I am 8 weeks pregnant today. My second ultrasound with Dr. Special is on Monday, and if that goes well, I get transferred to the midwives (and coordination with the Dr. Riskys at Maternal Fetal Medicine since I'm over 35). Yesterday I felt really nauseated--I've been feeling it especially in bed. Today I felt fine, but it might be because I've been too busy with work to notice my body. Now I'm exhausted. I did my annual employee health assessment today for our health plan, and I had to tell the nurse I am pregnant. She says it's so easy to take blood from a pregnant woman, she loves it, since we gain 20% of our blood volume. And indeed it took a bit for my finger prick to stop bleeding, I guess we pregnant women are just bursting with it. She didn't say anything about my BMI either, likely thanks to the pregnancy. It has skyrocketed since last year. I have definitely already gained weight with this pregnancy--I can tell by the way my clothes don't fit--but I know it was climbing before this. Taking progesterone causes weight gain, and being unsuccessfully pregnant for half of 2014 sure as hell wasn't kind on my body. I've been meaning to post about miscarriage/infertility and body image. As if going through this doesn't already create a really difficult relationship with my body, then on top of that I have to be a woman in a world that prizes only one type of body--one which is very much not resembling a fertility goddess (runway models seem to all be chosen to look like prepubescent girls, so not reproductive figures at all). Such competing demands--look thin and nearly boyish, but you have to be a mother to be a fully realized woman--and motherhood is about hips and bellies and breasts and curves and stretch marks and nausea and fatigue that makes it impossible to devote the amount of energy women are expected to devote to meticulous dieting and exercising. Well competing demands make sense when the goal is oppression.
So I'll have to come to a different relationship with my body through this. One hopefully of gratitude. I'm glad I'm alive and healthy, and I'm so glad I'm pregnant. None of that was really in my control; I can only help or hinder. I do want to raise my child with a good relationship to their body, and to food and exercise; with an ability to resist pressures to live up to some sort of external standard. I have to start by being that way myself. My clothes don't fit? Buy new ones. Eat for health, don't give in to excesses of either self-denial or eating to soothe anxiety. Exercise because it feels good. It's hard though; especially as I've aged the pounds layer on; and then with the progesterone and the miscarriages; sometimes I wondered if I should be more hands-on about my weight. A friend and I joke, it's always hard to tell: science or patriarchy? Like, is this science or patriarchy telling me to do this? Sadly the two are often intertwined. Well it doesn't matter now! Fuck it, I'm giving my body over to pregnancy. If I need to rest, I'm resting. If I feel like eating or not, I will or won't. Obviously I'll eat as safely and healthfully as I can, but I will hopefully not be thinking much about appearance until after I have a baby. And even then--my body will likely always reflect the life I've lived, up to and including motherhood. Man I hope so, certainly.
The baby whose birth was betted on was born, healthy and the mom is healthy too. This is their fourth. I used to think family size was about choice, and in many ways it is, or can be. But now all I see is, what luck! To have four healthy children! What amazing luck! And to get pregnant right after a miscarriage, twice, and go on to actually have the child. I suppose doing all of this younger helps increase your luck. I just think of the women I know who have lost children to stillbirth. I think of myself, two miscarriages in a row--this pregnancy could have easily been my second; I could have had a nearly nine-month old by now. I think of the women I know suffering cruelly from infertility. MFP doesn't really get my envy of women who've had several healthy kids. He says, "but you don't want their life! You have a great life!" It's true, I want my life. My choices. But I'm envious too of the ability to count on the arrival of a healthy baby as more likely than not. And maybe I'm hopeful too. So hopeful that my baby will keep growing from its tiny tiny size and actually become a squirming, healthy miracle. I wish this journey had been easy for me, but I'll take it however it comes.
Tuesday, August 25, 2015
Saturday, August 22, 2015
In my life
Earlier this week, I was writing an email to a woman I met in the pregnancy loss group who lost her daughter to stillbirth last year, and as soon as I pressed send, I saw an email in my inbox from someone inviting me to join a betting pool for the time and sex of the birth of their child. I was livid. Apparently, this is a thing people do. I googled it expecting there to be rants and screeds about how insensitive this practice is, but no, there are websites devoted to "baby betting pool." I can't even imagine the rage that a person who'd lost a full-term baby would feel hearing about someone betting on their child's birth. How about I bet on whether or not I'll miscarry a third time? Or whether my baby will have genetic abnormalities? Or whether I'll have a stillbirth? Or whether my baby will be born with a grave illness or birth defect? Anybody want to take bets on that? I suppose it's a way to get other people "involved" in your child's appearance without actually fostering meaningful emotional connection with others and your family. But regardless, the hubris is astonishing. The aura of invincibility; the insensitivity to how, at least for others, a childbirth would be precious and miraculous and not a time for betting--people like me who've had recurrent miscarriages, or people suffering infertility, or people who have watched their children die.
I feel fine today, just fine; only a slight tickle of maybe nausea; not that tired. For the past few week I've been going to bed at like 8pm; I've felt absolutely woozy with tiredness. I feel so afraid. My baby was healthy and growing on track on Monday; heart beating away, growth measuring on target; what if it has died already? Unlike before hearing the heartbeat, now I have waves of fear, rather than sheer panic, but still, they're there. Going through a missed miscarriage is a really horrible thing.
My thoughts turn to 9 days from now, to the next scan--will the baby have survived? Will we hear "I have bad news, there's no heartbeat" again? And what about after that? I've been googling prenatal testing instead of working this morning: I guess I'm glad I'm 35, because I can get the new, extremely accurate and extremely early test for genetic disorders. What if, like a friend of mine, we find out that our baby has a severe disorder? What if I have to have an abortion? This woman I know had such a terrible time trying to find answers, and the genetic counselors did all kinds of obfuscating, and then she had to face the fact that we live in a horrible state that gives you such a short window to make a decision on a pregnancy, it was awful. Just so you know, in case you're a judgmental asshole, the fetus, it turned out, had severe defects incompatible with life. What if that happens to us? And what about stillbirth? I have so many risk factors for stillbirth. It's my first child. I'm over 35. I've had trouble conceiving. What if I don't get enough screening? What if I'm not vigilant enough? What if my baby dies inside of me, at a much, much later stage in pregnancy than before? I have so little trust. The fact that healthy babies are ever born seems almost impossible given all the things that can go wrong that I now know from direct witnesses. Such a miracle. Do I really deserve such a miracle? Or is my life one that is going to be marked out for suffering when it comes to children? (Well, I've already suffered). I just talked to a coworker yesterday who shared that his wife had three miscarriages before having their first of two healthy children. There are other success stories, I know.
The older sister of this baby whose birth is being betted on said on her first day of school that when she grew up, she wanted to be "A Mommy." Like her own mother presumably, who doesn't work outside the home. Who has had lots of children much younger than me. And now this little girl is being raised with the idea that "A Mommy" is a profession, something separate from doing what her father does or what I do for a living. Or a scientist or an astronaut or a social worker or a teacher or a business person or a pirate or a ship captain or a magician or a lawyer or a programmer or a princess. It hits my own insecurities. I want a different path from my family of origin. I want to be in touch with my feelings, to refuse to accept or excuse abuse, to have real love and security in my life rather than only the appearance of it. So I've separated from "Mommy" that way. And I always knew that I wanted motherhood to enrich my life, not define it. I want MFP to be as much a co-parent as me. Yet I see myself struggle with motherhood, and I wonder, maybe I chose something other than "Mommy." And the truth is, I did. But I had hope, that I could have a mind, a life outside the home, an equal partnership AND a child. I've sought my models for family outside my own family, and even though I've found lots of them, it's always hard, for anyone who tries to do something different, to not let those first examples of relationships speak the loudest.
The fact that I'm even thinking about motherhood, about what kind of family environment I want to raise my baby in, is an achievement. We invited some hope into our lives after we heard that heartbeat. My therapist said to me this week that I just have to decide whether I believe this is true: "I have to have a relationship with an extended family in order to have a happy life." Do I believe that for my child? No. I have to start thinking about what kind of messages I want to raise my baby among. Do I want my child to stay faithful to the appearance of love rather than the feeling and the practice of it? Do I want my child to maintain relationships just because they think they're supposed to and they're afraid of disappointing people, rather than because they are meaningful and fulfilling? Basically, do I want to raise my child to be vulnerable to abuse or to be secure enough in themselves to seek out love and safety? And maybe even to speak out against it and protect others, even when it's unpopular? That's a no-brainer. Except it's hard not to hear the guilt of my first messages, which definitely said "family is more important than self or safety or good feelings or the truth or anything or anyone else" both implicitly and explicitly.
What I'm trying to say is I'm loving my baby already. I love him or her. I have a firm place in my heart, in my home, in my life, and in my body where my child can go, and I'm working on making that even firmer. It's a powerful thing to tell someone, I have loved you since you were an idea. And my child, if creation-willing, she arrives, will know I love him that way. At night we started singing to the little embryo. I wanted to take some time to attach to it each day. What lullaby would I sing? I didn't know what, but then "In My Life" came out. I imagine singing this to my little embryo, my fetus, and then my newborn. Then maybe my toddler, both MFP and I curled up with him as we put her to bed. And I'll say, I sang this to you when you were only a centimeter big. Maybe my newborn will recognize my voice when I hold her or him in my arms. I should be so lucky. Knock on wood. B'sha'ah tovah. It does help me feel some emotions about this pregnancy besides fear though.
There are places I remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all
But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
In my life I love you more
I feel fine today, just fine; only a slight tickle of maybe nausea; not that tired. For the past few week I've been going to bed at like 8pm; I've felt absolutely woozy with tiredness. I feel so afraid. My baby was healthy and growing on track on Monday; heart beating away, growth measuring on target; what if it has died already? Unlike before hearing the heartbeat, now I have waves of fear, rather than sheer panic, but still, they're there. Going through a missed miscarriage is a really horrible thing.
My thoughts turn to 9 days from now, to the next scan--will the baby have survived? Will we hear "I have bad news, there's no heartbeat" again? And what about after that? I've been googling prenatal testing instead of working this morning: I guess I'm glad I'm 35, because I can get the new, extremely accurate and extremely early test for genetic disorders. What if, like a friend of mine, we find out that our baby has a severe disorder? What if I have to have an abortion? This woman I know had such a terrible time trying to find answers, and the genetic counselors did all kinds of obfuscating, and then she had to face the fact that we live in a horrible state that gives you such a short window to make a decision on a pregnancy, it was awful. Just so you know, in case you're a judgmental asshole, the fetus, it turned out, had severe defects incompatible with life. What if that happens to us? And what about stillbirth? I have so many risk factors for stillbirth. It's my first child. I'm over 35. I've had trouble conceiving. What if I don't get enough screening? What if I'm not vigilant enough? What if my baby dies inside of me, at a much, much later stage in pregnancy than before? I have so little trust. The fact that healthy babies are ever born seems almost impossible given all the things that can go wrong that I now know from direct witnesses. Such a miracle. Do I really deserve such a miracle? Or is my life one that is going to be marked out for suffering when it comes to children? (Well, I've already suffered). I just talked to a coworker yesterday who shared that his wife had three miscarriages before having their first of two healthy children. There are other success stories, I know.
The older sister of this baby whose birth is being betted on said on her first day of school that when she grew up, she wanted to be "A Mommy." Like her own mother presumably, who doesn't work outside the home. Who has had lots of children much younger than me. And now this little girl is being raised with the idea that "A Mommy" is a profession, something separate from doing what her father does or what I do for a living. Or a scientist or an astronaut or a social worker or a teacher or a business person or a pirate or a ship captain or a magician or a lawyer or a programmer or a princess. It hits my own insecurities. I want a different path from my family of origin. I want to be in touch with my feelings, to refuse to accept or excuse abuse, to have real love and security in my life rather than only the appearance of it. So I've separated from "Mommy" that way. And I always knew that I wanted motherhood to enrich my life, not define it. I want MFP to be as much a co-parent as me. Yet I see myself struggle with motherhood, and I wonder, maybe I chose something other than "Mommy." And the truth is, I did. But I had hope, that I could have a mind, a life outside the home, an equal partnership AND a child. I've sought my models for family outside my own family, and even though I've found lots of them, it's always hard, for anyone who tries to do something different, to not let those first examples of relationships speak the loudest.
The fact that I'm even thinking about motherhood, about what kind of family environment I want to raise my baby in, is an achievement. We invited some hope into our lives after we heard that heartbeat. My therapist said to me this week that I just have to decide whether I believe this is true: "I have to have a relationship with an extended family in order to have a happy life." Do I believe that for my child? No. I have to start thinking about what kind of messages I want to raise my baby among. Do I want my child to stay faithful to the appearance of love rather than the feeling and the practice of it? Do I want my child to maintain relationships just because they think they're supposed to and they're afraid of disappointing people, rather than because they are meaningful and fulfilling? Basically, do I want to raise my child to be vulnerable to abuse or to be secure enough in themselves to seek out love and safety? And maybe even to speak out against it and protect others, even when it's unpopular? That's a no-brainer. Except it's hard not to hear the guilt of my first messages, which definitely said "family is more important than self or safety or good feelings or the truth or anything or anyone else" both implicitly and explicitly.
What I'm trying to say is I'm loving my baby already. I love him or her. I have a firm place in my heart, in my home, in my life, and in my body where my child can go, and I'm working on making that even firmer. It's a powerful thing to tell someone, I have loved you since you were an idea. And my child, if creation-willing, she arrives, will know I love him that way. At night we started singing to the little embryo. I wanted to take some time to attach to it each day. What lullaby would I sing? I didn't know what, but then "In My Life" came out. I imagine singing this to my little embryo, my fetus, and then my newborn. Then maybe my toddler, both MFP and I curled up with him as we put her to bed. And I'll say, I sang this to you when you were only a centimeter big. Maybe my newborn will recognize my voice when I hold her or him in my arms. I should be so lucky. Knock on wood. B'sha'ah tovah. It does help me feel some emotions about this pregnancy besides fear though.
There are places I remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all
But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
In my life I love you more
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
Pregnant over 35 Manifesto
We know we are high-risk. We know the statistics: everything will be harder for us. Getting pregnant, having a healthy pregnancy, having a healthy labor, having a healthy baby. We know.
We also know that we are happy, excited, and proud about our choices.
We are more mature than we were one, five, ten, fifteen years ago. We know more about who we are. We know more about what we want. We've been through some shit. We've survived it. We've gotten bruised, but also strengthened. We are very, very strong.
We've had a lot of time to think about whether or not we want to be a parent, and we know the ways to prevent it. We are choosing this deliberately, purposefully, thoughtfully. Some of us have struggled for years already through infertility and losses to get here. For this group of us, this pregnancy is planned. It is wanted. We fought hard for it. It is a victory.
We are established in our lives. We know that for every year a woman delays having her first child, her maximum lifetime income rises by 10%. Now you might say all we care about is money. Yes, those of us who have careers are proud of them. Those of us who have the benefits that come from financial security are happy that we do. But what that statistic tells us is that fewer of us will be raising our children in poverty. More of us can afford to provide for our children in ways that can foster their thriving, even if a crisis hits. We also know that divorced women make up one of the most impoverished groups. We are creating security for ourselves and our children. We might even live longer.
We are more likely, as a group, to raise our children without the threat of violence. Studies show that nearly one-third of mothers spank their babies under the age of TWO, and this was consistent across class distinctions and races. The only control that consistently showed which mothers were less likely to spank their tiny infants and toddlers was age of the mother. With every year increase in age, a mother is less likely to spank her baby. Maybe that's because we're tired. We're tired of fighting the little battles; we're tired of feeling the need to be completely in control. Maybe we're tired of the way we were raised, tired of the custom of treating children like little prisoners that need to be kept in line, and we're more excited, now that we're older, to get to know them as the individual people that they are instead. Maybe we're more secure in ourselves, and we've been through intensely difficult experiences, and we can draw on our pasts to face the difficulties of parenting without losing our cool. Maybe we're at a time in our lives where we're more ready to listen. Regardless of why, this is our record. This is a statistic we don't hear when we hear we're "high-risk." We would like a world that also recognizes that twenty-something mothers are at "high-risk" of hitting their babies, and we should shower those mothers more support when they're overwhelmed.
We trust in science, and we know our history. We know our friends, our colleagues, our mothers, our grandmothers, and our ancestors have been having children in their late thirties and forties for centuries. Millennia. Maybe some of them were the wise women, the midwives, the "witches," the matriarchs, who taught women about their bodies and held the secrets of planning and stopping pregnancies for years before male physicians caught up so that we could lead full, productive lives that included experiencing the miraculous power of motherhood. We know that we're not new, we're not a "trend," we are part of a long and unbroken line of women who invite motherhood to enrich us, but not define us. We understand that that scares people, and so they might judge us, or begrudge our choices. We respectfully don't care. We're too excited about the fact that a new chapter of our lives is just beginning.
We also know that we are happy, excited, and proud about our choices.
We are more mature than we were one, five, ten, fifteen years ago. We know more about who we are. We know more about what we want. We've been through some shit. We've survived it. We've gotten bruised, but also strengthened. We are very, very strong.
We've had a lot of time to think about whether or not we want to be a parent, and we know the ways to prevent it. We are choosing this deliberately, purposefully, thoughtfully. Some of us have struggled for years already through infertility and losses to get here. For this group of us, this pregnancy is planned. It is wanted. We fought hard for it. It is a victory.
We are established in our lives. We know that for every year a woman delays having her first child, her maximum lifetime income rises by 10%. Now you might say all we care about is money. Yes, those of us who have careers are proud of them. Those of us who have the benefits that come from financial security are happy that we do. But what that statistic tells us is that fewer of us will be raising our children in poverty. More of us can afford to provide for our children in ways that can foster their thriving, even if a crisis hits. We also know that divorced women make up one of the most impoverished groups. We are creating security for ourselves and our children. We might even live longer.
We are more likely, as a group, to raise our children without the threat of violence. Studies show that nearly one-third of mothers spank their babies under the age of TWO, and this was consistent across class distinctions and races. The only control that consistently showed which mothers were less likely to spank their tiny infants and toddlers was age of the mother. With every year increase in age, a mother is less likely to spank her baby. Maybe that's because we're tired. We're tired of fighting the little battles; we're tired of feeling the need to be completely in control. Maybe we're tired of the way we were raised, tired of the custom of treating children like little prisoners that need to be kept in line, and we're more excited, now that we're older, to get to know them as the individual people that they are instead. Maybe we're more secure in ourselves, and we've been through intensely difficult experiences, and we can draw on our pasts to face the difficulties of parenting without losing our cool. Maybe we're at a time in our lives where we're more ready to listen. Regardless of why, this is our record. This is a statistic we don't hear when we hear we're "high-risk." We would like a world that also recognizes that twenty-something mothers are at "high-risk" of hitting their babies, and we should shower those mothers more support when they're overwhelmed.
We trust in science, and we know our history. We know our friends, our colleagues, our mothers, our grandmothers, and our ancestors have been having children in their late thirties and forties for centuries. Millennia. Maybe some of them were the wise women, the midwives, the "witches," the matriarchs, who taught women about their bodies and held the secrets of planning and stopping pregnancies for years before male physicians caught up so that we could lead full, productive lives that included experiencing the miraculous power of motherhood. We know that we're not new, we're not a "trend," we are part of a long and unbroken line of women who invite motherhood to enrich us, but not define us. We understand that that scares people, and so they might judge us, or begrudge our choices. We respectfully don't care. We're too excited about the fact that a new chapter of our lives is just beginning.
Monday, August 17, 2015
Perfect
"Perfect," she said, as she turned on the volume and we heard our baby's heartbeat for the first time. I wept. MFP recorded with my phone the brief moment Dr. Special showed it to us and we've already listened to that soft, miraculous sound several times already. A friend last night suggested we be prepared to record it if we heard it and that was a good idea; I wouldn't have thought of it. It helps me believe this is real, helps me at attach to my little miracle.
The gestational sac is so much bigger than when we saw it at 5 weeks, and now we can clearly see the fetal pole inside of it. There is definitely a baby growing. I am 6 weeks 6 days along today, and it looks like from the printout they gave me on the photo that the heart rate is 142 bpm--I don't know what exactly that means but Dr. Special said "Perfect" so I'm sticking with that. There are other measurements on the printout I don't understand, but they say variously 7 wks1day+/-4 days; 7wks3days; and 7 wks0days, so I'm just going to call it that my little embryo's growth is right on target. Dr. Special said we now have a 90-95% chance of having a healthy baby. This is beautiful.
I know people have lost pregnancies after they've heard a heartbeat; I know people whose perfectly healthy children were born still; I know people whose pregnancies had to be terminated because of severe fetal deformities. I know there's a whole world inside that 5-10% and there's nothing that says I won't be part of it. I also know people struggling with infertility who don't know if they'll ever get to the stage I'm at today, or if they'll get there with their own oocytes or not. My joy is intimate right now; I want to somehow be joyful and keep falling in love with my embryo and preparing for this major life change while still being humble and recognizing that I can't take anything for granted. Even if I take my healthy, squealing and squirming baby home in my arms, even after that, the world makes me no promises. I want to raise my baby with my eyes open, with my heart full, and able to savor life even while knowing that suffering can and does happen. I'm starting now.
The day we found out that pregnancy #1 had miscarried, we had planned to go out for Indian food for lunch to celebrate hearing a heartbeat. Instead, we went out for it today, one year, 3 months, and 11 days later. I feel like we've been on the journey of parenthood for a long while, even though our baby's life has barely begun. I said today, hey little one, let's try Indian food for the first time together! I am so looking forward to doing so many things together with my baby, to make a safe and loving place from which to explore the world. I'm hoping I get the chance. I'm grateful for every day I'm on this journey.
The gestational sac is so much bigger than when we saw it at 5 weeks, and now we can clearly see the fetal pole inside of it. There is definitely a baby growing. I am 6 weeks 6 days along today, and it looks like from the printout they gave me on the photo that the heart rate is 142 bpm--I don't know what exactly that means but Dr. Special said "Perfect" so I'm sticking with that. There are other measurements on the printout I don't understand, but they say variously 7 wks1day+/-4 days; 7wks3days; and 7 wks0days, so I'm just going to call it that my little embryo's growth is right on target. Dr. Special said we now have a 90-95% chance of having a healthy baby. This is beautiful.
I know people have lost pregnancies after they've heard a heartbeat; I know people whose perfectly healthy children were born still; I know people whose pregnancies had to be terminated because of severe fetal deformities. I know there's a whole world inside that 5-10% and there's nothing that says I won't be part of it. I also know people struggling with infertility who don't know if they'll ever get to the stage I'm at today, or if they'll get there with their own oocytes or not. My joy is intimate right now; I want to somehow be joyful and keep falling in love with my embryo and preparing for this major life change while still being humble and recognizing that I can't take anything for granted. Even if I take my healthy, squealing and squirming baby home in my arms, even after that, the world makes me no promises. I want to raise my baby with my eyes open, with my heart full, and able to savor life even while knowing that suffering can and does happen. I'm starting now.
The day we found out that pregnancy #1 had miscarried, we had planned to go out for Indian food for lunch to celebrate hearing a heartbeat. Instead, we went out for it today, one year, 3 months, and 11 days later. I feel like we've been on the journey of parenthood for a long while, even though our baby's life has barely begun. I said today, hey little one, let's try Indian food for the first time together! I am so looking forward to doing so many things together with my baby, to make a safe and loving place from which to explore the world. I'm hoping I get the chance. I'm grateful for every day I'm on this journey.
Friday, August 14, 2015
Today I am pregnant, and I'm happy about that
6 weeks, 3 days. No matter what happens on Monday or after, I have MFP and Pupstein and we dance together and we have our home and our creative work and all in all a complex life. This is another step on our journey to parenthood, and I'm proud of us for embarking on it, especially after so much grief already. And I'm pregnant right now and I'm so glad this little embryo is here.
I still only feel a rumble of nausea, but I wonder whether that's because after Monday's bout with it I've been taking it majorly easy, resting a ton. I feel so tired and my breasts are still way sore. Sometimes I feel so scared. I have all these "what if?" thoughts and I try to just recognize that they are giving me the message that this is a scary time and so I need to take care of myself as much as possible, not get wrapped up in the hypervigilance. Other times I feel pretty serene about how this is out of my control. There's nothing I can do but wait and see, so I can just enjoy this special time. And I might as well attach to my little embryo. Wouldn't you love to know you were loved from the very tiniest, most fragile beginnings of your life?
I still only feel a rumble of nausea, but I wonder whether that's because after Monday's bout with it I've been taking it majorly easy, resting a ton. I feel so tired and my breasts are still way sore. Sometimes I feel so scared. I have all these "what if?" thoughts and I try to just recognize that they are giving me the message that this is a scary time and so I need to take care of myself as much as possible, not get wrapped up in the hypervigilance. Other times I feel pretty serene about how this is out of my control. There's nothing I can do but wait and see, so I can just enjoy this special time. And I might as well attach to my little embryo. Wouldn't you love to know you were loved from the very tiniest, most fragile beginnings of your life?
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
In which I extend metaphors and maybe finally get around to mentioning Mark Zuckerberg
Learning to speak of "if," not "when." Learning not to plan. That's what the experience of two miscarriages has taught us. That's pain in and of itself--being a person who always knew I wanted to be a mother, having to realize how hard it might be to become one. I know those who struggle with infertility must feel similarly. Envying naiveté. I know so many people who saw that positive pregnancy test and then--whaddya know--had a baby. Multiple times. Each time. That positive meant that a baby was coming. Sure, they were nervous; sure, they were very worried that it was too good to be true. But still, it happened. The hoped-for outcome of a healthy child. MFP pointed out to me today when I was saying that our occasional waves of panic make sense, considering we've been here before and we got, metaphorically, hit by a truck, that this panic makes even more sense because it was like we had never crossed a street before, and we got hit by a truck *the first time.* And the second. It's like our only experience crossing the street is getting hit by a truck, we've never had it go differently. So here we are again. 6 weeks, 1 day gestation. Ultrasound to see if there's a heartbeat this coming Monday, at 6 weeks, 6 days. 5 long ass days to go.
I felt so much nausea on Monday, it really hit, unmistakably. Then again on Tuesday, and I decided to stay home and rest all day. My acupuncturist recommended rest: "Even if you feel like, 'oh, I could do a bit more,' rest. Rest as much as you can." I like that advice! So I did. Then today, I wanted to get up and shower and be up and about, and still I'm taking it easy but--little to no nausea. And I remember how the nausea subsided before I found out my first pregnancy had died. The nausea ended around 8 weeks--I don't remember exactly, and then my first appointment to see there was no heartbeat was at 9.5 weeks. My breasts are still tender and my bras are tight; I'm still tired. But still. Maybe this is it--maybe the embryo has just died. Or maybe I just got a lot of rest yesterday and my hormones just aren't surging in a way today that would make me nauseated. Cue me googling message boards and the American Pregnancy Association on whether "nausea can come and go." I guess it can. But also cessation of nausea and other pregnancy symptoms can be a sign of miscarriage. Go figure. It was reassuring to see so many other women who've had multiple miscarriages on these boards talking about how hard it is to feel hopeful now that they're pregnant again. One of them wrote that her mantra is, I'm pregnant today and I'm happy about that. I try to say the same thing to myself, many of the same things these women wrote. I almost responded to one of them and then the fucking board required me to sign in to their goddamned updates, and considering just yesterday I AGAIN got promotional material for my nonexistent baby due in July from Similac in the mail, there's no fucking way I'm signing up for that. I still want to rage at the company for doing such a shitty promotion when miscarriage is so common. My therapist said something off-hand like, that stuff's expensive, hold on to that! Wrong move. Not helpful. I did see that someone has already written about this issue, in the New York Times no less, the bullshit horribleness of formula companies taking the advertising gamble that it's worth 25% of the time sending shit to women who've had miscarriages to advertise to the 75% of women who actually had their babies. Sorry, miscarriers! Don't mind our salt in your wound!
The thing about Monday, is it's not going to be neutral no matter what. Either we'll be crushed, facing our third loss, or we'll be ecstatic, having heard our baby's heartbeat for the first time (knowing full well that even then, it could stop at any minute). MFP reminded me of how I'd said, after our first prenatal appointment with pregnancy #1, let's get Indian food afterward to celebrate hearing the heartbeat, because I'd been nervous about having a new doctor put an internal ultrasound probe inside me and had considered declining (ha! oh how my worries seem so small now. For a long time I feared that the nurses and doctor must have thought that, like, "lady, your worries are in the wrong place." Probably though they just felt sorry for me). He said today, maybe on Monday we can go out for Indian food. We'll see. I'm not nauseated right now. Maybe it's already gone. Maybe it's not. I remember even as the spotting was picking up with pregnancy #2, I told MFP, wouldn't we want our child to hold on, even when all hope is lost? Wouldn't we tell it to fight? Fight for its life? That's so sad to think about now. My chemical, maybe ectopic pregnancy, that's all it was. Nothing fighting for anything's life. And then I went through through a traumatic D&C, making it all so much worse. For the woman whose biggest concern a few months before was whether or not I wanted a probe in my vagina on my first prenatal visit. Because I guess I thought I'd be okay if I didn't have spotting. But I was wrong.
A lot of the time I'm happy that I'm pregnant. Despite the misery of the nausea yesterday--fearing constantly that I'd vomit in public--I was glad to really have evidence I'm pregnant. The cliched Hollywood shot of a woman puking--oh! she's pregnant. Because apparently all Hollywood pregnancies are unplanned. Just like all Hollywood labors start with water breaking. And all Hollywood miscarriages are convenient, not mourned, and all Hollywood babies are born healthy and screaming (and about a month old already by the looks of it), never dead. Today I feel like a human being in the world again, and yet I'm terrified my embryo stopped growing. I know we'll make it through whatever happens. I know we made good choices about this doctors' office. I know this won't be the end of our journey to parenthood, no matter what. I guess that does ease my panic a little bit. And the fact that I know it's out of my control. That as far as I know, I'm still pregnant today. A friend of mine recommended "sea bands" for my wrists as a way to help with the nausea. Afraid I'd puke on the bus on Monday, I pushed on my wrist pressure points. It helped for like a second. So I was in CVS today, nausea-less, and I was thinking, I should probably buy sea bands. They have a kind especially for "Mama," which is probably the same except it's lavender. (And I may never be a "Mama," regardless of my ability to get pregnant three times in a year and a half). I looked at MFP and I had to say out loud--or actually he might have had to say it--"I have no control. Whether or not I have a miscarriage has nothing to do with whether or not I buy these." I can just imagine them sitting on the counter, unopened, when I come home from seeing an empty gestational sac on Monday, and feeling the irresistible urge to burn them, like I burned the expensive swaddle blankets I'd bought during pregnancy #1 after pregnancy #2 officially ended. Something sitting around the house to spite me, to laugh at my hopefulness, thinking I'd be like other mothers; at my hubris at buying sea bands when I was only six weeks along. I bought them. If I'm nauseated again like I was on Monday or Tuesday, I'm not going to want to go to CVS to get them. Maybe I'll use them on my next pregnancy. Which might take another 9 months, like this one did....
What an unkind internal dialogue I have. There's nothing wrong with choosing hope. There's nothing wrong with expecting the nausea to come back and buying myself something for it, when it was pretty debilitating just a day ago. If I have a third miscarriage it will just be sad, horribly sad; I won't have done anything wrong. I won't deserve any spite, I won't have been presumptuous, I'll only deserve sympathy and kindness in my grief.
So notoriously young multi-billionaire Mark Zuckerberg and his wife suffered three miscarriages. They announced their pregnancy, at first sounding like everybody else on Facebook announcing a pregnancy, but then shared the long journey they'd been on. And his wife's only 30, much younger than me. Three. Three times in my position. The positive sign, the breast tenderness, the nausea maybe, the should we tell or shouldn't we? The date marked in a mental calendar...then nothing. I felt so sorry for them, even given their wealth. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Three times in a row. The brutality. That could be me. This could be the third time. And then maybe I'd have a healthy child on the way after that, like them too. Or maybe, this is my "rainbow baby"--my beautiful reminder of a promise once made after terrible storms. Oh, how I hope it's the latter. Oh how I love this baby already. I guess I'd rather not lose out on these early days of building my attachment to my baby, even if I lose it. I won't regret the time spent feeling that love.
Anyway back to Mr. and Mrs. Facebook. I was really glad that he brought attention to miscarriages. I definitely feel less alone. And I'd love it if talking about the pain of it--that it IS a big loss, and nothing shameful--were more common. I didn't share his status though. I feel weird even hinting at my miscarriages, even though co-workers know, as a professional woman I guess. I don't want to be known for my uterus. And there's probably a lot of shame too. I don't want to be known for my failure. And I didn't even want to gesture toward my losses by sharing his status, even though it might help people. Yes I am part of the problem. I will say though, that my friend struggling with infertility felt really left out of the discussion; and I can tell you right now I'll bet those women I know who've suffered stillbirth will tell you there is no "safe" time to announce a pregnancy. I also wish miscarriages weren't only okay to talk about *after* you've had a healthy pregnancy. Like we have to hide it until/unless we have a child. I try to talk about mine relatively openly with good friends. But part of the reason some of us don't share isn't necessarily shame, it's pain. It's painful to talk about, and I want to wait to talk about it with people who will respond well. Too many people respond with the silence or shit like "everything happens for a reason."
Last thing. I told MFP today that I need "Coach" again. That attitude helped us when we were mourning another month of trying and failing to get pregnant. This is what I need to hear now: "We've got to keep our head in the game. We made it to the next round, doing exactly what we had been doing. Now the stakes are higher, and we gotta stay focused. Keep our eyes on the prize. Don't think about what might happen, stay focused on what's right in front of me and play it well. We're gonna rest. We're gonna take progesterone and vitamins. We're going to eat safe foods only. Keep your head in the game, in today's game, not in Monday's game." Let's go, team!
I felt so much nausea on Monday, it really hit, unmistakably. Then again on Tuesday, and I decided to stay home and rest all day. My acupuncturist recommended rest: "Even if you feel like, 'oh, I could do a bit more,' rest. Rest as much as you can." I like that advice! So I did. Then today, I wanted to get up and shower and be up and about, and still I'm taking it easy but--little to no nausea. And I remember how the nausea subsided before I found out my first pregnancy had died. The nausea ended around 8 weeks--I don't remember exactly, and then my first appointment to see there was no heartbeat was at 9.5 weeks. My breasts are still tender and my bras are tight; I'm still tired. But still. Maybe this is it--maybe the embryo has just died. Or maybe I just got a lot of rest yesterday and my hormones just aren't surging in a way today that would make me nauseated. Cue me googling message boards and the American Pregnancy Association on whether "nausea can come and go." I guess it can. But also cessation of nausea and other pregnancy symptoms can be a sign of miscarriage. Go figure. It was reassuring to see so many other women who've had multiple miscarriages on these boards talking about how hard it is to feel hopeful now that they're pregnant again. One of them wrote that her mantra is, I'm pregnant today and I'm happy about that. I try to say the same thing to myself, many of the same things these women wrote. I almost responded to one of them and then the fucking board required me to sign in to their goddamned updates, and considering just yesterday I AGAIN got promotional material for my nonexistent baby due in July from Similac in the mail, there's no fucking way I'm signing up for that. I still want to rage at the company for doing such a shitty promotion when miscarriage is so common. My therapist said something off-hand like, that stuff's expensive, hold on to that! Wrong move. Not helpful. I did see that someone has already written about this issue, in the New York Times no less, the bullshit horribleness of formula companies taking the advertising gamble that it's worth 25% of the time sending shit to women who've had miscarriages to advertise to the 75% of women who actually had their babies. Sorry, miscarriers! Don't mind our salt in your wound!
The thing about Monday, is it's not going to be neutral no matter what. Either we'll be crushed, facing our third loss, or we'll be ecstatic, having heard our baby's heartbeat for the first time (knowing full well that even then, it could stop at any minute). MFP reminded me of how I'd said, after our first prenatal appointment with pregnancy #1, let's get Indian food afterward to celebrate hearing the heartbeat, because I'd been nervous about having a new doctor put an internal ultrasound probe inside me and had considered declining (ha! oh how my worries seem so small now. For a long time I feared that the nurses and doctor must have thought that, like, "lady, your worries are in the wrong place." Probably though they just felt sorry for me). He said today, maybe on Monday we can go out for Indian food. We'll see. I'm not nauseated right now. Maybe it's already gone. Maybe it's not. I remember even as the spotting was picking up with pregnancy #2, I told MFP, wouldn't we want our child to hold on, even when all hope is lost? Wouldn't we tell it to fight? Fight for its life? That's so sad to think about now. My chemical, maybe ectopic pregnancy, that's all it was. Nothing fighting for anything's life. And then I went through through a traumatic D&C, making it all so much worse. For the woman whose biggest concern a few months before was whether or not I wanted a probe in my vagina on my first prenatal visit. Because I guess I thought I'd be okay if I didn't have spotting. But I was wrong.
A lot of the time I'm happy that I'm pregnant. Despite the misery of the nausea yesterday--fearing constantly that I'd vomit in public--I was glad to really have evidence I'm pregnant. The cliched Hollywood shot of a woman puking--oh! she's pregnant. Because apparently all Hollywood pregnancies are unplanned. Just like all Hollywood labors start with water breaking. And all Hollywood miscarriages are convenient, not mourned, and all Hollywood babies are born healthy and screaming (and about a month old already by the looks of it), never dead. Today I feel like a human being in the world again, and yet I'm terrified my embryo stopped growing. I know we'll make it through whatever happens. I know we made good choices about this doctors' office. I know this won't be the end of our journey to parenthood, no matter what. I guess that does ease my panic a little bit. And the fact that I know it's out of my control. That as far as I know, I'm still pregnant today. A friend of mine recommended "sea bands" for my wrists as a way to help with the nausea. Afraid I'd puke on the bus on Monday, I pushed on my wrist pressure points. It helped for like a second. So I was in CVS today, nausea-less, and I was thinking, I should probably buy sea bands. They have a kind especially for "Mama," which is probably the same except it's lavender. (And I may never be a "Mama," regardless of my ability to get pregnant three times in a year and a half). I looked at MFP and I had to say out loud--or actually he might have had to say it--"I have no control. Whether or not I have a miscarriage has nothing to do with whether or not I buy these." I can just imagine them sitting on the counter, unopened, when I come home from seeing an empty gestational sac on Monday, and feeling the irresistible urge to burn them, like I burned the expensive swaddle blankets I'd bought during pregnancy #1 after pregnancy #2 officially ended. Something sitting around the house to spite me, to laugh at my hopefulness, thinking I'd be like other mothers; at my hubris at buying sea bands when I was only six weeks along. I bought them. If I'm nauseated again like I was on Monday or Tuesday, I'm not going to want to go to CVS to get them. Maybe I'll use them on my next pregnancy. Which might take another 9 months, like this one did....
What an unkind internal dialogue I have. There's nothing wrong with choosing hope. There's nothing wrong with expecting the nausea to come back and buying myself something for it, when it was pretty debilitating just a day ago. If I have a third miscarriage it will just be sad, horribly sad; I won't have done anything wrong. I won't deserve any spite, I won't have been presumptuous, I'll only deserve sympathy and kindness in my grief.
So notoriously young multi-billionaire Mark Zuckerberg and his wife suffered three miscarriages. They announced their pregnancy, at first sounding like everybody else on Facebook announcing a pregnancy, but then shared the long journey they'd been on. And his wife's only 30, much younger than me. Three. Three times in my position. The positive sign, the breast tenderness, the nausea maybe, the should we tell or shouldn't we? The date marked in a mental calendar...then nothing. I felt so sorry for them, even given their wealth. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Three times in a row. The brutality. That could be me. This could be the third time. And then maybe I'd have a healthy child on the way after that, like them too. Or maybe, this is my "rainbow baby"--my beautiful reminder of a promise once made after terrible storms. Oh, how I hope it's the latter. Oh how I love this baby already. I guess I'd rather not lose out on these early days of building my attachment to my baby, even if I lose it. I won't regret the time spent feeling that love.
Anyway back to Mr. and Mrs. Facebook. I was really glad that he brought attention to miscarriages. I definitely feel less alone. And I'd love it if talking about the pain of it--that it IS a big loss, and nothing shameful--were more common. I didn't share his status though. I feel weird even hinting at my miscarriages, even though co-workers know, as a professional woman I guess. I don't want to be known for my uterus. And there's probably a lot of shame too. I don't want to be known for my failure. And I didn't even want to gesture toward my losses by sharing his status, even though it might help people. Yes I am part of the problem. I will say though, that my friend struggling with infertility felt really left out of the discussion; and I can tell you right now I'll bet those women I know who've suffered stillbirth will tell you there is no "safe" time to announce a pregnancy. I also wish miscarriages weren't only okay to talk about *after* you've had a healthy pregnancy. Like we have to hide it until/unless we have a child. I try to talk about mine relatively openly with good friends. But part of the reason some of us don't share isn't necessarily shame, it's pain. It's painful to talk about, and I want to wait to talk about it with people who will respond well. Too many people respond with the silence or shit like "everything happens for a reason."
Last thing. I told MFP today that I need "Coach" again. That attitude helped us when we were mourning another month of trying and failing to get pregnant. This is what I need to hear now: "We've got to keep our head in the game. We made it to the next round, doing exactly what we had been doing. Now the stakes are higher, and we gotta stay focused. Keep our eyes on the prize. Don't think about what might happen, stay focused on what's right in front of me and play it well. We're gonna rest. We're gonna take progesterone and vitamins. We're going to eat safe foods only. Keep your head in the game, in today's game, not in Monday's game." Let's go, team!
Tuesday, August 4, 2015
What doesn't kill you makes everything that much harder
Everything's OK. The male Dr. Special, who put me at ease, along with a kind-faced female resident, right away saw that this pregnancy is in the uterus and is right where it's supposed to be for this early stage--exactly five weeks today. A gestational sac, which we never saw with pregnancy #2. I liked how he was cautious and realistic. "So we're not dealing with infertility, and it's not ectopic. That's all we can see right now." Right. No, "you're going to have a baby." I love infertility doctors for this.
I wanted to cry with relief when it was over, even though I felt basically okay during it. I'm just so grateful. I have a shot, a shot at mothering a healthy baby. I have no assurance that this will happen, but I have a shot, and I don't have to go through the monthly cycle of disappointment right now. And I don't have to go through another loss right now at least. Right now, everything is healthy. On the right track.
In about a week and a half, we should see a heartbeat. So that will be nearly 7 weeks. I scheduled an ultrasound with my usual female Dr. Special. That feels like a long way away from today. August 17th. On that day, we'll see if there's a heartbeat. Which, of course, could stop at any time; which, of course, could still have severe and lethal abnormalities...I know too well all the things that could go wrong. Sometimes it seems shocking that the odds are actually in the favor of things going right. Considering all we know that can go wrong. I told MFP, we can look at this as an act of parenting. Getting through this anxiety and worry about all the things that can go wrong. Living with that knowledge but learning to feel safe enough anyway; trying to live the best lives we can in the knowledge of what can go wrong.
I read about a study that showed that most people think that miscarriage is far less common than it actually is; and they mostly don't know that it's almost always completely out of the mother's control. The world is living in a delusion; that's how they can see that "plus" sign and start planning for a baby. I feel sad today because I wish I could have that happiness, I wish I could enjoy that. I wish I could say "I'm pregnant" out loud, out of secrecy; I wish I could plan for maternity clothes, even for a baby. I feel sad that I know so intimately how little pregnant I actually am, how little I can count on good news. What doesn't kill you--terrible things--doesn't make you stronger. It makes you more anxious, more scared, less happy, less secure. I do think I've gained some things from our losses--what some call "post-traumatic growth." I am more aware of the grief people go through, and hopefully more sensitive to it. I am more sure I want to be a parent. I am more trusting that I can get through the difficulties of parenting. I am a dog parent--in the wake of miscarriage #1, we adopted Pupstein, the first dog ever for either of us, and an utterly fantastic decision. But I am also so much less trusting that good things will happen to me and my baby. I am less hopeful. I feel more separate from other women who have had healthy pregnancies. And that in itself is a huge loss.
I liked how the female resident asked about our previous miscarriages, how far along they were. I felt like a person with a story, even while being probed.
I got my first sonogram photo to take home. It doesn't show anything but a dot in my uterus. Could be empty. We don't know yet. It just shows me, gives me proof, that I am indeed pregnant. That today, it's indeed healthy. And for that I am tearfully grateful. Weeping with gratitude, that it wasn't the reverse; that we aren't still staring down infertility or an ectopic pregnancy. My goal to get through the next 13 days is to take care of myself as best I can. To do a lot of yoga, a lot of meditation, a lot of things I enjoy, maybe even some asking for help. But just to get through it.
I wanted to cry with relief when it was over, even though I felt basically okay during it. I'm just so grateful. I have a shot, a shot at mothering a healthy baby. I have no assurance that this will happen, but I have a shot, and I don't have to go through the monthly cycle of disappointment right now. And I don't have to go through another loss right now at least. Right now, everything is healthy. On the right track.
In about a week and a half, we should see a heartbeat. So that will be nearly 7 weeks. I scheduled an ultrasound with my usual female Dr. Special. That feels like a long way away from today. August 17th. On that day, we'll see if there's a heartbeat. Which, of course, could stop at any time; which, of course, could still have severe and lethal abnormalities...I know too well all the things that could go wrong. Sometimes it seems shocking that the odds are actually in the favor of things going right. Considering all we know that can go wrong. I told MFP, we can look at this as an act of parenting. Getting through this anxiety and worry about all the things that can go wrong. Living with that knowledge but learning to feel safe enough anyway; trying to live the best lives we can in the knowledge of what can go wrong.
I read about a study that showed that most people think that miscarriage is far less common than it actually is; and they mostly don't know that it's almost always completely out of the mother's control. The world is living in a delusion; that's how they can see that "plus" sign and start planning for a baby. I feel sad today because I wish I could have that happiness, I wish I could enjoy that. I wish I could say "I'm pregnant" out loud, out of secrecy; I wish I could plan for maternity clothes, even for a baby. I feel sad that I know so intimately how little pregnant I actually am, how little I can count on good news. What doesn't kill you--terrible things--doesn't make you stronger. It makes you more anxious, more scared, less happy, less secure. I do think I've gained some things from our losses--what some call "post-traumatic growth." I am more aware of the grief people go through, and hopefully more sensitive to it. I am more sure I want to be a parent. I am more trusting that I can get through the difficulties of parenting. I am a dog parent--in the wake of miscarriage #1, we adopted Pupstein, the first dog ever for either of us, and an utterly fantastic decision. But I am also so much less trusting that good things will happen to me and my baby. I am less hopeful. I feel more separate from other women who have had healthy pregnancies. And that in itself is a huge loss.
I liked how the female resident asked about our previous miscarriages, how far along they were. I felt like a person with a story, even while being probed.
I got my first sonogram photo to take home. It doesn't show anything but a dot in my uterus. Could be empty. We don't know yet. It just shows me, gives me proof, that I am indeed pregnant. That today, it's indeed healthy. And for that I am tearfully grateful. Weeping with gratitude, that it wasn't the reverse; that we aren't still staring down infertility or an ectopic pregnancy. My goal to get through the next 13 days is to take care of myself as best I can. To do a lot of yoga, a lot of meditation, a lot of things I enjoy, maybe even some asking for help. But just to get through it.
Monday, August 3, 2015
On edge
Reading another blogger's description of her pregnancy after losing her daughter was helpful today. This time is hard for every woman, but it's especially hard after losing pregnancies or a child. I watched an interview with Jeanine Tesori, co-winner of the Tony for best score of a musical for the mind-blowingly good "Fun Home" in which she said she's always BFF, "braced for failure." Yes indeed. I saw Dr. Special walking the halls of her office when I went to get blood taken today, and she asked how I was and I said "very good!" in front of a room full of people waiting at an infertility clinic. I am afraid of the "evil eye," of bad karma, bad juju, for seeming happy. Did I jinx this pregnancy? I realized that was insane. I took a bite of lox for breakfast before realizing that it, like a million other things, is not recommended for pregnant women. This waiting is so excruciating I fixate on the things that are in my control, the few tiny ways I can help or hinder.
I was relieved to learn other women have had weekly first trimester ultrasounds. I'm over 35 and have had two miscarriages, so I hope that makes me high risk enough. I want to know as soon as I can when something goes wrong. I remember when the nausea and breast tenderness faded with pregnancy #1; I just thought I was over the worst of it. Turns out, my body was in the initial stages of figuring out the embryo had fizzled. Like a dud firecracker. Sssssssss. We wondered aloud today, did that baby ever have a heartbeat? Maybe not. I hope not, in a way, so maybe I can believe that when we hear a heartbeat, if we do, we can actually feel hopeful. There was an op-ed by a woman who had 4 miscarriages in a year. When she heard a heartbeat during her successful pregnancy, she said she turned to her partner and said, "Is it too much too ask for this heart to keep beating for the next 80 years?" Knowing just how much that was to ask. A miracle.
I feel very angry today that last fall, Dr. Keep Trying's office did not order a blood test, ever, when I kept calling to say I was spotting. I never had a confirmed pregnancy that time, as Dr. Special said, because no one ever saw a gestational sac. I remember the day, at 6 weeks, I walked in, having had the full-on bright red bloody, cramping miscarriage the night before and having called the office to say this. Then we waited for an eternity, much longer than normal, in the waiting room, around all the visibly pregnant women and their babies. I just listened to the same song on repeat and cried onto MFP's shoulder. For 45 minutes. When a nurse finally greeted us in the exam room, supposedly holding my chart which she clearly hadn't read, she said, "So you're here for your first pregnancy appointment?" No, you fucking bitch. Fuckers. "No, I had a miscarriage yesterday and I called to tell you that and the nurse said to come in anyway." Then I remember after the D&C when the MALE (I only want female doctors, it's a personal thing) resident I had never even met, announced, me groggy from anasthesia, weepy, with MFP kept from me, that HE had in fact performed my surgery, despite me never having met him before, and he said, oh so memorably, "There wasn't much in there." Yes indeed, not much except my hopes and dreams. Except my fragile will to live at an incredibly difficult time in my life. Except what I fleetingly thought might be my baby, my chance at being a mother. Asshole. We were only doing the D&C, according to Dr. Keep Trying who didn't bother to show up because she was having some undisclosed health emergency due to her own, ultimately healthy pregnancy, in order to rule out an ectopic pregnancy, because my hcg numbers were inexplicably rising--miniscule though they were. I had only agreed to the procedure because I trusted her to perform it, to be there for me through it, instead of opting for methotrexate. And no one called me afterward to explain why the fuck she wasn't there. I worry about going back there if indeed I ever do make it to the second trimester. Is it responsible, given my experience?
But all that was then. This is today. A new pregnancy. 9 months later. No spotting. The promise of ultrasounds well before 9.5 weeks, the earliest I could get in with pregnancy #1. A blood test today. Lots of monitoring. It makes sense that all of those traumatic memories and emotions are coming up today, as I wait for the first blood test results. I wish I could just barely think about this, given that I'm barely pregnant--only 5 weeks today. Hardly at all. And yet it changes so much. I remember a coworker said once about her miscarriage, as soon as you find out you're pregnant, you start building a nest in your heart for that baby. Yes. I can't help it. Why try?
I grew up in a culture of prayer. I feel like fervently praying. But what will happen, will happen, no matter what I do. The sheer helplessness in the face of an all-powerful--and terrifying--creation. I can meditate on being present. Right now, nothing traumatic is happening. Right now, is a new and different day.
****
I heard from Dr. Special's office. My hCG number is 3,700+. The nurse said, "That's very good." I'll take it. For comparison, with pregnancy #2, the D&C was ordered when my numbers went up from like 104 to 112. Clearly not a healthy pregnancy, but something unhealthy was growing somewhere. Like something out of "Alien." Anyway. The nurse also asked if I could come in for an ultrasound tomorrow--I guess my numbers are now out of the blood test zone and into the ultrasound zone. She said that they won't be able to see a heartbeat, but we could at least confirm the pregnancy. See a gestational sac. With bells on! Even though Dr. Special is out of town, so I'll have to see a male doctor, one of the other doctors in the practice. A friend sees him, which is comforting. Just give me good news, and I'll forgive you for being a man holding a probe inside my vagina.
I asked how often I might get ultrasounds--not every week, but about every 10 days, the nurse said. I hope tomorrow I at least find out that this pregnancy is healthy so far, and not ectopic or something. And then, the next ultrasound, if all goes well, we would hopefully be able to see a heartbeat. I think I'm waiting for a heartbeat to tell anyone, even my closest friends. It would be our first heartbeat in three pregnancies. I just don't want anyone to start talking about the future, to start getting excited. MFP understands that we're right now still just happy to not be dealing with secondary infertility. Happy to not have to be sad for two days this month, as has been the pattern. I doubt any of my friends would understand that. That having hCG confirmed in my system has, for us, very little to do with having a baby.
I cried after I got off the phone, probably with relief. Also, maybe a part of me didn't really believe this pregnancy was real, until it was confirmed. By someone else. I did keep doubting that the pregnancy test was right. It was a relief to hear "the numbers are good" after all those weekly blood tests last fall when the numbers just wouldn't go down.
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hoping. Of course I am. I hope this is the one. The one that ends the "long time without a child, which was a great grief to me and cost me many prayers and tears until I obtained one."
I was just thinking, this must be so fucking awful for women dealing with infertility. To go through all of those invasive procedures, all of that monitoring, your partner involved too, and then to get to this stage--good god the anxiety. The difficulty of believing this must be so intense. I have a friend who is going through infertility right now, and we've been sharing stories of Dr. Special's office, and how hard it is seeing other people have kids. I thought about telling her at least once I got the confirmation of the blood test. After the gritty details we've each shared, she seems to warrant full disclosure. But now I might still wait like I'm waiting with my close friends--until the heartbeat.
Why am I even waiting? I even considered waiting to tell my therapist, who I see tomorrow. I've just been here too many times before. I want something concrete, something real first. But this is a hard time. I could use some support. I feel envious of women who have mothers to call at times like these...mothers they could trust to say the right thing. Or not, but who would be okay with hearing when it's not. I suppose that's rare. Maybe a lot of women, even women with good relationships with their moms, would wait to tell, to avoid the happy "it will be okay" excitement. MFP is not telling his parents yet.
I'm going to try to put the worrying and hyper vigilance in Dr. Special's office's hands. Me, I'm just going to try to soothe the bad memories and stay in the present. I hope I can concentrate on other things.
I was relieved to learn other women have had weekly first trimester ultrasounds. I'm over 35 and have had two miscarriages, so I hope that makes me high risk enough. I want to know as soon as I can when something goes wrong. I remember when the nausea and breast tenderness faded with pregnancy #1; I just thought I was over the worst of it. Turns out, my body was in the initial stages of figuring out the embryo had fizzled. Like a dud firecracker. Sssssssss. We wondered aloud today, did that baby ever have a heartbeat? Maybe not. I hope not, in a way, so maybe I can believe that when we hear a heartbeat, if we do, we can actually feel hopeful. There was an op-ed by a woman who had 4 miscarriages in a year. When she heard a heartbeat during her successful pregnancy, she said she turned to her partner and said, "Is it too much too ask for this heart to keep beating for the next 80 years?" Knowing just how much that was to ask. A miracle.
I feel very angry today that last fall, Dr. Keep Trying's office did not order a blood test, ever, when I kept calling to say I was spotting. I never had a confirmed pregnancy that time, as Dr. Special said, because no one ever saw a gestational sac. I remember the day, at 6 weeks, I walked in, having had the full-on bright red bloody, cramping miscarriage the night before and having called the office to say this. Then we waited for an eternity, much longer than normal, in the waiting room, around all the visibly pregnant women and their babies. I just listened to the same song on repeat and cried onto MFP's shoulder. For 45 minutes. When a nurse finally greeted us in the exam room, supposedly holding my chart which she clearly hadn't read, she said, "So you're here for your first pregnancy appointment?" No, you fucking bitch. Fuckers. "No, I had a miscarriage yesterday and I called to tell you that and the nurse said to come in anyway." Then I remember after the D&C when the MALE (I only want female doctors, it's a personal thing) resident I had never even met, announced, me groggy from anasthesia, weepy, with MFP kept from me, that HE had in fact performed my surgery, despite me never having met him before, and he said, oh so memorably, "There wasn't much in there." Yes indeed, not much except my hopes and dreams. Except my fragile will to live at an incredibly difficult time in my life. Except what I fleetingly thought might be my baby, my chance at being a mother. Asshole. We were only doing the D&C, according to Dr. Keep Trying who didn't bother to show up because she was having some undisclosed health emergency due to her own, ultimately healthy pregnancy, in order to rule out an ectopic pregnancy, because my hcg numbers were inexplicably rising--miniscule though they were. I had only agreed to the procedure because I trusted her to perform it, to be there for me through it, instead of opting for methotrexate. And no one called me afterward to explain why the fuck she wasn't there. I worry about going back there if indeed I ever do make it to the second trimester. Is it responsible, given my experience?
But all that was then. This is today. A new pregnancy. 9 months later. No spotting. The promise of ultrasounds well before 9.5 weeks, the earliest I could get in with pregnancy #1. A blood test today. Lots of monitoring. It makes sense that all of those traumatic memories and emotions are coming up today, as I wait for the first blood test results. I wish I could just barely think about this, given that I'm barely pregnant--only 5 weeks today. Hardly at all. And yet it changes so much. I remember a coworker said once about her miscarriage, as soon as you find out you're pregnant, you start building a nest in your heart for that baby. Yes. I can't help it. Why try?
I grew up in a culture of prayer. I feel like fervently praying. But what will happen, will happen, no matter what I do. The sheer helplessness in the face of an all-powerful--and terrifying--creation. I can meditate on being present. Right now, nothing traumatic is happening. Right now, is a new and different day.
****
I heard from Dr. Special's office. My hCG number is 3,700+. The nurse said, "That's very good." I'll take it. For comparison, with pregnancy #2, the D&C was ordered when my numbers went up from like 104 to 112. Clearly not a healthy pregnancy, but something unhealthy was growing somewhere. Like something out of "Alien." Anyway. The nurse also asked if I could come in for an ultrasound tomorrow--I guess my numbers are now out of the blood test zone and into the ultrasound zone. She said that they won't be able to see a heartbeat, but we could at least confirm the pregnancy. See a gestational sac. With bells on! Even though Dr. Special is out of town, so I'll have to see a male doctor, one of the other doctors in the practice. A friend sees him, which is comforting. Just give me good news, and I'll forgive you for being a man holding a probe inside my vagina.
I asked how often I might get ultrasounds--not every week, but about every 10 days, the nurse said. I hope tomorrow I at least find out that this pregnancy is healthy so far, and not ectopic or something. And then, the next ultrasound, if all goes well, we would hopefully be able to see a heartbeat. I think I'm waiting for a heartbeat to tell anyone, even my closest friends. It would be our first heartbeat in three pregnancies. I just don't want anyone to start talking about the future, to start getting excited. MFP understands that we're right now still just happy to not be dealing with secondary infertility. Happy to not have to be sad for two days this month, as has been the pattern. I doubt any of my friends would understand that. That having hCG confirmed in my system has, for us, very little to do with having a baby.
I cried after I got off the phone, probably with relief. Also, maybe a part of me didn't really believe this pregnancy was real, until it was confirmed. By someone else. I did keep doubting that the pregnancy test was right. It was a relief to hear "the numbers are good" after all those weekly blood tests last fall when the numbers just wouldn't go down.
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hoping. Of course I am. I hope this is the one. The one that ends the "long time without a child, which was a great grief to me and cost me many prayers and tears until I obtained one."
I was just thinking, this must be so fucking awful for women dealing with infertility. To go through all of those invasive procedures, all of that monitoring, your partner involved too, and then to get to this stage--good god the anxiety. The difficulty of believing this must be so intense. I have a friend who is going through infertility right now, and we've been sharing stories of Dr. Special's office, and how hard it is seeing other people have kids. I thought about telling her at least once I got the confirmation of the blood test. After the gritty details we've each shared, she seems to warrant full disclosure. But now I might still wait like I'm waiting with my close friends--until the heartbeat.
Why am I even waiting? I even considered waiting to tell my therapist, who I see tomorrow. I've just been here too many times before. I want something concrete, something real first. But this is a hard time. I could use some support. I feel envious of women who have mothers to call at times like these...mothers they could trust to say the right thing. Or not, but who would be okay with hearing when it's not. I suppose that's rare. Maybe a lot of women, even women with good relationships with their moms, would wait to tell, to avoid the happy "it will be okay" excitement. MFP is not telling his parents yet.
I'm going to try to put the worrying and hyper vigilance in Dr. Special's office's hands. Me, I'm just going to try to soothe the bad memories and stay in the present. I hope I can concentrate on other things.
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