrying about when I will go back to work.  And, honestly, being away from it....I just don't want to be there at all right now and being with my daughter and helping my son with his behavior and speech (which are big issues right now) is a big deal.  Plus, it opens space in my brain to think about other things that might bring me greater happiness in life than my current job.  We shall see.

Back in the Saddle Again

I thought I would cry or sob or something as I sat in the very same ultrasound room where I saw my little babies beating hearts merely five short months ago.  The technician looked at me briefly as she came in the room and turned to my chart on the computer.  "I've seen you before, haven't I?" she asked.  I watched as her shoulders dropped when I told her that, yes, she's seen me, but that my baby was stillborn five weeks ago and I'm getting ready to cycle again.  She turned back to me, her face a little crumpled, and she reached for the ultrasound wand.  "I'm sorry to see you again for so many reasons," she said and reassured me that she would be gentle with the wand.  Only 10 antral follicles, but we know that my range is typically 6 to 18.  All my bloodwork came back normal.  FSH at 5.6 and E2 less than 20.

I can't believe I'm back at the beginning of this elliptical story that seems never to end.

I'm not sure how much more I can endure, but do know that I can endure this cycle.  And, then I will decide again.

Tomorrow I go in for my seventh HSG.  Friday I go in for my fourth endometrial biopsy.  Hopefully, I will ovulate within a decent range of time and then I will begin estrogen priming and will start IVF#9. 

Am I strong?

Am I stubborn?

Am I crazy?

We miss you sweet Mackenzie.  I so wish that you would be making Nugget a big brother again in two months.  I wish that I was struggling with back aches and heartburn instead of trying to lose the baby weight and figuring out how to pull together the money for another IVF cycle.

Signs

I have a good friend that believes in signs, as in "signs from the universe."  I wish I believed in signs, but underlying it seems to be that there is a master plan behind one's life.  I generally to think life is just a sh*t storm and whatever happens is simply because of random chance and personal decisions rather than some master plan for the universe.

But, right now, I so desperately want a sign.  I've been looking into seeing a psychic or getting a life coach or randomly asking really old people about their personal life decisions to desperately try and decide what to do with my life.

Do I quit my job and take some time off to be with Baby Girl while she is so deliciously wonderful? 

Do I start up IVF again to try for another child again?

Do I stay in my job because it has IVF coverage? I have 3 cycles of IVF under my current insurance.  I could switch insurance in January to K@iser and have 3 more cycles of IVF covered there.  That's 6 more cycles.  Could I do 6 more cycles?

Do I sign up for cobra insurance coverage for 18 months and give myself just 3 more cycles of IVF coverage? 

Do I cut back my hours at work even more so that I have more time with Baby Girl and still have the IVF coverage and just push off the making a decision about my career for another year?

Do I learn to be satisfied with the two beautiful, healthy children we have been blessed to have?

I know this is crazy, but I feel so vulnerable with only two children.  I want to be like the Duggars with dozens of children.  Plenty of "back-up."  It's not even that I want "back-up" for one gender...I want "extras" of both genders.  Because how would I survive if my only son died?  How would I survive if my only daughter died?  The truth is that I would survive.  I would live if my children died, but my life wouldn't be as full and my heart would forever ache.

Plenty of people in this world think that two children of each gender is the "King's Family" (a son to leave your kingdom to and a daughter to marry).  The perfect family.  Why have more?

But, did those people ever lose a child?  Did those people ever struggle to have children?  Do those people understand how fragile and precious and amazing children are?

Is it natural to desperately want more children when one dies?

Elizabeth Edwards had twins after her 17 year old son Wade died.
John Travolta and Kelly Preston had another child after their son Jett died.

I know you aren't trading a soul for a soul, but maybe there is a primal desire to procreate and to make life after losing a child.  I wonder if having another baby is the only salve to recover from losing a child.  God, I hope not.  Because we may never be able to have another child. 

I just need a sign.

Is my longing a sign?  Will that just wane with time? 

I just can't figure out how to make sense of the pieces of my life anymore.

Every Moment of Every Day

I am trying to make mental shifts and reframing my view of life.

I wrote my friend who is due around the same time and told her:

Thanks so much for dinner last night.  It was so sweet of you and [your husband].  It was, as I imagine it will continue to be, difficult to see you and think about where I should have been in my pregnancy.  I can only hope with time I will accept this loss into the arc of my life and that seeing you and your sweet baby will not be some painful.  It's odd, but I did have a weird thought when we told each other that night that we were pregnant, that I hoped that nothing happened to either of our babies because it would be a terrible reminder.  Perhaps my intuition knew then that things would not go well with the pregnancy.  Please understand that it may be difficult for me to see you and your baby (boy or girl?  still waiting?), but that I will get over it and love your baby as we love [your older son].  I hope that some day I can be thankful for your baby because it will be a reminder of our sweet Mackenzie as life moves on and he becomes less of a part of every moment of every day in our lives.

 

Love you guys,

 

RunningMama

Well that sucked

Tonight my friend that was due three days after me dropped off dinner.  Her stomach was round and swollen and my baby is born and dead.  It fucking sucked.

And now it begins....

My new life without my baby.  Without the crutch of family and friends and support.  Everyone else's lives are heading back to normal and my life is anything but.  Today was the first time since the Friday before Mackenzie's birth (i.e., the Friday before Easter) that we have not had houseguests.  It's been great in that I haven't once had to worry about dinner or had to deal with Nugget's evening temper tantrums alone.

But, I also haven't had the space and time to reflect on Mackenzie's death and I fear my memory of him is fading fast.  My pregnancy with him was a mere nightmare, somewhere lost in the cobwebs of my mind. 

Few reminders of his life exist.  The remaining plants and flowers that were sent after his death.  The cards accompanying these flowers and notes sent in the mail.  The fact that I am still unable to fit into any of my clothes.  The small remaining strip of sticky stuff on my inner thigh from where they taped the catheter during delivery; I refuse to scrub it off.  If I look closely, at the top of my belly I can see the small scab from where the prick of the amnio needle went it.

Being out of a regular schedule for the past 3.5 weeks has been taking its toll on me.  I realized this weekend that I go crazy without a schedule of my choosing. I need to exercise every day and have everything organized and be constantly working down my to-do list or I start to get irritable and angry.  Couple a complete lack of control over my schedule, constant houseguests, and my now desperate need to process and understand my grief and I am a wreck.  I find myself wants to eschew the whole mourning process and move on to focusing on my new future.  I want to lose the baby weight and get in shape and get everything accomplished on my to-do list and start researching new jobs.  I don't have time for grief.  I don't have time to dwell on the life that I no longer get to have with a beautiful baby and the end of IVF treatments and moving forward with a new career.

If I push just a little beneath the surface, an angry, bitter screaming person emerges.  She demands her old life back.  She yells at random strangers.  She's constantly irritated with her husband.  She grabs the fat around her hips and curses the mass.  She throws away maternity clothes and baby toys without regret.  She hates her life.  She hates pictures of who she used to be: happy and hopeful and confident and excited about life. 

My birthday is coming up: 35.  I am fucking pissed about it.  My friends want to have a party and celebrate, but I don't.  I am a failure.  My life is a failure.  When I turned 30, I was 12 weeks pregnant with Nugget and so excited.  I thought that by the time I was 35 I would have all my children (i.e., all 3 of them) and I would have moved on to a new job and we would be living in a bigger, better house and everything would be wonderful.  I did not expect to be mourning the loss of my little baby boy, stuck in a job I hate, and so far adrift from where I thought I'd be that I don't even recognize myself.  I don't want to celebrate this birthday.  I can't see why I'd bother.  I certainly don't want my friends to gather around and acknowledge my failure.  I'm sure they don't see it that way, but I do.  I want to be alone, licking my wounds, and hating what I've become.  Healthy attitude, right?

I miss my baby.  I ache for him.  How did I lose you, baby boy?  I'm so sorry I failed you, too.

Don't Read if You Aren't in the Mood to Deal with One Angry B*tch

We've had constant guests since the weekend of Easter.  My mother-in-law and sister-in-law were standard fixtures that whole week.  Then, my sister and mother came to town.  Loving friends have brought meals, sat with me, talked to me on the phone for hours, emailed, left messages, texted, sent flowers, brownies, care packages with magazines and chocolate and lounge wear.  The outpouring of love we have received from our family and friends and coworkers has buoyed me up. 

But, I am finding it to be a false sense of security or optimism.  In the early hours of the morning when the night sweats wake me up or when things quiet down in the evenings, I revisit every decision we made during this pregnancy.  I think about whether we should have transferred two embryos.  I think about whether we should have allowed ourselves the space to mourn the loss of the first baby.  I wonder whether we should have been more aggressive about the care I received after the car accident.  I wonder whether we should have done the CVS or the amnio.  I wonder whether I should have gotten more second opinions on the heart condition diagnosis (cardiomyopathy).  I wonder whether we should have sought out a support group for people who had received diagnosis similar to baby Mackenzie.  I wonder whether we should have asked about the low amniotic fluid more or insisted that I be put on bedrest or have more regular monitoring.  I wonder whether I should have gone into the hospital on Easter Sunday when I felt those weird pains.  I wonder whether I should have cut back from work more when I started getting sick all the time.  I wonder whether I shouldn't have exercised.  I wonder if this loss is some sort of retribution for our mistakes in life.  I wonder whether it is a sign from a higher being that we are failures as parents and shouldn't have procreated (rationally, I don't believe this one, but it does creep in).  I wonder if I could have eaten more protein and that would have helped.  I wonder if I could have been a better advocate for my baby if I had done more research about worst case scenarios or the diagnosis. 

There are no answers to these questions and my doctors refuse to even entertain a discussion of the "what ifs" as none of them matter.  But, I think this is bullshit.  The doctors don't want to entertain "what if" because they don't want a malpractice suit on their hands.  The doctors aren't rewarded for helping us to understand this situation.

We got some autopsy results today.  They are still studying Mackenzie's heart and thyroid to understand what role, if any, they played in his death.  The only definitive results from the autopsy were that Mackenzie was genetically normal, that the placenta was degenerative, and that they don't know why the placenta was degenerative.  So, basically, everything that we already knew.  It's maddening.

I'm trying to figure out how to deal with my desire to publicly mourn baby Mackenzie.  I emailed my close friends the day that we found out he died.  I'm generally opposed to substantive announcements of any sort on Facebook, but I did decide to post about our loss.  I felt that it was necessary to be forthcoming for a number of reasons.  My husband isn't on Facebook and, in his stead, I am friends with many of his work colleagues, former mentees, and friends.  It broke my heart  to think about him having to answer questions one-by-one the next time he saw these friends about the baby. I think part of the reason that I posted it as well was to remind people blithely bobbing along in their lives that people struggle and people they know struggle.  I posted to remind those fuckers that post their positive pee stick before they're even out of their first trimester or who complain about how "hard" their life is dealing with 2 under 2 or 3 under 3 or blah blah blah to not be so oblivious to the luck they have received in life.

I find myself wanting to scream every time I am out in public that my baby died and I want to die and I hate each and every person I talk to.  I find myself telling casual acquaintances or random customer service people that my baby is dead.  I find myself considering mourning practices previously considered to be too garish and exposed:

• getting tattoos memorializing lost children or loved ones;
• wearing t-shirts acknowledging lost loved ones outside of a race context (i.e., "running in memory of Joe Schmoe who died of cancer");
• having memorial car decals; etc., etc.

I even found a shop on Etsy where a wood carver will make you a baby doll at the exact stage of fetal development at which your baby died.  And I wanted one.  They're only $100.  I want to carry my 22 week 1 day old baby around until he smells and rots.  I want to get a custom t-shirt made with a picture of my dead baby.  I want to carve a large, cherubic angel baby on my arm with his birth and death date.  I want to punch pregnant women in their bellies.  I want to both immediately lose all this fucking baby weight and carry it around forever because it is the last tangible, physical evidence I have of his existence on this earth.  I want to wear black every day until I die.  I refuse to wear make-up or put on anything other than slouchy sweats or curl my hair or look anything remotely like a well-adjusted healthy human being.  I want every single person that looks at me to think that something is wrong with that woman. 

I want my baby.  I want to hold him and smell his hair and have him suckle on my breast.

In the Pain Olympics, I have always weighed my competitors and acknowledged defeat to few: women who have done 4 or more unsuccessful IVF cycles; women who have had multiple miscarriages and taken years and years to conceive; women who were told that they have premature ovarian failure at a young age and were never able to conceive; women who have had to birth a dead baby after years and years of trying to have a baby; women who have had to birth a dead baby and then never get pregnant again. 

It's a crass and rude way to think about suffering.  I will tell you that I never really knew how multiple IVF failure would compare to infant loss.  I always assumed that infant loss would be worse. With both, your future is uncertain.  You don't know if you will ever get to have a child, what that child would look like, when your suffering will end, if you will ever feel like a whole person again.  Your body is not your own.

It's the exact fucking same.  It hurts.  You are mourning.  You wonder what your baby would look like.  What his or her life would be like.  You want to die.  You want the world to suffer.  You hate living.  It's the exact fucking same. 

Remembering Our Sweet Boy

There are moments in the day where I can feel so normal and happy...watching my husband and the kids play chase around the house, laughing at the irony of being slightly thankful for my milk-engorged breasts because it makes my jelly belly look smaller, enjoying a sweet gesture from my son to my daughter, feeling so appreciated and loved by the outpouring of support that we have received from friends and family.

Then there are other moments with the horror of the past few days hits me.  The grief of this new life we are living.  Deep sadness that we are packing up the Easter decorations and life is moving forward without our baby boy, without our new future.

Small events from the day I delivered Baby Mackenzie strike me.

Remember sobbing in agony while trying to push his little body out...not because it hurt physically...I had them drug me up so much that I could only feel pressure...I felt enough pain emotionally...I didn't think that I deserved any more physical pain.  Unlike my other childrens' births where I just wanted the pushing to be over, I didn't want the pushing to end because when it did it would signify the end of my time with my baby boy.  I would have to truly acknowledge that he was dead and it wasn't some horrible mistake.  The entire time I was in labor I swore that I could feel him moving.  The nurses kept telling me that he wasn't moving, that it was a sensation similar to a phantom limb.  Will my son always be my phantom limb?  When he finally came out, I felt him sort of plop between my legs, his body cold, wet, and lifeless.  I remember screaming "not my baby, not my baby, I want my baby back."  The nurses took him away to clean him up and I was so afraid to look at him.  Afraid that he would look like some misshapen alien.  I made the nurses cover his face in case I wasn't strong enough to see him.  My husband held him first, tenderly touching his body and kissing his forehead, instinctively rocking him the whole time.  I remember him sobbing, saying that he knew the nurses would say that he looked weird, but thought that Mackenzie looked beautiful.  We cried together for a long time and told him that we loved him and how sorry we were.  We sang him the two lullabies that we sing our children, "Lavender Cowboy," and "My Sunshine."  We told him the story of how we met and why we fell in love with each other.  We told him about his older brother and how excited he was to have a little brother.  We told him about his big sister Josie and how much fun we all would have had.  We told him that we would never forget him, that we loved him, and that we were so sorry that this happened because regardless of what anyone ever told us we would always feel responsible for his death.  I didn't want to let him go.  I remember holding his light weight in my arms, looking at his tiny little hands and feet, and never wanting to let him go.  But, you can't keep a dead baby forever.  The wonderful nurses that had been with us all day were signing off at 7:30 and, as irrational as it may seem, I didn't want anyone he didn't know to take care of him.  At 7:10, we let him go.  It was one of the hardest moments of my life.  I was so so tired, though.  I had barely slept the past few nights and the drugs were taking their toll on me.  I slept for about an hour and woke to the sounds of a woman moaning and screaming in labor.  It was agony...hearing other women having healthy babies screaming. 

I couldn't move my legs until around midnight and they let us check out of the hospital.  It was a relief to check out in the dead of night and slip away without the openness of daylight and a bustling hospital.  I asked the nurses to not take me out through the maternity ward so I didn't have to hear the cries of newborn babies.  We left through the side entrance, not the front entrance like we had with the birth of our two other children.  When we got home, we both had a big glass of wine and tried to watch mindless television.  I snuck into baby girl's room and pulled her out of bed, rocking her nestled against my cheek.  She's so heavy now.  Clearly not a baby anymore.

The loss of this baby is not just the loss of our sweet boy.  It is the loss of closure for our infertility journey.  The haunting likelihood that I will have to go through all this IVF shit again.  If I do get pregnant again, I'll spend that pregnancy in sheer terror just waiting to have to deliver another dead baby.  The inability to leave my job and my infertility insurance coverage.  $30,000 more down the drain in our attempt to build a family.  Nearly 1 more year of my life wasted on the infertility journey.  The loss of a glorious 6-9 months off work to enjoy my beautiful family over the summer.  My future is a complete blank.  OR at least more of the same drudgery at work that I have been living for the past 7 years as I keep a job that I don't enjoy for the stability and benefits it offers.  I miss the life I was supposed to be having in only three short months.  I miss not getting to see the joy of Nathan proudly announcing his new baby brother to everyone he meets.

My friends and family have been wonderful.  My friends have been calling and texting and emailing constantly.  My local friends have meals planned for us for the next three weeks.  Two of my best friends are flying into town over the next two weeks to be with me.  I've received care packages in the mail, letters, flowers, etc.  Several friends have offered to help with a remembrance for the baby and have offered to buy a rose bush or tree in our son's honor.  Some neighbor friends are going to have Nathan over for play dates to help keep him occupied and allow us some time to grieve alone. We are so lucky to have so many wonderful people in our life to support us.

The visits and the meals will help me through the next few weeks, but I am not sure how to make it through the months and milestones that will follow....his due date, the day we conceived him, the anniversary of his death.  I'm not really an "in the moment" kind of gal, but have been told that is the only way I will survive this.  I wish I believed in a god with some master plan that would make all of our suffering worthwhile, but I don't.  I simply believe that some people have shitty luck and, unfortunately, we've been having that in spades.  And, I know I am melodramatic in saying that as I am sure there are many people in the ALI community that would love to have two healthy children.  But, I fucking want the easy people's lives.  The ones that say they want to have three kids each 18 months to two years apart and then they do.  I want that.  I want to have had the family building process be seamless and not something that sucks the innocence and hope out of us.  I want to be the person I was before all this started: hopeful and ambitious and excited.  Mostly, I just want my baby back.

Dead Baby

Sometime in the past day, my sweet baby boy died.  Today I have to do what no one should ever have to do: I have to deliver my dead baby.  He was 22 weeks 1 day.  My heart is breaking into a million pieces.  I fucking hate my life.

Same Anxiety Different Diagnosis

As the queen of 2nd, and 3rd, and 12th, second opinions...I of course went running to get a second opinion on the baby's possible club feet.  Thankfully, this second opinion didn't think that the baby had club feet, but was concerned about the fluid around the baby's heart and the seemingly large size of the baby's heart.  So, the new doctor, who was so thorough (we seriously spent 3 hours while she and the tech looked at the baby that first time) and so kind, said that we should come back in a couple of days to see if the fluid had resolved itself.  Sometimes, the baby can be fighting a virus (I had just been sick the week before!) and that can cause the fluid....or it can be something else...like hydrops fetalis....or some sort of recessive gene....or a structural defect in the heart.  We are waiting for some test results I had done last week to see if I have contracted parvovirus in the past few weeks...which can infect the baby.  Or, it could be nothing.  I can't believe that we have traded one worrisome diagnosis for another.  I went back in for a 2nd ultrasound with the new doctor yesterday and there was still fluid around the heart.  Tomorrow I am going to a pediatric cardiologist at a children's hospital to see if he thinks that the heart is structurally sound (I'm guessing leaky valves or weak heart muscles can cause the fluid).

I realize that doctors have to be careful and thorough...but sometimes I wonder if it is too much.  Are they finding phantom problems that aren't there?

I will say that I have been sick quite frequently this pregnancy...a lot for a gal that only gets sick (even a cold!) only once every year or two.  About every two weeks, I have something that causes me to hole up in bed for a day or three.  Which makes me wonder if there is something systemically wrong with this pregnancy that is causing me to feel this way.

I can't get too upset about this.  It could be nothing.  Don't borrow worry from the future...some sage wisdom I am trying to remind myself.

Otherwise, I am just loving little girl and big brother.  They fight and play and light up each other's faces and I can't help but feel that even if we are just our family of four we are so so blessed.  I had to drag up some of the chromosomal analysis that my husband and I had done in January 2011 after our 4th failed cycle and can't help but be sad for all that we went through and so thankful for all that we have today.

Thanks so much for all of your support!

Disaster?

The past few weeks have put me on the brink of sanity. I have been repeatedly sick this pregnancy, missing days and days of work, exhausted, running a fever, throwing up, etc. etc. Through into the mix a major car accident requiring that we buy a new car and the stress of wondering whether my husband was going to be out of work again due to the sequestration and life already felt barely manageable.



On Friday at the 16 week ultrasound, I waited patiently as the technician made all of her measurements, sitting in the dark and quietly let tears run down my face because it is usually in the silence of the ultrasound room that the loss of my other baby really hits me. It is the place where I learned of the baby. It is the place where I lost the baby. I always ask the technician to turn off the monitor so that I don’t have to see what remains of the second baby. I am usually too fearful to say anything. At the end of the ultrasound, I asked the technician if my cervix was closed and she said yes. That was my big concern…given that loss of a twin can result in premature birth of the other twin. I mentioned that this baby didn’t seem as active as my other children and the technician said that she could see the baby moving around. She said that I should leave the gel on my stomach as the doctor may want to look at a few things. It seemed innocuous enough, but I should have known.


The doctor came in and did some scans and then told me that she couldn’t get a good view of the baby’s feet and legs as it was in the breech position and she had some definite concerns that the baby had club feet, which is associated with a host of neurological and spinal issues, such as spina bifida, cerebral palsy, and others. I tried to process what she was saying. I tried to tell myself that this was similar to the concerns doctors expressed about the size of Nugget’s head that lead to a month of hand-wringing and crying for the last month of my pregnancy with him. I told myself that I wasn’t going to let myself think about all the horrible things this could mean for our baby boy. That night, my husband and I woke up several times crying. This pregnancy has been so rife with angst and pain and sadness that sometimes I just want to end it all so that I don’t have to live in agony like this waiting any more.


We have to wait two more weeks before we can get another ultrasound to check on baby and see if he indeed has club feet or spina bifida, or any of the other horrible things that a genetically normal baby could suffer. Each day is an eternity and I can help but feel that both of us assume that it is a foregone conclusion that this is not a healthy baby and this pregnancy is only going to end in disaster.

What Happened

It was more than I could process and it certainly something I didn't feel comfortable processing out loud...particularly in our ALI community.  I didn't want to hurt any one's feelings.  I didn't want to say the terrible things I was thinking.  I was scared.

When we went in for our first ultrasound, there were two sacs.

Two.

After 6 (of our 8 total) cycles of transferring 2-3 embryos....we ended up with two sacs NOW.  We were bereft.  Why couldn't this have happened when we were trying for #1 or #2 when I was 29/31/32?  How on earth would we handle 3 kids under 19 months (or younger if they came early)?  There are so many risks with twins.  What would happen if there was something seriously wrong with them because they were born too early?  How would we afford this?  Where would we put them?  We'd have to move, hire help, get a new car, etc., etc., etc.  I cried for weeks.

And, then....one of them stopped progressing.  We lost her.  I think of the baby as my girl.

I felt relief.  At first.

I refuse to accept the pregnancy.  I assume it won't work out.  And, when we made it to twelve weeks and got the news that the remaining fetus was a healthy boy, I cried.  I've been crying off and on for the past three weeks.  I am trying not to tell people that I am pregnant because this pregnancy is so twinged with pain.  People expect you to be happy, excited when you tell them that you are pregnant.  But, I am just sad.  I feel like we pushed too much.  We should have been thankful for our two beautiful children and now we are going to be punished.  Something bad will happen. We were too greedy.

I am also deeply afraid that I won't be able to give my children the love and attention they deserve.  I wake up in the middle of the night worrying about it.  My parents, though well meaning, are deeply practical people that never paid much attention to my personality or interests.  They were so overwhelmed with managing four children that they just didn't have the emotional bandwidth to really look at me as an individual.  They still don't.  Every year for Christmas, I get the exact same sweater or dish-dryer or vacuum or WHATEVER....because my parents can't be bothered to figure out who I am and what interests me.  I don't fault them for it.  But, I know that isn't the type of parent that I want to be to my children and....I feel so overwhelmed managing work and speech therapy appointments for my son and keeping up with the house and trying to plan special activities for my kids and keeping up with photo albums and doing all the things that my whiny brat self didn't think I got as a kid.  How am I going to manage with three kids?  Will I be able to have a career or anything for myself if my utmost value is to provide my kids with love and specialized attention?

I am sorry I left with out so much as a good bye. It was just more than I could handle.