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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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."

Small Ode

Good luck, Bonnie! Our prayers and hopes go with you.

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.

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.

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?

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!

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.