Surrender

Surrender.

That's the word that my therapist kept returning to throughout our hour together.

For nearly four years I have been so focused on controlling this outcome, and being angry about my lack of control.  And now that I am emerging from this battle I have waged against my own body, I am even more angry at the time I have lost.  And being a control freak on all accounts (I'll go ahead and own that description), it's no wonder.

I think back to other periods of my life that caused me to break down.... throughout my years at school (up to law school) when I had problems with standardized tests because I have a weird cognitive disability... when I was a muscular, less-than-willowy dancer and didn't get cast in the parts I wanted..... when I fought with my parents because I couldn't make them see the world through my eyes....

The common link in all of these things is the lack of control I had.  In each of these examples I contorted myself backwards and forwards to change the outcome, to try move the world around me by sheer brute force of will.

Anyone who knows me personally can tell you that when I fight, I fight hard. 

But that's why I cry so soften these days.  And that's why I have fallen into this deep depression spanning oh so many years.  And because I have spent so much actual time pregnant (past 8 months notwithstanding), it's been even more impossible to climb out of this trench.

You know, lately, I've been so angry at not falling pregnant as easily as I used to, but in fact it could be a blessing in disguise.  I mean, fuck, there is no reason for me to expect any outcome from a pregnancy than another miscarriage (or worse).  To find myself dug into an even deeper hole.

I need my life back.  I need to re-engage with my old friends (though I was instructed to be a little less harsh on myself for being so MIA - this is, according to my therapist, the response of anyone dealing with trauma).  I need to accept that I have no control over this facet of my life.

Can I still be a little angry about that?  Sure, a little anger is okay because what has happened to me has been profoundly unfair.  But lots of people are dealt all kinds of hands that are profoundly unfair. Including many of the people who read this blog.... so go ahead, be angry with me!  We have earned it.

It has been and will continue to be a complete, unsolvable mystery, why these are the experiences I have lived.  I cannot control them.  I am waving the white flag on RPL and infertility. 

an experiment

There's a woman I work with who I consider my spirit animal -  and my ersatz therapist here at my office.  I can't say exactly how old she is (maybe 68?) but she is close to retirement (though she's been saying that since I started working with her four years ago).  She has dedicated her life to improving the working conditions and lives of thousands of people in our city.  She's funny as hell and often pretty cynical.  We get along swimmingly despite the fact that I know for a fact she wanted nothing to do with me when she first met me.  In her words, I "schooled her" on forming snap judgments about people.  Anyways....

She is ridiculously jolly during the holidays, which would appear to go against the grain of her personality.  But as she recently told me "I just had a battery of tests and I am definitely healthy and will stick around for at least the next few weeks - I take nothing for granted."  She recently gave this sort of Holiday Season pep-talk at a staff meeting, instructing us to be thankful for what we have, given the struggles of so many.  She's adopting a very poor family she met recently and not just for Christmas, because she could figuratively "smell the poverty" on that beautiful child's mother.  In light of our vast riches, we are supposed to plaster a smile on our faces and suck it up (her words, by the way).

Of course, I was having NONE. OF. IT.

She knows my story.  She is one of the few people who knew about Celine.  She knows about all of them, and the meaning behind every ring on my right hand.

So I paid her a visit after that staff meeting, and because we love each other, I told her in my usual turn colorful turn of phrase exactly what I thought of her instruction for jolliness.  About how it was asking a lot of people to force cheer.  About how much of a struggle it is to sit with grief that is unacknowledged, in my case for babies who are nameless who no one mourns.

"When have I not acknowledged your grief," she said gently (after informing me that I happen to look pretty ugly when I cry).  "I mourned with you and I know the grief doesn't go away.  You're not alone."

Well, uhhhhh.....ok.

I won't go into the details of the rest of this chat, but here's where I'm at:  I'm gonna take on an experiment.

I am going to try to approach this season the way I used to, before my life took a dramatic turn into sadness city.  I know, I'm a little late on this, as Hanukkah has just ended (don't worry, I still went through the motions for Niblet), but there's still room for some wide-eyed wonder with oncoming Solstice and Christmas celebrations. 

I'll be honest with you: Thinking about how I am not pregnant  right now - roughly eight months since my last D&C  - wasn't helping matters this morning on my drive to the office.  Even though we haven't been trying hard, the fact is that being brutally honest with myself.... I wanted to be pregnant by now.  So the second I felt the tears well up I switched the radio station to NPR and actively listened to stories about carnage in Afghanistan.  Look, I am not proud of my need to feel better about my own life by comparing it to the misery of others.... but this is the only tool I have in my kit right now.

I don't want any reader to think that I am in any way instructing them to put a smile on their face this season.  I am certainly not suggesting that anyone who is dealing with the hell of infertility or RPL or a TFMR just "be thankful for what they have."  Gah, it's nauseating when you hear it from others and I will never say it to you.  I PROMISE WITH EVERY FIBER OF MY BEING, I will never say that to you.

But in my case- and narcissist I am -I have been exactly HERE - IN THIS SPOT - for three and a half years straight.  That's a tremendous amount of time to carry anger and bitterness.  And it's just not working for me anymore.  As my dear friend at work aptly noted, I'm an ugly crier. And I've said it before on this blog, but I am so angry.  And so sad.  Like, a lot of the time, more time than I care to admit (so much so, that I am afraid to calculate the actual hours in the day that I exist in this state of being).

The anger and sadness have also had the unfortunate effect of leaving me failing to maintain important friendships.  Like, I feel like I don't even have the words to pick up the phone and talk with a few key people in my life (my two best friends who happen to live out of state pop to mind).  And THAT makes me feel so additionally shitty.  RPL and Grief have stolen my former life from under me.  I have to take it back and that starts with reaching out to a few people who have given me so much of their love in my life.  And say I am sorry for being so MIA.  And promise that I am here for them. I want to be back.

So I am going to embark on this experiment.  I don't know what to call it.  "Positive thinking" sounds trite. Blech actually.  Maybe it's just pushing my little demons away for a bit?  Seeing what it's like to actively try to live without them on a more regular basis?  I can shake them when I am exercising or in ballet class.  My goal is to shake them off when I am not immersed in music, sweating.  How to do this, I'm not sure.  I guess I have something to discuss in therapy this week.

Stay tuned.

Dreams. Ick.

I tend to have vivid, violent dreams in early early pregnancy.  Like, featuring zombies, and dead people on buses, and other things that cause me to wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night.

I am fairly certain I won't be pregnant this month because my dreams, well, they're just weird and whacked out. Two nights ago I was hooking up with a man who was not my husband (if you're reading this honeybear*, I promise I was grossed out). 

Last night I dreamed that I was visiting my original OB for a new pregnancy.  The one who delivered Niblet (or partially delivered Niblet, because labor was taking too long and her shift ended.  Don't ask).  The same woman who oversaw my partial molar pregnancy and performed the D&C that sealed my cervix shut and then refused to believe that I could have Asherman's.  (Thanks Dr. J!)

In the dream, I was begging to get in for monitoring because of my miscarriage history, but then the scene changed and I was at the hospital lobby where I delivered Niblet, but it was hosting some sort of flea-market/bazaar, and I lost my purse there with all of my belongings and starting crying, bawling.  And I tried to explain to a women at a cash register that I was having a miscarriage and needed my purse because it had my ID and credit card and insurance cards, and she laughed at me, and then I pointed to my hand and showed her my rings and she laughed at me some more and with a huge grin told me that I should stop getting pregnant because all of my babies die.

Aaaaaand SCENE.

 So, Dr Freud, what the hell is my subconscious telling me?

I am thinking that if I ever get knocked up again I should avoid my old OB's office like the plague.  And this was something weighing on my mind recently, because a few friends are newly pregnant and I have had a passing thought or two of "where the hell would I go if I were knocked up?"

And then of course the usual "why do I even imagine myself pregnant when the outcome is sure to be the same?" cracks into my subconscious as well.

While this dream was awful and nerve-wracking, it doesn't fall into the pattern of dreams that I usually have when I am carrying a fertilized egg.

* = not an actual term of endearment used with my husband

A Baby

Recall my amazing Pregnant Best Friend At Work (PBFAW)?  I may have noted somewhere that she had her baby, about six weeks ago, so she's just back to being my best friend at work.  Who may not return from her maternity leave, burnt out on our office's brand of mission that is relentless on your personal life, particularly when attempting to mother an infant.... Anyways, today I paid her a long-overdue visit.  With a grocery bag of food in tow I knocked on the door, and it opened to my gorgeous friend holding in her arms the most. beautiful. baby. ever.  (And I say this as a parent who fully believes we are probably losing out on some big bucks by refusing to exploit Niblet's looks for cash). 

So I spent the good portion of my afternoon holding and trying to soothe a crying, gassy, uncomfortable baby who wanted none. of. it.  All so that her mama could eat some pie (yes, I am a good friend) and deal with an insurance benefits snafu that is typical of our employer (snafu is an understatement, they accidentally dropped her from our insurance plan).

A few hours later I left her house in a strange state of mind.  Lighter, because seriously, I just want to eat all of the yummy babies, and I truly love my friend and felt good about doing her a good one.  And happy that I wasn't triggered by the afternoon, that I could in earnest change a diaper and a onesie without bursting into tears.  But with the lingering sadness that obviously comes from wanting to hold one of my own for so many years. 

Baby S and I had our picture taken and I texted it to husband.  Who marveled at those cheeks and eyes. 

If only you could turn off the longing with a switch, right?

Wise words

Family

Holidays have a way of packing a wallop don't they? This time last year I was recovering from the single most traumatic experience of my life.  And a year later I am two steps forward, three steps back all over again.

I just got back from my parent's house in NYC.  The trip was great and Niblet, as always, enjoyed the energy of the city.  That's my girl.

My parents, who I have occasionally written about, continue to rock.  Don't get me wrong:  they are exhaustingly cynical and misanthropic.  They view the world through gray colored glasses really.  I am used to them, but they are tough for my husband to take in incrimements of more than three consecutive days.

But they are doting grandparents to Niblet.  And in my personal dictionary, if I look up the word SUPPORT, I promise their picture would be there for illustration.  One of the things I love about my parents is that they don't try to sugarcoat the hell and back I have been through.  They don't talk a lot about my losses, mostly because it's not a topic we bring up around Niblet.  But I've had one on one chats over the past years with both my mom and my dad about my experiences.  About therapy and about acupuncture and about vitamins and supplements.  About trying to move on with my sanity.  And it's in these talks that my parents' cynicism and anger is actually helpful.  Because with them, there is no expectation for me to move on.  Quite the contrary, I should be pissed off at this hand of mourning that I have been dealt.  "You should be angry and sad and grieve Justonemore," my mother frequently reminds me.

On the other end of the holiday spectrum, I have to steel myself for Christmas, with in-laws who persist in rambling at the dinner table about all the blessings.  As if I am not keenly and painfully aware of them.  In-laws who have never once asked how I felt after any of the losses that they knew about.  Look, this isn't uncommon, and I am not trying to grab any sympathy.  At the end of the day my in-laws are fundamentally decent people, but they are incredibly tone deaf when it comes to sensitivity and emotions.  My in-laws actually require a trip to my therapist to pregame a plan of action on Christmas Day.  The best part of the plan usually involves hiding in the bathroom.

Here's what's most notable though after spending the past four days with my mom and dad:  I walk away with hope.  I don't know if it's Trying-to-conceive sustaining hope.  I don't think it is.  We're still approaching life with the expectation that Niblet will be our one and only child.

But sitting as a passenger on the turnpike this afternoon, I had the strangest sensation.  It was like there was a voice whispering to me.  And if I were to transcribe the whispered words, they would sound something like this:

I don't expect to ever get pregnant with, carry to term, and take home a healthy baby.... But if I found myself pregnant again..... maybe there could be a teensie, tiny, slight chance that it was a genetically normal pregnancy?  Obviously not a big chance, I mean, come on, face reality, based on my past odds, I would say any pregnancy of mine is doomed before it starts.  But.... maybe the chaos overlords of the universe would determine that it was my time.  Maybe I would get one lucky roll of the dice. Bad things happen to generally decent people every day.  I can be angry, and cynical, and generally believe the bottom will drop from my life, but I can still hope a little, right?

the road not taken twice

So recall that I am fairly certain that I had a stupid annovulatory cycle last month, so taking matters into my own hands I tried using vitex (chasteberry) this last one.  The good news is that I am certain I ovulated on CD 14 on the nose, and my period started exactly 14 days later, on CD 28.  The bad news is that this period is weak.  Light but crampy and virtually over, today on day 3.  According to Dr. Google this points to an estrogen deficiency as women approach menopause.

Ok, so you all know I am "only" 41 - elderly in fertility years, but still not a deal breaker for many many women who would like a baby.  And if you saw me you'd probably have the same WTF reaction of a few others out there, who blithely assume I am a spring chicken in my thirties.

But at the end of the day, I think I am approaching menopause.  And yes, while perimenopause is less a hard date than a length of time, I think I can safely say that I am deep in the midst of that length of time.

Aside from the fact that I have been dealing with this bullshit for almost four years now, comes the stark reality that time really is about to run out for me.  I have now gone six consecutive cycles of ttc without a pregnancy.  And as I approach the self-imposed end-date of this madness (which was heartily endorsed by my therapist), I have to decide how I want to end this run.

The question of the day: Do I take my unused packs of clomid?  Ehhh, Not sure.  On the one hand I have nothing to lose.  On the other hand, I am worried about fucking up the already delicate balance of my hormones, which are clearly on the fritz right now.

There's also the fact that I went down this road before.  As a matter of fact, I got pregnant on my third clomid cycle (with an IUI).  I also miscarried.  I also found myself with a dangerously high FSH when I emerged from it.  While my then-RE said that one had nothing to do with other, I am not so sure.

Interestingly, my acupuncturist doesn't view taking the clomid as a bad idea.  Lots of AMA+DOR women use clomid on mini-IVF cycles.... but not a whole lot of them are walking around with five rings on their middle finger representing lost babies. 

While in theory I am not opposed to exploding my ovaries to increase my chances of pregnancy, a tiny little part of my brain is screaming  "Stop that madness.  YOU HAVE DONE THIS BEFORE."  It's a little nagging voice that lives in the wisdom of my experience and and for some reason it's telling me this could do more harm than good.

I am a strategist in my day job.  People pay me first to research things and then to use that research to come to a conclusion on what steps to take next.

I'll admit it now:  I was completely stumped on this one... that is, until my pathetic period a day ago.  My lining is thin.  Clomid is well known (over time at least) to have a bad effect on the uterine lining, thinning it, actually.

Bam.  There's my answer.  My disappointingly thin lining means that clomid is a non-starter.  At least this month.