It's Christmas time. Family time. A little wistful for me (I've got to be honest), yet certainly full of quiet, contemplative moments where I am thankful for the amazing blessings I have. Things could always be worse, and I'm grateful they're not.
Driving home from the store one evening last week, we were commenting on Christmas decorations in the neighborhoods through which we passed. My son was in a particularly high mood. He felt magnanimous, and declared there were only two things he wanted for Christmas.
Me: What?
Him: I want the Lego Bionicle Fighter Jet. {We knew this one.}
Me: Okay, and what's the other thing you want for Christmas?
Him: I want a baby brother or a baby sister.
Twinge. Tight smile. "Keep praying for that," my husband commented. No matter how far away I think I am from it, I guess there will always be a little pain ready to pierce my heart at the mention of having children. Right now, it's also bittersweet; I know my son would make a great older brother. It's not terribly easy to hear a suggestion from him that I've been thinking about for the last six years.
An ironic part of the conversation sent my tight smile into a wry one when I reiterated how hard it is for some women to get pregnant and have kids.
Him: I just don't understand.
Me: You mean, you're confused about all the medical woman stuff?
Him: Yeah, pretty much.
Me: You're a boy, alright.
I didn't take offense. I dropped it. He doesn't understand or deal with infertility, although he does pick up on it. He empathizes as much as he can. But I do deal with it... for both of us.
I'm fervently glad it's a season of hope.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Friday, December 5, 2008
Essentially is Enough
I went to the Ob/Gyn today to talk about some ultrasound results. The doctor was looking for uterine fibroids. Not something I particularly care to find.
The nurse handed me a copy of the results summary from the lab after she took my blood pressure and ensconced me in an exam room. I had 15 minutes to mull over the latinate words and get worried over all-too-familiar terms like "cystic lesions" and "endometriomas." I've come a long way through the endometriosis journey. The excruciating pain that once so troubled me hasn't happened for seven years.
After I read through the results, I got a horrible sinking feeling. For the first time in years the weight of secondary infertility crashed down. I could feel sadness and despair wanting to edge into my heart. What if I'm not supposed to have any more children? I thought. Maybe I'm supposed to have only one child. The next inevitable thought of This isn't going to work I aimed at the dejection and turned it around. I wouldn't let the discouragement work. Whatever will come will come.
The doctor greeted me and we looked over the results. The only fibroid present was tiny, insignificant and uninterfering. The cysts were follicular: essentially normal in resolving throughout my cycle. The endometrium was normal. When I asked about my progesterone levels from a previous blood test taken five weeks earlier, the doctor told me that the normal range is 4 to 28, and my level was 16.
Wait a minute. Is she saying that essentially, things for me are normal enough?
As I sat there mystified, she dropped a bomb I hadn't even considered. "As far as infertility goes, it may not be you."
Hmm. It sounds like there may be a couple of more tests to run. And this time, they won't be on me.
The nurse handed me a copy of the results summary from the lab after she took my blood pressure and ensconced me in an exam room. I had 15 minutes to mull over the latinate words and get worried over all-too-familiar terms like "cystic lesions" and "endometriomas." I've come a long way through the endometriosis journey. The excruciating pain that once so troubled me hasn't happened for seven years.
After I read through the results, I got a horrible sinking feeling. For the first time in years the weight of secondary infertility crashed down. I could feel sadness and despair wanting to edge into my heart. What if I'm not supposed to have any more children? I thought. Maybe I'm supposed to have only one child. The next inevitable thought of This isn't going to work I aimed at the dejection and turned it around. I wouldn't let the discouragement work. Whatever will come will come.
The doctor greeted me and we looked over the results. The only fibroid present was tiny, insignificant and uninterfering. The cysts were follicular: essentially normal in resolving throughout my cycle. The endometrium was normal. When I asked about my progesterone levels from a previous blood test taken five weeks earlier, the doctor told me that the normal range is 4 to 28, and my level was 16.
Wait a minute. Is she saying that essentially, things for me are normal enough?
As I sat there mystified, she dropped a bomb I hadn't even considered. "As far as infertility goes, it may not be you."
Hmm. It sounds like there may be a couple of more tests to run. And this time, they won't be on me.
Monday, October 20, 2008
And we begin again...kinda
Okay, I've done it. I finally called the most highly recommended fertility doc here in Uruguay (really, there aren't ALL that many, but still, he is supposed to be very good) and we have an appointment. Now, we don't plan on doing IVF until March or April, but we figured we better just go chat with him, make him aware of our prescence/plans, make sure there's no huge long wait we don't know about or something...
It was pretty hard for me to make the call. Mostly because it was in Spanish and, as I've mentioned before, I HATE talking on the phone in Spanish. But it went well. The other reason it was kinda difficult is just knowing that with this phone call, it all starts again. Maybe not for several months, but it's still the first step leading to IVF's physical and emotional ups and downs. And financial, though I really doubt there are going to be any "ups" involved there.
So that's that! Our journey begins again.
It was pretty hard for me to make the call. Mostly because it was in Spanish and, as I've mentioned before, I HATE talking on the phone in Spanish. But it went well. The other reason it was kinda difficult is just knowing that with this phone call, it all starts again. Maybe not for several months, but it's still the first step leading to IVF's physical and emotional ups and downs. And financial, though I really doubt there are going to be any "ups" involved there.
So that's that! Our journey begins again.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Dearest Bonnie
Now the Lord of peace himself give you peace always by all means. The Lord be with you.
2 Thes. 3:16
2 Thes. 3:16
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Try Try Again?
Six home tests and one official blood test later, the results are decidedly negative. I have had that nagging it-didn't-work feeling for awhile now, but you always hope that you are wrong.
I'm going to go bury myself in chocolate now. I may emerge to blog again sometime during the millenium.
I'm going to go bury myself in chocolate now. I may emerge to blog again sometime during the millenium.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
The Longest Wait Ever
I swear this has been the longest wait ever between a transfer and a pregnancy test. The time is just dragging, and I am going crazy. I won't even admit to how many home tests I've done so far (all negative, of course). Knowing it's still too early to test isn't enough to stop me. It's like there is some sort of magnetic pull between my fingers and the box of pregnancy tests in the closet. I can't seem to get the logical part of my brain to override the urge to keep on testing.
I don't even know if I will still be alive by the time the actual blood test rolls around. I think I've managed to age 80 years in the last nine days.
Isn't there any way we can speed up the clock?
I don't even know if I will still be alive by the time the actual blood test rolls around. I think I've managed to age 80 years in the last nine days.
Isn't there any way we can speed up the clock?
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
It Really Is Something In The Water
So I guess we all need to move to Australia and go swimming in the Kununura waters. Or maybe we just need to be Nicole Kidman.
I find it so fascinating how people connect random things together as if there is a cause/effect relationship going on, when really it's just a coincidence completely unrelated to any sort of mystical phenomenon.
Of course it would be wonderful if there were these sorts of supernatural fertility cure-alls. But if things like this really worked, don't you think it would have made it into some scientific journal by now?
I don't believe in all the fertility voodoo and other nonsense that is out there. But I do believe in miracles and tender mercies. And I strongly believe it is essential to recognize the miracles in our lives as gifts from God, and not gifts from Mother Nature.
I find it so fascinating how people connect random things together as if there is a cause/effect relationship going on, when really it's just a coincidence completely unrelated to any sort of mystical phenomenon.
Of course it would be wonderful if there were these sorts of supernatural fertility cure-alls. But if things like this really worked, don't you think it would have made it into some scientific journal by now?
I don't believe in all the fertility voodoo and other nonsense that is out there. But I do believe in miracles and tender mercies. And I strongly believe it is essential to recognize the miracles in our lives as gifts from God, and not gifts from Mother Nature.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
The Need to Create
There are lots of weird methods to help a woman get pregnant--my most favorite of ludicrosities which involve aromatherapy and standing on my head. What the authors of these methods never say is that they don't work because they're offered up to and used by women who would have gotten pregnant with their husbands in the next room shouting out sweet nothings. I know women who can get pregnant faithfully using birth control. (No comment. We won't even go into that.) Standing on their heads? That would have mattered as much as a rainbow to a blind person.
The best advice for an infertile person always comes from a fertile person. It's so useful. It's so understanding. Really, the compassion of such people never fails to boggle my mind.
One of my mother's best friends had secondary infertility. She's an incredibly creative person who could put her mind to a project and accomplish it. She taught herself how to upholster furniture, make cabinets, frame portraits she had painted, sew formalwear and other crafts and arts I forget the names of. Her creative impulse was more than that--it was a drive channeled through her hands. I understand that drive to create; it speeds me along, too.
Her mother was one of those sensitive and understanding fertile people I previously mentioned. Impatient with her daughter's infertility, she pushed her into doing IVF. The cycle failed. Her mother pushed her into doing another IVF cycle and she got pregnant with triplet girls. Halfway through the pregnancy, she lost all three girls. She was heartbroken. I remember going to her house months and months after it happened and being frozen in front of a shadow box hanging on her wall containing three little girl dolls with large eyes as their only features. So much pain. In my head echoed words of her testimony she had borne about eternal families and resurrection... mentioning nothing of the emotional tragedy she had suffered. I respected her an incredible amount for being able to get up and smile each day--for being willing to be grateful for what God had given her: one healthy son.
She refused the third IVF cycle her mother wanted her to go through and ended up adopting a son. It's a good thing I never met her mother.
I learned from her many things about endurance, but mostly this: that I can be creative with whatever materials God sees fit to bless me. If it's a child, wonderful. If it's paint, wonderful. She never let the perceived limitations from others stop her. She needed to create, to make something come alive with its own vibrancy. And she never thought for once that working with her hands was a substitute for raising a child, or vice versa. They were boths arts. They were both equal endeavors of talent.
And she was right.
The best advice for an infertile person always comes from a fertile person. It's so useful. It's so understanding. Really, the compassion of such people never fails to boggle my mind.
One of my mother's best friends had secondary infertility. She's an incredibly creative person who could put her mind to a project and accomplish it. She taught herself how to upholster furniture, make cabinets, frame portraits she had painted, sew formalwear and other crafts and arts I forget the names of. Her creative impulse was more than that--it was a drive channeled through her hands. I understand that drive to create; it speeds me along, too.
Her mother was one of those sensitive and understanding fertile people I previously mentioned. Impatient with her daughter's infertility, she pushed her into doing IVF. The cycle failed. Her mother pushed her into doing another IVF cycle and she got pregnant with triplet girls. Halfway through the pregnancy, she lost all three girls. She was heartbroken. I remember going to her house months and months after it happened and being frozen in front of a shadow box hanging on her wall containing three little girl dolls with large eyes as their only features. So much pain. In my head echoed words of her testimony she had borne about eternal families and resurrection... mentioning nothing of the emotional tragedy she had suffered. I respected her an incredible amount for being able to get up and smile each day--for being willing to be grateful for what God had given her: one healthy son.
She refused the third IVF cycle her mother wanted her to go through and ended up adopting a son. It's a good thing I never met her mother.
I learned from her many things about endurance, but mostly this: that I can be creative with whatever materials God sees fit to bless me. If it's a child, wonderful. If it's paint, wonderful. She never let the perceived limitations from others stop her. She needed to create, to make something come alive with its own vibrancy. And she never thought for once that working with her hands was a substitute for raising a child, or vice versa. They were boths arts. They were both equal endeavors of talent.
And she was right.
Monday, September 22, 2008
It Must Be the Water
Provo is a very odd place. I suppose I could stop there while everyone nods in silent agreement, but I feel compelled to explain myself. I'm 31, have been married nearly 8 years, and have one not-quite-two-year-old daughter; in most parts of the world this would be considered quite normal, but around here I'm way behind the curve. Most of the women I meet who are around my age have three or four (or sometimes more) children, and I still can't wrap my head around the fact that nearly half of the women I see in grocery stores are pregnant. It really must be the water. Or maybe the air. Or something.
(Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I am nearly 13 weeks pregnant with our second child, but, as with all the other fantastic women on this blog, getting there has not been easy. My husband and I tried for about three years before we had our first; it was only after a wonderful doctor properly diagnosed me as having PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome) and prescribed the correct medication that my daughter made her way into the world. We were blessed to conceive this baby much more quickly because we already know the issues we face and how to treat them. Thank you, thank you, Dr. Ivey-Crowe.)
When I look around at the many expectant mothers here in Provo I assume that most of them are excited to be bringing another life into the world. But I do wonder if some of them fully comprehend the miracle that is occuring within their bodies. I will admit that I do not like being pregnant; my first pregnancy was tough for various reasons, and this one is following suit. But I am always cognizant of the fact that something incredible is happening here. I look at my toddler and contemplate the fact that she started as nothing but two tiny cells; now here she is, approaching two, full of personality, independence, stubborness, and fun. She's her own little person, completely and totally.
I like to think that my experience with infertility has made me more aware of this utter miracle; often, the harder we work for something, the less likely we are to take it for granted. It will never be easy for me to have babies, but I'm grateful that the solution to my problems is relatively simple. I will always need medication in order to conceive children, so the label of "infertile" will always be with me. But I no longer begrudge that label because it has helped me to recognize my children for the miracle they really are.
(Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I am nearly 13 weeks pregnant with our second child, but, as with all the other fantastic women on this blog, getting there has not been easy. My husband and I tried for about three years before we had our first; it was only after a wonderful doctor properly diagnosed me as having PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome) and prescribed the correct medication that my daughter made her way into the world. We were blessed to conceive this baby much more quickly because we already know the issues we face and how to treat them. Thank you, thank you, Dr. Ivey-Crowe.)
When I look around at the many expectant mothers here in Provo I assume that most of them are excited to be bringing another life into the world. But I do wonder if some of them fully comprehend the miracle that is occuring within their bodies. I will admit that I do not like being pregnant; my first pregnancy was tough for various reasons, and this one is following suit. But I am always cognizant of the fact that something incredible is happening here. I look at my toddler and contemplate the fact that she started as nothing but two tiny cells; now here she is, approaching two, full of personality, independence, stubborness, and fun. She's her own little person, completely and totally.
I like to think that my experience with infertility has made me more aware of this utter miracle; often, the harder we work for something, the less likely we are to take it for granted. It will never be easy for me to have babies, but I'm grateful that the solution to my problems is relatively simple. I will always need medication in order to conceive children, so the label of "infertile" will always be with me. But I no longer begrudge that label because it has helped me to recognize my children for the miracle they really are.
How Far Is Too Far?
"Why don't you just adopt?" It's a question that every infertile person has been asked at one time or another. Well-meaning folks sometimes ask this question like it's as easy as running to the supermarket, going to the babies-with-brown-hair-and-blue-eyes aisle, and selecting your favorite bundle of joy.
In reality, adoption is a long, arduous, expensive process that is interfered with on every level by government bureaucrats, mothers of worthless sperm-donor fathers who want to raise "their" grandchild, and a completely corrupt court system that chooses biology over adoptive parents every time.
I have known people trying to adopt and seen the hell they go through. I have seen them attach themselves to an infant, only to see that infant ripped out of their arms after a year because some father who wasn't honorable enough to marry the child's mother decides it might be fun to have a little mini-me in the house. As far as I'm concerned, if a so-called "father" is unwilling to marry the mother of the child, he should not have a right to object to that mother giving her child up to a better life.
And the money. Well, in the case of international adoption, there are a lot of people that need bribing, a lot of people that need favors, and a lot of people that need convincing to give their orphans up to a foreigner.
And we all know that newborn American babies are extremely hard to come by. There are simply too many abortions. And as for mothers who hope their out-of-wedlock babies will be raised in an LDS home? They are even fewer and farther between.
Which brings me to the point of this post. I recently read an article where a reader commented that "doing IVF is going too far. There are many children who need good homes...", basically going on to say that anyone choosing fertility treatment over adoption is a selfish jerk.
Pardon me for being cynical, but these sound like the words of someone who conceived a baby on their honeymoon, and can't understand the divinely-instilled longing to give birth to one's own child.
I think people who adopt are saints, and I think people who take in foster children are worthy of immediate translation, but my desire to have my own child does not make me a bad person. And my decision to put myself through fertility treatment does not make me selfish in any way.
Yes, there are children that need good homes. But there are also spirits that still need bodies.
To the person who says IVF is going too far I say, "You have a lot to learn."
In reality, adoption is a long, arduous, expensive process that is interfered with on every level by government bureaucrats, mothers of worthless sperm-donor fathers who want to raise "their" grandchild, and a completely corrupt court system that chooses biology over adoptive parents every time.
I have known people trying to adopt and seen the hell they go through. I have seen them attach themselves to an infant, only to see that infant ripped out of their arms after a year because some father who wasn't honorable enough to marry the child's mother decides it might be fun to have a little mini-me in the house. As far as I'm concerned, if a so-called "father" is unwilling to marry the mother of the child, he should not have a right to object to that mother giving her child up to a better life.
And the money. Well, in the case of international adoption, there are a lot of people that need bribing, a lot of people that need favors, and a lot of people that need convincing to give their orphans up to a foreigner.
And we all know that newborn American babies are extremely hard to come by. There are simply too many abortions. And as for mothers who hope their out-of-wedlock babies will be raised in an LDS home? They are even fewer and farther between.
Which brings me to the point of this post. I recently read an article where a reader commented that "doing IVF is going too far. There are many children who need good homes...", basically going on to say that anyone choosing fertility treatment over adoption is a selfish jerk.
Pardon me for being cynical, but these sound like the words of someone who conceived a baby on their honeymoon, and can't understand the divinely-instilled longing to give birth to one's own child.
I think people who adopt are saints, and I think people who take in foster children are worthy of immediate translation, but my desire to have my own child does not make me a bad person. And my decision to put myself through fertility treatment does not make me selfish in any way.
Yes, there are children that need good homes. But there are also spirits that still need bodies.
To the person who says IVF is going too far I say, "You have a lot to learn."
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Blogging From The Couch
We've made it past the first big hurdle! One of our embryos survived the thaw beautifully and was expanding so fast they had us come in for transfer a couple hours earlier than originally planned. So I am now relegated to bed rest for 24 hours. Thank goodness for wireless Internet, laptops, televisions, and phones!
I was really nervous this morning, especially when the doctor's office called asking us to come in early. I started to over analyze everything - how did the nurse sound? Did she sound like she had good news or bad news? Do you think she would have us come in early if it was bad news?, etc. Luckily it was good news.
I am a little nervous about our hopes being dependent on only one embryo, but knowing it looked really good and was doing so well beforehand is comforting. And besides, it's a bit of a relief to know we are not going to have twins. (While I would love to have twins at some point, I really wanted to have just one child next so my son wouldn't be so overwhelmed, and so he could have a little friend that didn't come with a built-in playmate. It will be easier for him if he doesn't have to be a third wheel his whole life).
So now we get to hold our breath for two weeks. This is the worst part - the am-I-am-I-not game. And having been pregnant twice before doesn't help matters, because I am sure to over analyze every similarity or dissimilarity to my past experiences.
We're keeping our fingers crossed.
I was really nervous this morning, especially when the doctor's office called asking us to come in early. I started to over analyze everything - how did the nurse sound? Did she sound like she had good news or bad news? Do you think she would have us come in early if it was bad news?, etc. Luckily it was good news.
I am a little nervous about our hopes being dependent on only one embryo, but knowing it looked really good and was doing so well beforehand is comforting. And besides, it's a bit of a relief to know we are not going to have twins. (While I would love to have twins at some point, I really wanted to have just one child next so my son wouldn't be so overwhelmed, and so he could have a little friend that didn't come with a built-in playmate. It will be easier for him if he doesn't have to be a third wheel his whole life).
So now we get to hold our breath for two weeks. This is the worst part - the am-I-am-I-not game. And having been pregnant twice before doesn't help matters, because I am sure to over analyze every similarity or dissimilarity to my past experiences.
We're keeping our fingers crossed.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Success!
At Target today I was able to find a Sharps Container, sitting right on the shelf with all the other diabetic supplies. At least one store has some common sense.
The shots are going well. It helps immensely to pre-freeze the selected area. I still hate that I can feel the injection making its way in, but it's really not bad. I am already very tender and sore though, and it's only been four days! To think I did this for 70+ days in a row last IVF. No wonder I was still sore on my son's first birthday.
It's completely mind-boggling what we're willing to put ourselves through to have children, isn't it?
Good thing it's so worth it.
The shots are going well. It helps immensely to pre-freeze the selected area. I still hate that I can feel the injection making its way in, but it's really not bad. I am already very tender and sore though, and it's only been four days! To think I did this for 70+ days in a row last IVF. No wonder I was still sore on my son's first birthday.
It's completely mind-boggling what we're willing to put ourselves through to have children, isn't it?
Good thing it's so worth it.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Responsible Addicts?
In anticipation of starting my shots yesterday I made a run to the store to get band-aids and alcohol wipes, but I forgot to buy a needle disposal container. I meant to pick one up this afternoon while I was running errands (2 pairs of great boots for $50 total!) and forgot once again. (Does progesterone make you forget things?)
Anyway, at 7:15 I headed out to CVS. I expected to be able to pick one up in the main area of the store, which is where I bought a couple of them last time we did IVF. I couldn't find any - come to find out they only sell them from behind the pharmacy counter and the pharmacy was closed for the evening.
I find this so strange. Why in the world would they need to keep these plastic containers behind the pharmacy counter? I can understand needles or medications, but an innocuous (albeit plastered with "biohazard" warnings) disposal container? What, are they worried that some heroin addict is going to steal one and responsibly dispose of his used needles?
And what good is a CVS pharmacy if it is closed at 7:00 on a Saturday?
Anyway, at 7:15 I headed out to CVS. I expected to be able to pick one up in the main area of the store, which is where I bought a couple of them last time we did IVF. I couldn't find any - come to find out they only sell them from behind the pharmacy counter and the pharmacy was closed for the evening.
I find this so strange. Why in the world would they need to keep these plastic containers behind the pharmacy counter? I can understand needles or medications, but an innocuous (albeit plastered with "biohazard" warnings) disposal container? What, are they worried that some heroin addict is going to steal one and responsibly dispose of his used needles?
And what good is a CVS pharmacy if it is closed at 7:00 on a Saturday?
Friday, September 12, 2008
Do You Mind If This Medical Student Observes Your Examination?
I seem to get asked this question on a regular basis. And honestly, I don't care if a whole army comes in to have a peek at my nether regions. I've been through infertility testing, multiple IVFs, prenatal care, labor and delivery, and miscarriage. It is completely impossible to embarrass me anymore. I'll let a doctor look at anything, I will ask any question, and I'll do it all without the slightest hint of a blush.
As you might have surmised, I had a doctor visit today. Everything is going well, so far. I start my progesterone shots today, which I am not looking forward to, but up to this point the whole process has been a breeze, so I have absolutely nothing to complain about.
The only unfortunate part is that my husband is going to be out of town on business for the next couple of days, which means I had to ask a friend if she would accept the honor of sticking needles in my rear end. In case you were wondering what the definition of true friendship is, her willingness to do this about covers it.
Everything is looking good so far. I've got a nice, comfy-looking uterine lining, all my hormones are in order, and we are anxiously awaiting a scheduled transfer on Thursday. I am just praying our little embryos will survive the thawing process.
Oh, and more good news is that if I do get pregnant, my doctor says he might allow me to switch to progesterone suppositories instead of the thick IM shots (assuming the hormone levels look good). Let's hear it for less pain in the butt!
As you might have surmised, I had a doctor visit today. Everything is going well, so far. I start my progesterone shots today, which I am not looking forward to, but up to this point the whole process has been a breeze, so I have absolutely nothing to complain about.
The only unfortunate part is that my husband is going to be out of town on business for the next couple of days, which means I had to ask a friend if she would accept the honor of sticking needles in my rear end. In case you were wondering what the definition of true friendship is, her willingness to do this about covers it.
Everything is looking good so far. I've got a nice, comfy-looking uterine lining, all my hormones are in order, and we are anxiously awaiting a scheduled transfer on Thursday. I am just praying our little embryos will survive the thawing process.
Oh, and more good news is that if I do get pregnant, my doctor says he might allow me to switch to progesterone suppositories instead of the thick IM shots (assuming the hormone levels look good). Let's hear it for less pain in the butt!
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
One Of The Lucky Ones
At our church play group today there was a lot of discussion about pregnancy, as there always is whenever you gather a bunch of mormon women together. Somehow the talk just turns to pregnancy and childbirth.
The consensus among all the women was that pregnancy is an unpleasant part of life that is to be endured, but not enjoyed.
Now, I must confess that I was one of the lucky few who had a relatively easy pregnancy. I was never afflicted with more than slight nausea, as long as I kept something in my stomach at all times. The headaches that plagued me during the first trimester were survivable, even though one headache would generally last a few days. But I must say I would rather have a nasty headache than be puking all day.
Of course I had the normal aches and pains that accompany any pregnancy, and experienced the usual sleeplessness that results from having another human being bouncing on your bladder all night.
But I am grateful for all those experiences. I had dreamed of being pregnant my whole life, and I loved it, from start to finish. I wasn't ready to give it up when my son came. It was such an amazing time, and I look back on it with so much fondness. There is nothing more incredible than growing a baby, after all.
I know most people tend to roll their eyes when I say I loved pregnancy. They think I just don't know how easy I had it. But I think because it was so difficult for me to get pregnant in the first place, I appreciated every little twinge that reminded me of the life I carried inside me. And knowing that it may be my only opportunity to nourish a new little one was all the more reason to cherish every moment.
I truly am one of the lucky ones.
The consensus among all the women was that pregnancy is an unpleasant part of life that is to be endured, but not enjoyed.
Now, I must confess that I was one of the lucky few who had a relatively easy pregnancy. I was never afflicted with more than slight nausea, as long as I kept something in my stomach at all times. The headaches that plagued me during the first trimester were survivable, even though one headache would generally last a few days. But I must say I would rather have a nasty headache than be puking all day.
Of course I had the normal aches and pains that accompany any pregnancy, and experienced the usual sleeplessness that results from having another human being bouncing on your bladder all night.
But I am grateful for all those experiences. I had dreamed of being pregnant my whole life, and I loved it, from start to finish. I wasn't ready to give it up when my son came. It was such an amazing time, and I look back on it with so much fondness. There is nothing more incredible than growing a baby, after all.
I know most people tend to roll their eyes when I say I loved pregnancy. They think I just don't know how easy I had it. But I think because it was so difficult for me to get pregnant in the first place, I appreciated every little twinge that reminded me of the life I carried inside me. And knowing that it may be my only opportunity to nourish a new little one was all the more reason to cherish every moment.
I truly am one of the lucky ones.
I Knew I Was. Then I Knew I Wasn't.
One of my friends had a terrible summer involving a birth, mourning, and a funeral. All of her pre-term son. He was 17 weeks along. She has a clotting disorder that makes getting and staying pregnant quite difficult for her. Miscarriages she suffered have caused her to refer to her daughter and son as “miracles.” Rightly so.
We stood in the warmth of the innocuous sun one morning as she cried and I hugged her. This is the kind of closure, the kind of goodbye, no parent wants. Ever.
Her, crying: I’m sorry.
Me: For what? Being human?
Her, laughing through tears: I’m not human; I’m superwoman!
Me: Don’t be so hard on yourself.
Her: Thank you for being so sweet about this. I know how hard it is for you, but that you understand.
Me: It’s hard for you, too! I dealt with it when I lived in Utah—that’s where I found out about my infertility.
Her, in a boy-are-we-both-screwed tone: And you’re Mormon, right? You know how hard it is to go places and see pregnant women everywhere.
Yes, it is hard. But why am I so hard on myself about infertility? It's not like I can control it. My friend is also hard on herself. I’m not talking about striving for the potentiality that being a daughter of God entails. I’m talking about having a righteous desire being thwarted by a very fallible body while the phrase “multiply and replenish the earth” reverberates in my head, and yet still blaming myself for it on some level. I can laugh about the all-or-nothing thinking pattern this follows—but what stops me in my tracks is the “perfection or bust” goal church members have. I have evolved beyond thinking I have to bake 150 perfect cupcakes for a school function, aerobicize until I’m wearing my perfect body, wash the car windows at the gas station so there are no streaks, and pop out babies in perfectly coordinated outfits. But I cannot perfectly lift my spirits out of the melancholy of miscarriage. I am human. I am imperfect. In this one area, I am not wholly happy.
I have not had miscarriages to the extent of some friends, but I have had them. Last month, I knew I was pregnant. My menses was five days late, and I just knew. Then one morning I woke up and knew I wasn’t pregnant any more. There wasn’t any fuss. The world didn’t halt. But I knew it. And I wasn’t. How many babies have I said goodbye to, I wonder? How many times have I closed my eyes and breathed in and out in an effort to keep my heart beating and willing my mind not to go crazy thinking about it? The child in me doesn’t want to say goodbye, even though my adult mind reconciles it. It takes an incredibly courageous woman to say goodbye and still turn to the new day and the possibility of saying welcome. I have been such a woman. Just as I have also thought, Today, I cannot be that woman.
Some of the strongest, most capable women I’ve ever known have been my friends dealing with infertility, or who have had miscarriages. They are not perfect. They have at times, like me, been able to barely scrape by emotionally. But they keep moving forward. The reward is somewhere up ahead. Right?
We stood in the warmth of the innocuous sun one morning as she cried and I hugged her. This is the kind of closure, the kind of goodbye, no parent wants. Ever.
Her, crying: I’m sorry.
Me: For what? Being human?
Her, laughing through tears: I’m not human; I’m superwoman!
Me: Don’t be so hard on yourself.
Her: Thank you for being so sweet about this. I know how hard it is for you, but that you understand.
Me: It’s hard for you, too! I dealt with it when I lived in Utah—that’s where I found out about my infertility.
Her, in a boy-are-we-both-screwed tone: And you’re Mormon, right? You know how hard it is to go places and see pregnant women everywhere.
Yes, it is hard. But why am I so hard on myself about infertility? It's not like I can control it. My friend is also hard on herself. I’m not talking about striving for the potentiality that being a daughter of God entails. I’m talking about having a righteous desire being thwarted by a very fallible body while the phrase “multiply and replenish the earth” reverberates in my head, and yet still blaming myself for it on some level. I can laugh about the all-or-nothing thinking pattern this follows—but what stops me in my tracks is the “perfection or bust” goal church members have. I have evolved beyond thinking I have to bake 150 perfect cupcakes for a school function, aerobicize until I’m wearing my perfect body, wash the car windows at the gas station so there are no streaks, and pop out babies in perfectly coordinated outfits. But I cannot perfectly lift my spirits out of the melancholy of miscarriage. I am human. I am imperfect. In this one area, I am not wholly happy.
I have not had miscarriages to the extent of some friends, but I have had them. Last month, I knew I was pregnant. My menses was five days late, and I just knew. Then one morning I woke up and knew I wasn’t pregnant any more. There wasn’t any fuss. The world didn’t halt. But I knew it. And I wasn’t. How many babies have I said goodbye to, I wonder? How many times have I closed my eyes and breathed in and out in an effort to keep my heart beating and willing my mind not to go crazy thinking about it? The child in me doesn’t want to say goodbye, even though my adult mind reconciles it. It takes an incredibly courageous woman to say goodbye and still turn to the new day and the possibility of saying welcome. I have been such a woman. Just as I have also thought, Today, I cannot be that woman.
Some of the strongest, most capable women I’ve ever known have been my friends dealing with infertility, or who have had miscarriages. They are not perfect. They have at times, like me, been able to barely scrape by emotionally. But they keep moving forward. The reward is somewhere up ahead. Right?
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Stuck On Insignificant Phraseology
Expressing her hope that I would be able to have more children, a friend of mine recently told me that my husband and I "make beautiful babies". It's a really sweet comment. But in my weird world of infertility, it's also a comment that doesn't quite sit right with me. Not that I don't appreciate it, just that the phrasing seems wrong.
I know my husband and I "made" our son together. But it almost feels like we didn't. It was like there were a bunch of cooks throwing ingredients in a mixer, scooping them up, and sliding them in the oven. We were present for the gathering of ingredients, but for the actual "making of" part, we didn't even need to be there. And as for the sliding in the oven, well, my husband often jokes about the fact that he actually watched another man impregnate his wife. (Of course we could take that a step further and say that a whole team of men were involved, but let's not get graphic...)
I know it's ridiculous to make an issue of this. But I often wish our son's "making of" documentary included something a little more romantic, a lot less painful, and involving just my husband and me. You know those people that name their babies after their conception place, like Brooklyn, or Dallas, or something like that? With my son, what comes to mind more readily is something like "Lab" or "Petri Dish".
Another phrase that bothers me: Because of my c-section, I don't feel like I can ever truly tell someone that I have "given birth". Yes, I've had a baby, and yes, I was there when they yanked my son out of my uterus, but were it not for the fact that my body was indespensible to the process, you would have thought I was sort of superfluous. Lying there on a sterile table, so numbed up from the epidural that my arm was paralyzed (and not even being able to touch my son after he was born because of it), not being able to see or be a part of the action - I felt a little cheated.
I know when it comes down to it, being a mother is not about having a perfect conception (though that would be nice) or a perfect birth (which would also be wonderful). It doesn't matter how the babies get here, and really motherhood is not only about having babies. But still...
Funny how my rational brain can understand this so easily, but my heart is still having trouble.
I know my husband and I "made" our son together. But it almost feels like we didn't. It was like there were a bunch of cooks throwing ingredients in a mixer, scooping them up, and sliding them in the oven. We were present for the gathering of ingredients, but for the actual "making of" part, we didn't even need to be there. And as for the sliding in the oven, well, my husband often jokes about the fact that he actually watched another man impregnate his wife. (Of course we could take that a step further and say that a whole team of men were involved, but let's not get graphic...)
I know it's ridiculous to make an issue of this. But I often wish our son's "making of" documentary included something a little more romantic, a lot less painful, and involving just my husband and me. You know those people that name their babies after their conception place, like Brooklyn, or Dallas, or something like that? With my son, what comes to mind more readily is something like "Lab" or "Petri Dish".
Another phrase that bothers me: Because of my c-section, I don't feel like I can ever truly tell someone that I have "given birth". Yes, I've had a baby, and yes, I was there when they yanked my son out of my uterus, but were it not for the fact that my body was indespensible to the process, you would have thought I was sort of superfluous. Lying there on a sterile table, so numbed up from the epidural that my arm was paralyzed (and not even being able to touch my son after he was born because of it), not being able to see or be a part of the action - I felt a little cheated.
I know when it comes down to it, being a mother is not about having a perfect conception (though that would be nice) or a perfect birth (which would also be wonderful). It doesn't matter how the babies get here, and really motherhood is not only about having babies. But still...
Funny how my rational brain can understand this so easily, but my heart is still having trouble.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Opportunities For Redemption
One of my best friends just had her third baby, an adorable little girl with a full head of hair. I am thrilled beyond words for her. As an only child and a mother of two sons, she could use a little more estrogen in the house. And she has always wanted to have a daughter. It's so fun to see her dearest wish fulfilled.
And I'm so glad that the announcement of this third baby could bring such joy to me.
You see, less than 48 hours before I learned of her first pregnancy, my husband and I had been told by a fertility specialist that we would never be able to have children on our own. It was a life-changing, devastating, stomp-on-your-heart kind of revelation, and I hadn't even begun to come to terms with it. And then my closest friend in the whole universe said, "We have something to tell you." As soon as I heard those words, my stomach dropped. I knew immediately what she was going to say.
It was the only time in my life when I have been completely incapable of making any kind of happy-sounding response. Always I have been able to cover up my hurt and make myself sound excited, if not thrilled for someone. But this time was different. I think my response was something along the lines of "Oh... that's GREAT. How exciting for you." In panic, I looked to my husband to help me, and all I could see was the pain in his eyes as he desperately tried to find the congratulatory words he did not feel.
I don't know how long they stayed after the announcement, but it seemed like an eternity. As we ushered them out the door with "Congratulations again!" it was all I could do not to dissolve into tears. The moment the door clicked shut, the flood gates opened, and I cried for what must have been hours.
But the most horrible part was not that she was having a baby and I wasn't. It was that I had failed my best friend in one of her happiest moments. I was so wrapped up in my own misery that I couldn't even feel a twinge of happiness for her sake. It was one of the most shameful moments of my life, and one I have regretted ever since.
So I am so happy that I had an opportunity to redeem myself when she told me about the impending arrival of this new little one. I was genuinely ecstatic for her. I squealed and laughed and congratulated her again and again, and assured her she would have the little girl she hoped for. It was a truly joyful moment, and I didn't feel even a tiny pinch of jealousy. Just happiness for a dear friend who is truly deserving of every possible blessing.
And I'm so glad that the announcement of this third baby could bring such joy to me.
You see, less than 48 hours before I learned of her first pregnancy, my husband and I had been told by a fertility specialist that we would never be able to have children on our own. It was a life-changing, devastating, stomp-on-your-heart kind of revelation, and I hadn't even begun to come to terms with it. And then my closest friend in the whole universe said, "We have something to tell you." As soon as I heard those words, my stomach dropped. I knew immediately what she was going to say.
It was the only time in my life when I have been completely incapable of making any kind of happy-sounding response. Always I have been able to cover up my hurt and make myself sound excited, if not thrilled for someone. But this time was different. I think my response was something along the lines of "Oh... that's GREAT. How exciting for you." In panic, I looked to my husband to help me, and all I could see was the pain in his eyes as he desperately tried to find the congratulatory words he did not feel.
I don't know how long they stayed after the announcement, but it seemed like an eternity. As we ushered them out the door with "Congratulations again!" it was all I could do not to dissolve into tears. The moment the door clicked shut, the flood gates opened, and I cried for what must have been hours.
But the most horrible part was not that she was having a baby and I wasn't. It was that I had failed my best friend in one of her happiest moments. I was so wrapped up in my own misery that I couldn't even feel a twinge of happiness for her sake. It was one of the most shameful moments of my life, and one I have regretted ever since.
So I am so happy that I had an opportunity to redeem myself when she told me about the impending arrival of this new little one. I was genuinely ecstatic for her. I squealed and laughed and congratulated her again and again, and assured her she would have the little girl she hoped for. It was a truly joyful moment, and I didn't feel even a tiny pinch of jealousy. Just happiness for a dear friend who is truly deserving of every possible blessing.
Having Seconds
I have secondary infertility. That means that after being primarily infertile, my body in a fleeting flash of lucidity figured out how to get and stay pregnant, then sank back into stupidity. What will it be termed if I am finally able to have another baby? Tertiary infertility?
A non-member friend of mine has two girls. Her oldest is my son's age (they're best friends.) Her little girl is nearly three years old. My friend certainly isn't the most gushing of mothers I've known, but she decided to be at home for her girls and is completely honest. Like many moms, her preschooler frustrates her a hundred times a day. The other week, when our kids were playing, she looked at her youngest daughter and said to me, "You know, I wouldn't change anything and I'm happy how things are, but I would have been okay with having just one child."
I was a little bowled over. Pained. (Yes.) Quietly exasperated. (Certainly--but more at myself.) To cover my feelings I said, "Well, go find the pink slip to your daughter; I'll take her!" My friend knows I have struggled with endometriosis in the past, but I know she didn't say what she did to wound me. Nor did I take offense at it. But it reminded me that there is a clear division--one we don't want there, but it's there nonetheless--between the haves and the have-nots. If you are infertile in any way and you want children, a person who has never dealt with infertility simply doesn't understand. A person can fake sympathy, but she can't fake empathy.
Circling my head have been second thoughts over investing emotionally in another round of workups at the gynecologist, although I've never thought twice about wanting another baby. That's a certainty. I've watched friends fight like lionesses to get pregnant and have their babies. I've held their babies while that twinge in my heart quietly sings its familiar tune of "me, too, please." And as I've slowly prepared my body the last year-and-a-half by becoming more fit and healthy, I've realized: Hon, you already ARE emotionally invested.
Reading in Alma a while ago, I got a hefty kick in the behind: "Or do ye suppose that the Lord will still deliver us, while we sit upon our thrones and do not make use of the means which the Lord has provided for us?" Um... well, that's decided then. Everything has been prepared. Get thee to the doctor! Get to work! So I flex my own lioness claws, trusting God for the second time that I'm ready.
A non-member friend of mine has two girls. Her oldest is my son's age (they're best friends.) Her little girl is nearly three years old. My friend certainly isn't the most gushing of mothers I've known, but she decided to be at home for her girls and is completely honest. Like many moms, her preschooler frustrates her a hundred times a day. The other week, when our kids were playing, she looked at her youngest daughter and said to me, "You know, I wouldn't change anything and I'm happy how things are, but I would have been okay with having just one child."
I was a little bowled over. Pained. (Yes.) Quietly exasperated. (Certainly--but more at myself.) To cover my feelings I said, "Well, go find the pink slip to your daughter; I'll take her!" My friend knows I have struggled with endometriosis in the past, but I know she didn't say what she did to wound me. Nor did I take offense at it. But it reminded me that there is a clear division--one we don't want there, but it's there nonetheless--between the haves and the have-nots. If you are infertile in any way and you want children, a person who has never dealt with infertility simply doesn't understand. A person can fake sympathy, but she can't fake empathy.
Circling my head have been second thoughts over investing emotionally in another round of workups at the gynecologist, although I've never thought twice about wanting another baby. That's a certainty. I've watched friends fight like lionesses to get pregnant and have their babies. I've held their babies while that twinge in my heart quietly sings its familiar tune of "me, too, please." And as I've slowly prepared my body the last year-and-a-half by becoming more fit and healthy, I've realized: Hon, you already ARE emotionally invested.
Reading in Alma a while ago, I got a hefty kick in the behind: "Or do ye suppose that the Lord will still deliver us, while we sit upon our thrones and do not make use of the means which the Lord has provided for us?" Um... well, that's decided then. Everything has been prepared. Get thee to the doctor! Get to work! So I flex my own lioness claws, trusting God for the second time that I'm ready.
Monday, September 1, 2008
FET Rocks!
I am at the beginning of an IVF cycle, hoping to use our frozen embryos. Compared to a stimulated cycle it's almost... dreamy. So far it's gone like this:
Bonnie: I started my period today
Doctor: Great, start the estrogen patches and we'll see you in two weeks.
Bonnie: Sweet!
No shots until transfer, no sore ovaries, no daily blood draws or ultrasounds, no recovery from surgery. I really hope one of our frozen embryos will work.
It still seems so strange to me that it is even possible to do this. I hope the embryos have been good little hibernators. If they are anything like their mother, they will not enjoy being woken up.
Bonnie: I started my period today
Doctor: Great, start the estrogen patches and we'll see you in two weeks.
Bonnie: Sweet!
No shots until transfer, no sore ovaries, no daily blood draws or ultrasounds, no recovery from surgery. I really hope one of our frozen embryos will work.
It still seems so strange to me that it is even possible to do this. I hope the embryos have been good little hibernators. If they are anything like their mother, they will not enjoy being woken up.
You Never Know
I used to keep my struggle with infertility very private. No one knew except for my family and a few close friends. Then one Sunday, when I was teaching a Relief Society lesson, all of that changed.
I can't even remember what the lesson was on - prayer, maybe. As I was preparing the lesson I had the distinct impression that I should share some of my infertility experiences. Well of course I did the only sensible thing and dismissed that idea immediately. I went on to finish my preparations with the same thought occasionally appearing in the corner of my brain, but I would immediately scold it and tuck it back in with the other information I preferred to keep private.
Then Sunday came, and I was teaching my lesson. I was going along quite comfortably until I came to the portion of the lesson where I had had that little inkling, and something stopped me in mid-sentence. I just knew I had to share my experiences, no matter how revealing or uncomfortable it was for me. So I did, prefacing it with the statement that I didn't know who needed to hear it, but somebody in the room did, and that's why I was going to share.
After the closing prayer, when most of the room had emptied, a new woman in the ward came up to me with tears coursing down her cheeks. She said she had been the reason I was supposed to share my story. She had been struggling with infertility, and needed someone to relate to.
It was a powerful indicator to me that I could do a lot of good by sharing my experience. Sometimes infertility is so isolating you feel like you are the only one in the world who is going through it. And I'm sure this woman felt very alone in her trials. But by allowing me to be a comfort to her, the Lord showed me how much He cared about both of us that day.
I was reminded of this experience, because yesterday I received an email from an acquaintance who had also been present during that Relief Society lesson. Her son and daughter-in-law have been trying to have a baby for a year with no success, and she wanted to help them, but had no experience with infertility. She wrote to ask if I could give them some advice on what they needed to do to move forward, what type of testing they should have done, and what they could expect. I was more than happy to respond, and did so immediately.
The funny thing is, when I shared my experiences while teaching Relief Society, I had an immediate confirmation of who the "one" person was who needed to hear it. It never occurred to me that someone else would be helped by it, nearly two years later.
I'm so glad I shared my story.
I can't even remember what the lesson was on - prayer, maybe. As I was preparing the lesson I had the distinct impression that I should share some of my infertility experiences. Well of course I did the only sensible thing and dismissed that idea immediately. I went on to finish my preparations with the same thought occasionally appearing in the corner of my brain, but I would immediately scold it and tuck it back in with the other information I preferred to keep private.
Then Sunday came, and I was teaching my lesson. I was going along quite comfortably until I came to the portion of the lesson where I had had that little inkling, and something stopped me in mid-sentence. I just knew I had to share my experiences, no matter how revealing or uncomfortable it was for me. So I did, prefacing it with the statement that I didn't know who needed to hear it, but somebody in the room did, and that's why I was going to share.
After the closing prayer, when most of the room had emptied, a new woman in the ward came up to me with tears coursing down her cheeks. She said she had been the reason I was supposed to share my story. She had been struggling with infertility, and needed someone to relate to.
It was a powerful indicator to me that I could do a lot of good by sharing my experience. Sometimes infertility is so isolating you feel like you are the only one in the world who is going through it. And I'm sure this woman felt very alone in her trials. But by allowing me to be a comfort to her, the Lord showed me how much He cared about both of us that day.
I was reminded of this experience, because yesterday I received an email from an acquaintance who had also been present during that Relief Society lesson. Her son and daughter-in-law have been trying to have a baby for a year with no success, and she wanted to help them, but had no experience with infertility. She wrote to ask if I could give them some advice on what they needed to do to move forward, what type of testing they should have done, and what they could expect. I was more than happy to respond, and did so immediately.
The funny thing is, when I shared my experiences while teaching Relief Society, I had an immediate confirmation of who the "one" person was who needed to hear it. It never occurred to me that someone else would be helped by it, nearly two years later.
I'm so glad I shared my story.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Have Eggs, Will Share
A little while ago, I got a survey in the mail from Shady Grove. It was being sent out to participants in the Shared Egg Donor Program that they started about 2005-ish. In short, an egg donor takes all the meds, the eggs are retrieved, and then two or more recipients split the bounty. Which is exactly what another lady and I did in April 2006. I was the donor and one of the recipients, and doing it that way cost us only $6500 including medication, vs. $15,000 not including medication. Yep, our lovely insurance didn't cover us, so this was a huge blessing. (grrr...mumble...growl...darn insurance...)
Anyway, the survey was just a follow-up: seeing how I was doing emotionally, if I would ever be open to my little grown-up eggs contacting me...but it totally brought to mind that I probably have another little child or more out there somewhere. This is something I think about occasionally. This child. Not MY child, but someone who might have my smile, or who might hate okra (is that genetic?), or who will be blessed with wonderfully horrible eyesight. And I'm not pining for this child. I don't feel like he or she or they belong to me, but it's just a weird feeling. And I hope that their mom and dad are good to them and love them and sit down beside them to read books or be a horsey for the 254th time that day. And then I remember that the woman I gave half my eggs to was someone like me. Someone who was aching for a little one of her own, someone who had been poked and prodded and despaired, but kept trying and hoping and praying. I hope she was praying. I hope they are a family who knows the Lord, I hope the little children biologically linked to me grow up with a love for the Savior.
Yeah, sometimes that makes me pause, realizing I probably sent them to a non-LDS home, and I'm a little bit sad. But (and this doesn't even need to be said) there are wonderful people and families who are not LDS, and I can only try harder to be a better missionary so that everyone, including those little children who are not mine but are part of me, will have a chance to know the joys of the restored gospel.
Officially, the church discourages donation of sperm and eggs, but ultimately it's a matter between husband, wife, and the Lord. And we prayed. A lot. And fasted. And talked to our church leaders. Never once did we feel hesitant about doing this. It may not be for everyone, but it was right for us. I asked my nurse, after we found out we were carrying the twins, "I know you can't tell me details, or anything, but, can you tell me if it even worked for the other woman???" She paused. "I can't tell you anything. But...(dramatic pause)...thank you VERY MUCH." Hmmm...okay, in writing, that really means nothing, but trust me...if you heard the way she said it, you'd know that at that point things were going pretty well for my secret recipient. And that felt good. It definitely felt good to not have to go into debt up to our eyeballs, but helping another couple like us to have their own little squirming, pooping, gurgling, cooing kiddo turned out to feel even better.
Anyway, the survey was just a follow-up: seeing how I was doing emotionally, if I would ever be open to my little grown-up eggs contacting me...but it totally brought to mind that I probably have another little child or more out there somewhere. This is something I think about occasionally. This child. Not MY child, but someone who might have my smile, or who might hate okra (is that genetic?), or who will be blessed with wonderfully horrible eyesight. And I'm not pining for this child. I don't feel like he or she or they belong to me, but it's just a weird feeling. And I hope that their mom and dad are good to them and love them and sit down beside them to read books or be a horsey for the 254th time that day. And then I remember that the woman I gave half my eggs to was someone like me. Someone who was aching for a little one of her own, someone who had been poked and prodded and despaired, but kept trying and hoping and praying. I hope she was praying. I hope they are a family who knows the Lord, I hope the little children biologically linked to me grow up with a love for the Savior.
Yeah, sometimes that makes me pause, realizing I probably sent them to a non-LDS home, and I'm a little bit sad. But (and this doesn't even need to be said) there are wonderful people and families who are not LDS, and I can only try harder to be a better missionary so that everyone, including those little children who are not mine but are part of me, will have a chance to know the joys of the restored gospel.
Officially, the church discourages donation of sperm and eggs, but ultimately it's a matter between husband, wife, and the Lord. And we prayed. A lot. And fasted. And talked to our church leaders. Never once did we feel hesitant about doing this. It may not be for everyone, but it was right for us. I asked my nurse, after we found out we were carrying the twins, "I know you can't tell me details, or anything, but, can you tell me if it even worked for the other woman???" She paused. "I can't tell you anything. But...(dramatic pause)...thank you VERY MUCH." Hmmm...okay, in writing, that really means nothing, but trust me...if you heard the way she said it, you'd know that at that point things were going pretty well for my secret recipient. And that felt good. It definitely felt good to not have to go into debt up to our eyeballs, but helping another couple like us to have their own little squirming, pooping, gurgling, cooing kiddo turned out to feel even better.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Time to Stretch
When I lived in the West several years ago, my aunt and grandmother once came for a visit. My grandmother travelled on a mini side trip to Denver for a couple of days while my aunt stayed behind. We hadn’t been alone like this since I used to visit her in San Francisco. Although we had had very few heart-to-heart talks once I reached adulthood, we must have shared a mutual vulnerability at the time because we had some very good conversation in those few, short days.
My aunt has never been married. That has its own set of complicated issues, which she had dealt with and gotten over. I was mid-testing for infertility and we both admitted to being on the receiving end of the particular kind of merciless pity only Mormons can toss out to each other. But she shared a wonderfully epiphanic thought with me that I have never forgotten.
The same kind of person, she said, who asks you when you are finally going to get married is the same person who asks when you are finally going to have your first kid after you’re married. It’s the same kind of person who will ask when you’re going to have your second kid, or your third, or when your kids are going to go to BYU and when are your kids going to get married. It’s an et cetera that will not end. You can come up with whatever honest or flippant answer you like, but there will always be that kind of person around. And they will always confront you with questions like that, at which you could possibly take offense.
Once she realized that those questions weren’t actually about her, she laughed it off and ignored those kinds of people. She did exactly what she had done before: live. She got on with her life.
I loved her wisdom. I had worked through most of my initial bitterness at being infertile by the time she cemented what I had gradually been realizing—that I had been in power the entire time, and that the choices I was left with could be enacted by only one person… me. It didn’t matter how wide my realm of action was. I would stretch myself to the very edges of it.
My aunt has never been married. That has its own set of complicated issues, which she had dealt with and gotten over. I was mid-testing for infertility and we both admitted to being on the receiving end of the particular kind of merciless pity only Mormons can toss out to each other. But she shared a wonderfully epiphanic thought with me that I have never forgotten.
The same kind of person, she said, who asks you when you are finally going to get married is the same person who asks when you are finally going to have your first kid after you’re married. It’s the same kind of person who will ask when you’re going to have your second kid, or your third, or when your kids are going to go to BYU and when are your kids going to get married. It’s an et cetera that will not end. You can come up with whatever honest or flippant answer you like, but there will always be that kind of person around. And they will always confront you with questions like that, at which you could possibly take offense.
Once she realized that those questions weren’t actually about her, she laughed it off and ignored those kinds of people. She did exactly what she had done before: live. She got on with her life.
I loved her wisdom. I had worked through most of my initial bitterness at being infertile by the time she cemented what I had gradually been realizing—that I had been in power the entire time, and that the choices I was left with could be enacted by only one person… me. It didn’t matter how wide my realm of action was. I would stretch myself to the very edges of it.
You Know You're Infertile When...
The thermometer gets more action than your husband does in your desperate attempts to keep your basal temperature registering high.
You have a kind of pregnant-woman magnetism. If there is a pregnant woman within a 2 mile radius, she will run into you.
You have actually offered to let the doctor insert a permanent hose in your arm for all the blood testing.
No matter what month it is or when you last had sex, you know what your due date would be without doing any calculations.
You have a pregnancy radar - you always know when an old friend who hasn't talked to you in years will be emailing you to tell you she's expecting.
You could give a seminar on evaluating cervical fluid.
You've lost any vestiges of doctor's office-related modesty. For all you care they can bring in the whole staff to have a peek at you.
You keep a pregnancy test in the house, just in case.
You've perfected the zone-out technique at baby showers, and can ooh and ahh over baby clothes while thinking about what you are going to have for dinner.
And you can read a list like this and nod your head in agreement the whole time.
You have a kind of pregnant-woman magnetism. If there is a pregnant woman within a 2 mile radius, she will run into you.
You have actually offered to let the doctor insert a permanent hose in your arm for all the blood testing.
No matter what month it is or when you last had sex, you know what your due date would be without doing any calculations.
You have a pregnancy radar - you always know when an old friend who hasn't talked to you in years will be emailing you to tell you she's expecting.
You could give a seminar on evaluating cervical fluid.
You've lost any vestiges of doctor's office-related modesty. For all you care they can bring in the whole staff to have a peek at you.
You keep a pregnancy test in the house, just in case.
You've perfected the zone-out technique at baby showers, and can ooh and ahh over baby clothes while thinking about what you are going to have for dinner.
And you can read a list like this and nod your head in agreement the whole time.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
The Power Of Knowing And Doing
Julie's post has got me thinking about when the infertility struggle was hardest for my husband and me. There have been so many moments of sadness, so many heart-wrenching experiences. But even with all we have been through, I would still say that it was hardest when we didn't know what the problem was. After round one of testing was completed and the results were inconclusive, the frustration and despair were overwhelming. If we could just know what the problem was, we could deal with it and move on. But not knowing just left us hanging, cursing our bodies for not doing their God-given job and allowing us to become parents.
So with the standard I-don't-know-what-your-problem-is-so-here-is-a-prescription-for-clomid farewell from my gynecologist, we sought help from a specialist. After just one visit and a repeat of a test that looked "off" to him, he was able to give us a diagnosis. It was an other-worldly experience, hearing him tell us we would never be able to have a baby naturally. I remember listening to him, and watching his mouth move, but it was like everything was in slow motion. I had floated out of my body and was just a silent observer of a life-changing event that was happening to someone else. Obviously it couldn't possibly be happening to us.
We only had about thirty seconds to absorb what he told us. He laid it out in surprisingly few, blunt, words - our only option was IVF. He asked us what we wanted to do, not even leaving the room to allow us time to talk it over. But even without discussing it, we both knew what course we needed to take. A new hope kindled itself in our hearts, and stirred a feeling of excitement and nervousness we had not felt since we first started trying for a baby. The hope of becoming parents was tangible again. It didn't feel like a far-off thing that only happened to other people. We could reach out and grab it. Yes, it would be difficult. Yes, it would be painful. It would be emotionally and spiritually draining. But it could be our miracle.
And so we moved forward, feeling energized and renewed - we could actually do something about this. Instead of sitting on the sidelines hoping desperately for a baby, we could actively do something that would allow that miracle to take place. We were empowered again.
I often think of infertility as being a gospel principle in the same vein as being saved by grace after all we can do. Yes, we could have done nothing, and waited for a natural conception. Many people believe that fertility treatment is interfering with the divine pattern of things, and that all you can do is pray and hope. But I believe that the Lord gave us a way to achieve our goal, and I think, expected us to do everything within our power to have a child, to prove to Him how willing we were to become parents. Only then would He give us our miracle.
And now as we prepare to embark on this journey again, I am reminded of this power of knowing and doing. And I'm hoping for a miracle once more.
So with the standard I-don't-know-what-your-problem-is-so-here-is-a-prescription-for-clomid farewell from my gynecologist, we sought help from a specialist. After just one visit and a repeat of a test that looked "off" to him, he was able to give us a diagnosis. It was an other-worldly experience, hearing him tell us we would never be able to have a baby naturally. I remember listening to him, and watching his mouth move, but it was like everything was in slow motion. I had floated out of my body and was just a silent observer of a life-changing event that was happening to someone else. Obviously it couldn't possibly be happening to us.
We only had about thirty seconds to absorb what he told us. He laid it out in surprisingly few, blunt, words - our only option was IVF. He asked us what we wanted to do, not even leaving the room to allow us time to talk it over. But even without discussing it, we both knew what course we needed to take. A new hope kindled itself in our hearts, and stirred a feeling of excitement and nervousness we had not felt since we first started trying for a baby. The hope of becoming parents was tangible again. It didn't feel like a far-off thing that only happened to other people. We could reach out and grab it. Yes, it would be difficult. Yes, it would be painful. It would be emotionally and spiritually draining. But it could be our miracle.
And so we moved forward, feeling energized and renewed - we could actually do something about this. Instead of sitting on the sidelines hoping desperately for a baby, we could actively do something that would allow that miracle to take place. We were empowered again.
I often think of infertility as being a gospel principle in the same vein as being saved by grace after all we can do. Yes, we could have done nothing, and waited for a natural conception. Many people believe that fertility treatment is interfering with the divine pattern of things, and that all you can do is pray and hope. But I believe that the Lord gave us a way to achieve our goal, and I think, expected us to do everything within our power to have a child, to prove to Him how willing we were to become parents. Only then would He give us our miracle.
And now as we prepare to embark on this journey again, I am reminded of this power of knowing and doing. And I'm hoping for a miracle once more.
When
During my endometriosis battle, a sister-in-law gave birth to the first grandson. She had struggled with PCOS since age 13. After she married, her gynecologist informed her she would never be able to have children. Undaunted, she switched gynecologists. Her new gynecologist ran tests and pondered the PCOS, then told my sister-in-law that he thought it wouldn’t be a problem for her to get pregnant. After half a year of Clomid, she did get pregnant.
Despite knowing of her wrestle with PCOS, I was still sorrowed. I tried to glory in her success, but secretly, the childish reaction was stronger: she had a baby and I didn’t. We always try to rise above our human responses to act better than we really feel—every other church lesson has something along the lines of this theme. And I was happy for her. Yet… {Insert lips in a Charlie Brown squiggly line here.} So now I was dealing with being happy for my sister-in-law, being ambivalently miserable, and on top of that feeling guilty because I couldn’t rise above being the “natural man.” Being LDS and infertile is great, ain’t it?
The inevitable invitation to go to the hospital to visit my sister-in-law came. I went—just for her. I wanted to congratulate her, because really, having PCOS and being able to have a baby really is cause to celebrate. She looked great, and I felt myself soften into a sincere joy for her as I hugged her. Then, came something I wasn’t prepared for.
My other sister-in-law picked up the baby and plonked him in my arms.
Uh… I could feel myself pausing. Since I had discovered my having endometriosis, I had avoided babies to protect myself emotionally; it just seemed easier than dealing with the unavoidable sadness of getting attached to something I couldn’t have. There he lay in my arms, dozing serenely in blue blankets. I looked into his face and braced myself to feel bitterness or resentment or dejection or something like that. But I didn’t. My soul was quieted and I felt peace peel off of him and seep into me.
Does the story end happily? Of course, not. Without the bitterness and angst at which I am so good feeling, all my fight was gone. I was drained. I couldn’t fight any more. What was left was the melancholy. I handed my nephew back to my sister-in-law and smiled emptily. Over the next few days, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking one thing.
When? When will it be my turn?
Despite knowing of her wrestle with PCOS, I was still sorrowed. I tried to glory in her success, but secretly, the childish reaction was stronger: she had a baby and I didn’t. We always try to rise above our human responses to act better than we really feel—every other church lesson has something along the lines of this theme. And I was happy for her. Yet… {Insert lips in a Charlie Brown squiggly line here.} So now I was dealing with being happy for my sister-in-law, being ambivalently miserable, and on top of that feeling guilty because I couldn’t rise above being the “natural man.” Being LDS and infertile is great, ain’t it?
The inevitable invitation to go to the hospital to visit my sister-in-law came. I went—just for her. I wanted to congratulate her, because really, having PCOS and being able to have a baby really is cause to celebrate. She looked great, and I felt myself soften into a sincere joy for her as I hugged her. Then, came something I wasn’t prepared for.
My other sister-in-law picked up the baby and plonked him in my arms.
Uh… I could feel myself pausing. Since I had discovered my having endometriosis, I had avoided babies to protect myself emotionally; it just seemed easier than dealing with the unavoidable sadness of getting attached to something I couldn’t have. There he lay in my arms, dozing serenely in blue blankets. I looked into his face and braced myself to feel bitterness or resentment or dejection or something like that. But I didn’t. My soul was quieted and I felt peace peel off of him and seep into me.
Does the story end happily? Of course, not. Without the bitterness and angst at which I am so good feeling, all my fight was gone. I was drained. I couldn’t fight any more. What was left was the melancholy. I handed my nephew back to my sister-in-law and smiled emptily. Over the next few days, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking one thing.
When? When will it be my turn?
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Most Painful Experiences
I was thinking last night about the most painful physical experiences I've had. And I was able to narrow it down to three:
1. Miscarriage
2. HSG
3. Labor
For those of you who may be wondering why I placed "labor" last on the list, well, God bless the anesthesiologist. Enough said.
Notice how all three of these experiences involve my uterus.
Now, as for most painful emotional experiences:
1. Being told we would never have a baby naturally
2. Failed IVF cycle
3. Miscarriage
Again, all three involving my uterus.
Do I sense a theme here?
1. Miscarriage
2. HSG
3. Labor
For those of you who may be wondering why I placed "labor" last on the list, well, God bless the anesthesiologist. Enough said.
Notice how all three of these experiences involve my uterus.
Now, as for most painful emotional experiences:
1. Being told we would never have a baby naturally
2. Failed IVF cycle
3. Miscarriage
Again, all three involving my uterus.
Do I sense a theme here?
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
The Cure For Infertility
There's a cure for infertility - haven't you heard?! It's so obvious. All you need to do is RELAX. That's right. It's all in your head. If you would just relax then you would get pregnant. (Even a nurse at my doctor's office told me this! Nevermind the actual documented physical problem preventing pregnancy. Apparently all those tests were in my head too...)
Seriously, people, however well-intentioned, give the most ridiculous advice. It seems like they think, hey, it was so easy for me to get pregnant that surely you are doing something wrong! Just do it this way, and you will have a baby.
By far my favorite piece of advice I received was from someone who suggested I have my womb "cleaned out" through my feet using reflexology. (I didn't realize my womb needed cleaning. As it was it had gone unoccupied for 25 years. Maybe she thought it was dusty?)
And of course there was the advice that I should just have more sex/less sex/use more lubricant/use less lubricant/try the missionary position/try another position/elevate my hips after sex/lie on my stomach after sex/try acupuncture/try a fertility dance/try to keep my sanity with all the unsolicited advice...
As an aside, this brings up an interesting point. Everyone automatically assumes that infertility is a woman's problem. No one seems to realize that nearly 30% of infertility cases are caused by male-factor. And an additional 30% are a combination of male and female infertility. So ladies, get your husband tested!
Seriously, people, however well-intentioned, give the most ridiculous advice. It seems like they think, hey, it was so easy for me to get pregnant that surely you are doing something wrong! Just do it this way, and you will have a baby.
By far my favorite piece of advice I received was from someone who suggested I have my womb "cleaned out" through my feet using reflexology. (I didn't realize my womb needed cleaning. As it was it had gone unoccupied for 25 years. Maybe she thought it was dusty?)
And of course there was the advice that I should just have more sex/less sex/use more lubricant/use less lubricant/try the missionary position/try another position/elevate my hips after sex/lie on my stomach after sex/try acupuncture/try a fertility dance/try to keep my sanity with all the unsolicited advice...
As an aside, this brings up an interesting point. Everyone automatically assumes that infertility is a woman's problem. No one seems to realize that nearly 30% of infertility cases are caused by male-factor. And an additional 30% are a combination of male and female infertility. So ladies, get your husband tested!
Monday, August 25, 2008
Crumple
I hated Mother's Day.
I hated the romanticized lip service people spat out when they extolled their mothers and pretended they never got yelled at. I rolled my eyes when people got misty in their's over rose-colored events and umpteen boo-boos kissed with the miraculously healing maternal smile elixir. I closed my eyes in exasperation to their stories of sacrifice against all odds in insurmountable storms while blind, starving, with broken legs and needing a manicure.
Why? Because I wasn't a mother.
Because I sat at church, Sunday in and Sunday out, listening to dozens of talks on families and eternity and Mother's Day tear fests and baby blessings clenching my jaw while endometriosis cysts ate my ovaries with cruel, excruciating teeth. Because I had been to the gynecologist and he had actually clicked his tongue at me while wielding the sonogram wand. Because on some red days I couldn't even rise from bed to face the day without unfolding from painful attacks that curled me into a fetal ball. Because I would not face merciless comments or pity. Because I wanted to cradle my own baby in my arms and couldn't.
One Mother's Day coincided with the worst possible event that can happen on that day for a woman who wanted children and couldn't have them: a baby blessing. I got up and left the chapel. The emotional upheaval and pain dealing with infertility was as bad as the physical agony of endometriosis flaring. I sat on the foyer couch, loving my waterproof makeup for its ability to hide my anguish, and wondered about my strength dealing with this challenge. I wanted to be accessible to the Spirit, but some days it seemed that my heart was just turning to stone.
Heavenly Father has an ironic sense of humor (points submitted: the giraffe, the armadillo, letting us call a bird "Blue-Footed Booby"). Sometimes He answers prayers with a "Yes." Sometimes He answers prayers with a "Not yet." And sometimes He answers prayers with an "I have something better for you." Most of the time, I fought against His "Not yet." But being the perfect diplomat, He knew how to handle sending me emotional resusitation just when I needed it. On the verge of giving up hope on that Mother's Day, somehow a trickle kept my heart alive. I would again emerge from being crumpled to blaze ahead.
Again.
And Again.
I hated the romanticized lip service people spat out when they extolled their mothers and pretended they never got yelled at. I rolled my eyes when people got misty in their's over rose-colored events and umpteen boo-boos kissed with the miraculously healing maternal smile elixir. I closed my eyes in exasperation to their stories of sacrifice against all odds in insurmountable storms while blind, starving, with broken legs and needing a manicure.
Why? Because I wasn't a mother.
Because I sat at church, Sunday in and Sunday out, listening to dozens of talks on families and eternity and Mother's Day tear fests and baby blessings clenching my jaw while endometriosis cysts ate my ovaries with cruel, excruciating teeth. Because I had been to the gynecologist and he had actually clicked his tongue at me while wielding the sonogram wand. Because on some red days I couldn't even rise from bed to face the day without unfolding from painful attacks that curled me into a fetal ball. Because I would not face merciless comments or pity. Because I wanted to cradle my own baby in my arms and couldn't.
One Mother's Day coincided with the worst possible event that can happen on that day for a woman who wanted children and couldn't have them: a baby blessing. I got up and left the chapel. The emotional upheaval and pain dealing with infertility was as bad as the physical agony of endometriosis flaring. I sat on the foyer couch, loving my waterproof makeup for its ability to hide my anguish, and wondered about my strength dealing with this challenge. I wanted to be accessible to the Spirit, but some days it seemed that my heart was just turning to stone.
Heavenly Father has an ironic sense of humor (points submitted: the giraffe, the armadillo, letting us call a bird "Blue-Footed Booby"). Sometimes He answers prayers with a "Yes." Sometimes He answers prayers with a "Not yet." And sometimes He answers prayers with an "I have something better for you." Most of the time, I fought against His "Not yet." But being the perfect diplomat, He knew how to handle sending me emotional resusitation just when I needed it. On the verge of giving up hope on that Mother's Day, somehow a trickle kept my heart alive. I would again emerge from being crumpled to blaze ahead.
Again.
And Again.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
The Ache Is Back
After my recent miscarriage I thought I would never recover to the point where I could swallow the idea of fertility treatment again. All those doctor appointments and needles, accompanied by the usual hormonal and emotional insanity. The very thought made my heart race, and gave me the all-too familiar feeling of a large concrete block sliding into my stomach.
Of course I can't say I am completely free of that feeling, but at least the pool of despair I have been swimming in for the last two months has evaporated to the point that I can at least put my feet on the ground.
And that primal ache for a baby has replaced the throbbing depression that has overwhelmed me, and it has given me hope. Hope of the future, of trying again and being rewarded, and the knowledge that I will be able to handle the disappointment if it doesn't work.
Here we go again.
Of course I can't say I am completely free of that feeling, but at least the pool of despair I have been swimming in for the last two months has evaporated to the point that I can at least put my feet on the ground.
And that primal ache for a baby has replaced the throbbing depression that has overwhelmed me, and it has given me hope. Hope of the future, of trying again and being rewarded, and the knowledge that I will be able to handle the disappointment if it doesn't work.
Here we go again.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Empathy
In her comments to my last post, Fiona mentioned that her experience with infertility has made her more empathetic. This is a subject I have been pondering a lot lately. In fact, I already had a post titled "Empathy" half-written. So I thought I would share some of my thoughts.
As I was chatting with a friend the other day about having babies, she told me of a friend of hers who has had 7 miscarriages. Even though I don't know this woman, my heart hurts for her. Having been through one miscarriage myself, I cannot imagine the pain of it happening 7 times. It suddenly made me think that my fertility problems are not so bad. We have had one unsuccessful IVF, one successful IVF, and one miscarriage. But the idea of having the hope of 7 babies, and then losing each and every one, well, it's mind-boggling.
My experience with infertility has changed the way I look at the world. I find myself trying to be more aware when I'm teaching Relief Society lessons, or talking to my visiting teachees, or just chatting with a casual acquaintance. I recognize more now how painful different trials must be - being single must be very difficult, or losing a family member, going through a divorce, losing a job, having a life-threatening illness - the list goes on. There are a million things I never thought about before, but now I am very aware of the pain they can cause in the lives of other people. And that surely must be one of the reasons the Lord gives us trials. He wants us to be able to have empathy for others. Or, I guess you could say, charity. When you've had pain in your own life, it's easier to recognize it in other people, and it's easier to know what you can do to help them.
And I guess it's a good lesson for us to pay attention to those little promptings to do something for someone. You never know when you will be the person who is the answer to a prayer.
As I was chatting with a friend the other day about having babies, she told me of a friend of hers who has had 7 miscarriages. Even though I don't know this woman, my heart hurts for her. Having been through one miscarriage myself, I cannot imagine the pain of it happening 7 times. It suddenly made me think that my fertility problems are not so bad. We have had one unsuccessful IVF, one successful IVF, and one miscarriage. But the idea of having the hope of 7 babies, and then losing each and every one, well, it's mind-boggling.
My experience with infertility has changed the way I look at the world. I find myself trying to be more aware when I'm teaching Relief Society lessons, or talking to my visiting teachees, or just chatting with a casual acquaintance. I recognize more now how painful different trials must be - being single must be very difficult, or losing a family member, going through a divorce, losing a job, having a life-threatening illness - the list goes on. There are a million things I never thought about before, but now I am very aware of the pain they can cause in the lives of other people. And that surely must be one of the reasons the Lord gives us trials. He wants us to be able to have empathy for others. Or, I guess you could say, charity. When you've had pain in your own life, it's easier to recognize it in other people, and it's easier to know what you can do to help them.
And I guess it's a good lesson for us to pay attention to those little promptings to do something for someone. You never know when you will be the person who is the answer to a prayer.
Complaining
One of the funny things about life is that one person can be completely bitter about an issue they are dealing with, and at the same time look at someone else complaining about a different issue and think "Gee, why are you complaining so much about that? Why aren't you just grateful for what you have?"
So with that in mind, I'm going to go ahead and say that it really, really annoys me when people complain about pregnancy. I'm not talking about the I-feel-terrible-I-wish-I-felt-better stuff. I'm talking about the I-hate-being-pregnant-why-are-we-having-another-baby kind of griping. It makes me want to scream.
I have an acquaintance who would often complain about pregnancy in this manner, even while knowing I was struggling with infertility. Every time she would say, "Why are we having another baby?" I would have to bite my tongue so I wouldn't make some snotty reply. It was just so hard for me to watch this woman, who could have a baby whenever she felt like it, complain about what a burden pregnancy was, and how much she hated it, and how overwhelmed she was going to be when the baby arrived. I just wanted to tell her to shut up. (Though I am proud to say that I never did... to her face anyway. I never said I was perfect).
Anytime someone complains about being pregnant I want to say, "I'll trade places with you. I would give anything to have another baby. And obviously you just don't appreciate what you have."
But it makes me wonder what sort of things I have that people think I don't appreciate.
So with that in mind, I'm going to go ahead and say that it really, really annoys me when people complain about pregnancy. I'm not talking about the I-feel-terrible-I-wish-I-felt-better stuff. I'm talking about the I-hate-being-pregnant-why-are-we-having-another-baby kind of griping. It makes me want to scream.
I have an acquaintance who would often complain about pregnancy in this manner, even while knowing I was struggling with infertility. Every time she would say, "Why are we having another baby?" I would have to bite my tongue so I wouldn't make some snotty reply. It was just so hard for me to watch this woman, who could have a baby whenever she felt like it, complain about what a burden pregnancy was, and how much she hated it, and how overwhelmed she was going to be when the baby arrived. I just wanted to tell her to shut up. (Though I am proud to say that I never did... to her face anyway. I never said I was perfect).
Anytime someone complains about being pregnant I want to say, "I'll trade places with you. I would give anything to have another baby. And obviously you just don't appreciate what you have."
But it makes me wonder what sort of things I have that people think I don't appreciate.
Friday, August 22, 2008
I Don't Get It
I think a lot about the inequities of reproducing. I'm not talking about how the burden is almost completely on the woman - that's a subject for another post. I'm talking about how one woman can have 7 children by batting her eyelashes at her husband, while another has had 7 miscarriages, and another can't have children at all. Or how drug addicts and teenagers seem to be able to pop out a lot of unwanted babies, even when you factor in the staggering number of abortions that take place each year.
Partly I have to remind myself it's just part of the whole consequences thing. One of the consequences of sex is pregnancy, and the Lord won't interfere with that, even though it means sending babies to some pretty bad situations. But it's maddening to see these little babies being born to horrible situations (or being aborted) when there are so many good, faithful people out there who would give anything to be parents.
Like I said, I just don't get it.
Partly I have to remind myself it's just part of the whole consequences thing. One of the consequences of sex is pregnancy, and the Lord won't interfere with that, even though it means sending babies to some pretty bad situations. But it's maddening to see these little babies being born to horrible situations (or being aborted) when there are so many good, faithful people out there who would give anything to be parents.
Like I said, I just don't get it.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Science Vs. Nature
After announcing to the world they were "trying to get pregnant" and how much fun they were having in the process (um, thanks for sharing...), it has been revealed that Rebecca Romijn and Jerry O'Connell are expecting twins.
"The twins were conceived without the help of in vitro fertilization or the fertility drug Clomid," a source close to the couple says."
Well, congratulations to them! And that's great that they didn't have to resort to fertility treatment. But this brings up something that I come across on a regular basis, and I can't figure out why it's such a hot-button issue:
I have a friend who was lucky enough to be blessed with natural twins. She is a great mom, and really enjoys her little boys, but she gets really defensive and offended when people ask if she and her husband did IVF or used fertility drugs. Now, just to be clear, I don't think anyone should be asking anyone how their babies were conceived, but that is beside the point. Instead of saying "None of your business" and walking away, she tries to defend her "honor" by explaining that her babies are a mother-nature special.
And then we have "news" articles about people like Rebecca Romijn and Jerry O'Connell, making sure everyone knows they did not need assistance in creating their little bundles of joy.
I am just not sure why this little piece of information matters. In my never-to-be-humble opinion, there is absolutely nothing to be ashamed of in having to seek fertility treatment. If you can't have a baby the regular way, who cares? And if you can, again, who cares?
We treat naturally-conceived twins like they are a badge of honor. (Look at what great reproductive systems their parents have - they were able to have twins without any help!) It seems we have lost sight of the fact that conception of babies is a private matter, and every baby is a miracle, no matter how much scientific interference may have been required for them to be born.
"The twins were conceived without the help of in vitro fertilization or the fertility drug Clomid," a source close to the couple says."
Well, congratulations to them! And that's great that they didn't have to resort to fertility treatment. But this brings up something that I come across on a regular basis, and I can't figure out why it's such a hot-button issue:
I have a friend who was lucky enough to be blessed with natural twins. She is a great mom, and really enjoys her little boys, but she gets really defensive and offended when people ask if she and her husband did IVF or used fertility drugs. Now, just to be clear, I don't think anyone should be asking anyone how their babies were conceived, but that is beside the point. Instead of saying "None of your business" and walking away, she tries to defend her "honor" by explaining that her babies are a mother-nature special.
And then we have "news" articles about people like Rebecca Romijn and Jerry O'Connell, making sure everyone knows they did not need assistance in creating their little bundles of joy.
I am just not sure why this little piece of information matters. In my never-to-be-humble opinion, there is absolutely nothing to be ashamed of in having to seek fertility treatment. If you can't have a baby the regular way, who cares? And if you can, again, who cares?
We treat naturally-conceived twins like they are a badge of honor. (Look at what great reproductive systems their parents have - they were able to have twins without any help!) It seems we have lost sight of the fact that conception of babies is a private matter, and every baby is a miracle, no matter how much scientific interference may have been required for them to be born.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Recipe For Babies
The recipe for making babies is simple:
1 Handsome Returned Missionary
1 Lovely Young Woman
1 Temple Wedding
1 Er, "Rendezvous" In The Bedroom
Combine all ingredients, in order listed. Wait nine months. Remove from oven.
Yields: 1 Baby
It's that simple to have a baby, right? Right??!!!!
We wish.
Welcome to our blog. We are a group of friends who have all dealt with the heartbreak of infertility. It is a lonely thing, especially when you are a member of the LDS Church, a religion that emphasizes the importance of having children. But it is a proven fact that dealing with infertility is easier when you have a friend who can relate to you, lift you up when you are down, strengthen your faith, and make snarky comments about the pregnant nineteen-year old you saw at the grocery store.
We hope you enjoy our blog.
1 Handsome Returned Missionary
1 Lovely Young Woman
1 Temple Wedding
1 Er, "Rendezvous" In The Bedroom
Combine all ingredients, in order listed. Wait nine months. Remove from oven.
Yields: 1 Baby
It's that simple to have a baby, right? Right??!!!!
We wish.
Welcome to our blog. We are a group of friends who have all dealt with the heartbreak of infertility. It is a lonely thing, especially when you are a member of the LDS Church, a religion that emphasizes the importance of having children. But it is a proven fact that dealing with infertility is easier when you have a friend who can relate to you, lift you up when you are down, strengthen your faith, and make snarky comments about the pregnant nineteen-year old you saw at the grocery store.
We hope you enjoy our blog.
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