Category: all the feelings

Is it time to move on?

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It’s a question I don’t really want to ask, but it may be time: Is it time to move on from my clinic? 

The stats:

  • “Unexplained” infertility, diagnosed in January 2015
  • Six total assisted cycles over two years
    • Four IUIs, resulting in two miscarriages (#2 and #4) and two failed attempted (#1 and #3)
    • Two failed IVF cycles
      • One fresh stim cycle
        • Resulting in five embryos for freezing
      • One double embryo FET
    • Two different “lead” doctors on my case

Not great, I hear ya. But here’s the thing: The support staff at my clinic warms my soul. I feel bonded, especially, to my IVF nurse, who I’ve written about before. She’s rooting for my success as much as I am, and that means a lot to me. She answers my questions and eases my concerns day, night, weekend, whatever. She’s in this.

Having said that, it’s counterproductive to throw money (not to mention time) at a place that, to date, hasn’t been successful getting me to my goal. Ultimately, that’s what matters most.

We will meet with the doctor later this month for a post-mortem on this failed cycle, after which, I feel like I will need to make the decision about moving on from this clinic. Dislike.

Why Leonard Cohen’s passing reminds me of infertility

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I’m a longtime fan of Leonard Cohen’s music, particularly his deeply emotional songwriting. I was first exposed to his haunting lyrics in college, and his impact has remained. Many of his songs hold a very special place in my heart because I find that they resonate with me no matter the stage in my life.

Following his passing late last week, especially on the tail of an otherwise emotionally fragile few days including the US presidential election and my own FET, I returned to two of my favorites.

“Hallelujah” is probably Cohen’s most popular song, and for good reason. I played this at my wedding. It is absolutely brilliant. In it, he speaks of both loss and understanding. Two themes those suffering from infertility often have to balance simultaneously. Like many of his songs, I often prefer “Hallelujah” sung by other artists (Jeff Buckley, perhaps most notably sang this beautifully, as did Rufus Wainwright). This week Kate McKinnon did a wonderfully simple tribute to both the brilliant songwriter, as well as Hillary Clinton.

“Anthem” is the other that hits me hard. Perla Batalla and Julie Christensen do my favorite rendition of this song; they exude the struggle, determination and hope that this song speaks to.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in

Thank you, Leonard Cohen, for giving us your beautiful music. You won’t be forgotten.

Anna and Elsa

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This week embryos Anna and Elsa take the stage. All eyes (and ultrasound wands) on them.

In the time since my first IVF’s failure, I’ve carefully considered when to do my next IVF and how many embryos would come along for the ride. These thoughts have never been far from my mind in the months that have passed. There wasn’t one reason that I decided to move forward with transferring two embryos, but I suppose that if I have to single something out it would be this: I’m tired of not being a mom. I’ve been through too much and have worked too hard. I’m tired. So, at this point, I can’t say in good consciousness, well, two is just too many at one time. It isn’t.

My FET cycle has been a bit bumpier than I anticipated. The estrogen has hit me hard. While physically I’m okay, emotionally I am basically a dumpster fire. I’m probably not what one might call the most emotionally sounds person off-meds, but the Estrace causes me to openly weep at the slightest hint of emotion. Sadness, sure. Also happiness, excitement, anger, pride… it’s been a fun few weeks.

The PIO is another fun, jabby adventure. This is my first time on PIO and I was more than a little surprised by the thickness of the needle. Since I do my own injections (my husband is petrified of one thing, and that thing happens to be needles), shoving that mammoth needle into my butt can prove to be a bit of a challenge. Thank goodness for large bathroom mirrors and reasonably steady hands.

Naturally, I’m rooting for Anna and Elsa. I’d like to think these two embryos have the same sass and spunk as the characters, helping them stick around.

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Settling into failure

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A few days have passed since we officially found out that our first IVF cycle was unsuccessful. My anger at the situation has tapered, although still rears its head in flashes. I’ve since settled into disappointment and a general feeling of being lost. Much of my last three-plus years has left me in a similar place, so, unfortunately its rather familiar. It’s hard to make sense of that sometimes — that this is my new normal — but I’ve begrudgingly accepted it.

There’s not much I can do right now but make myself reasonably comfortable in this lost space. We’ll meet with the doctor in two weeks to go over key learnings from my failed first cycle and then make a plan to move on. Financially I need to figure out what that will look like and how soon we can feasibly start round two with an FET.

I’ve run out of things to say when people who knew about the IVF ask how I am. I don’t have a new way to say, well, I’m kinda used to this. Or actually, sometimes my whole body hurts because I want a baby. Sometimes I’m really just going through the motions and maybe I always will be.

Even though I feel this way now, I’m cautiously optimistic to try again. Infertility is a complex web of emotions that demand to be felt. It’s lonely and scary. All-consuming. But I’ll keep doing it over and over again for the foreseeable future. I don’t have a choice, right?

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Image from The Refined Investor

When your heart keeps breaking

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Going into my first IVF cycle I didn’t understand just how high my hopes would be. I thought, as long as we come out of this stim cycle with frozen embryos, I’m good. And we did.

But I’m not good. I got my period several days ago and have been stewing ever since. I went through the stages of grief. Spotting is normal during implantation and this is only a little more than that… Then my period would all but stop and I’d feel relieved and silly that I overreacted. Then, hours later, more red.

Little 3AB didn’t stick around and that sucks. It really just sucks. I’m angry that for what I’ve put my body through over the last several weeks I don’t have much to show for it. I’m still waiting. How am I still waiting?!

How has this thing that happens for a majority of the population — often by accident — not happened for me after three and a half years of time, money and effort? I’m angry. I’m sad. I don’t understand it. I can’t understand it. I can’t let it go.

I’ll focus on the positive — a future Frozen Embryo Transfer (FET) — later. I’ll dust myself off and gather the pieces… later. For now my heart is broken again. It’s my new normal and I hate it.

Signs

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I’m kind of a superstitious person. Sometimes. Okay, much of the time. I don’t think I’ll break my mother’s back if I step on a crack in the sidewalk, but if I notice the crack I’ll probably avoid it.

My biggest source of superstition is numbers. Specifically dates. I hold a lot of significance in birth dates, death dates, milestones and the like. Before my husband and I were engaged, I’d talked him into committing to a specific wedding date — July 5th (happy anniversary, love!). My lucky number (and birth date) is seven, and his five. I also would have accepted May 7th as a wedding date, but in 2013, that fell on a Tuesday. Joining two significant numbers together into an important date of unity felt very special. I was not in love with getting married on the hottest day of the year in New York City, but some things were just more important.

Each time we’ve used medical intervention to conceive I’ve found that the expected due dates fell on the birthdays of very important people in my life. The first was my brother’s birthday. The second was my best friend’s (also the day before my aunt’s, who’d died the year earlier). I will never forget them. They’re tattooed on my soul.

When we arrived at the embryo transfer last week, I was on the look out for signs. The date that we’re expected to find out if 3AB “takes” will be during a significant week, but not the specific date. I wanted more of a connection.

I got it.

My embryologist, whom I’d met before but somehow never made the connection, shares a last name with my family. It’s the name of my mother, brother and stepfather. The moment that I read her name embroidered on her scrubs, I felt warm. I literally stopped her mid-sentence and told her she shared a named with my family and that that was such a wonderful gift to me on a day when I was feeling scared. This isn’t a very common name, particularly in the South.

I immediately perked up and held that warmth during the procedure.

My husband asked me after, while I was changing back into my clothes, why I hadn’t further explained the name significance to the embryologist. I knew I could fully form the words without crying. My stepfather died very suddenly five years ago. He was so important to me. I couldn’t say that out loud then, and at that moment I don’t think I would have wanted to. Because I didn’t feel sad when I saw her name and felt the connection – I felt happy. I felt like he was showing me that this was going to be okay. He swooped in with the support that he’d given me throughout my childhood and early adult life.

Thanks for the sign, Dad.

IVF: TWW

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Right now, there’s a blastocyst swimming around in my uterus looking for a cozy spot to park and grow. I picture it a little like Dory in Finding Nemo, actually, but I biologically know it doesn’t really swim. The embryo we transferred on Wednesday was a grade 3AB, which I’m told by the many, many trained professionals that have seen my anatomy in the last week, is great.

The transfer went smoothly and was not at all painful like my egg retrieval. Some discomfort and pressure with a very full bladder, but a cake-walk, relatively speaking. It took about 10 minutes from start to finish and was fascinating to watch on the ultrasound screen. On the grainy screen, my husband and I watched the entire process as my doctor put little 3AB in where he/she belongs.

Now, we wait…

I’m relieved to have the injections over, and certainly grateful for the end of the pain of my Dark Willow ovary. Every other time I’ve been in this TWW limbo has been me white-knuckling through the anxiety of the wait. And while I’m certainly eager to see if 3AB is successful, I feel mostly relief that I have my first IVF cycle behind me, regardless of the outcome. 3AB is in there now and I just have to keep it as safe as I can.

While 3AB swims around looking for that warm and inviting spot, Anna, Elsa, Olaf, Kristoff and Anakin are now on ice. We were able to freeze five embryos. Two more of good quality (two more 3ABs), and three more of good/fair that appeared likely to survive the freezing and thawing process. When I texted my sister-in-law  about this process, she sent me a gif from Frozen, and the embryo “names” were born. Its become an amusing inside joke, and one I’m sure I’ll repeat pretty regularly over the next few decades. I’ve denoted Anna and Elsa as the two superior embryos, only because they were frozen together, but I’m personally pulling for Olaf to make it to my uterus next time. If only because it will be endlessly funny to call him Olaf in utero.

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Visualizing the possible

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First, a fun fact*: An enzyme in pineapple could help an embryo implant into the uterus. I’ve been eating pineapple like it’s my job.

*I’m using “fact” quite liberally here. I mostly find this bit of information fascinating, and I happen to like pineapple (at least for now).

My acupuncturist recommended that I come in for a treatment 24 hours prior to my embryo transfer. As I lay down on the table, she explains the points she’ll hit to get my blood flowing well to my uterus in advance of tomorrow’s “big day.”

Before she leaves me with a dozen needles sticking out of various points on my legs, hands and tummy, she tells me to visualize what will happen tomorrow. Picture a perfect embryo entering a warm home and finding a nice, cozy spot to implant. If I’d thought about it too much, it might seem silly to picture this in my mind, but it certainly can’t hurt.

Then before she closes the door to the room, she says to picture what is to come in the months ahead. A healthy, growing bump; a happy mama to be. Visualize what I could look like in four, five months as the leaves turn. A Thanksgiving with a big, full belly (and lots of pie just for me… mmm… pie). Then picture laboring my child and holding him or her in my arms for the first time. The moment my husband sees his son or daughter. The hair color. The tiny but strong grip on my finger.

Imagining my child was very difficult for me to do. After three and a half years of waiting and two miscarriages, I don’t allow myself to picture a future with a baby with blonde hair (my husband’s) and green eyes (mine). It’s simply too painful to fathom that being real anymore.

As I lay there, I imagined my brain knocking down walls. I allowed myself to inch closer to visualizing this little person – half me, half my husband.

I left the room after my treatment very definitively wanting to take a picture tomorrow of me, my husband and our IVF nurse. If this is successful, I’ll hang that photo in the nursery in some months of the people that made my dreams come true.

If tomorrow doesn’t take, I’ll be glad to have a photo of us filled with hope for that little blondie with the green eyes, even if we have to wait longer.

An unlucky sisterhood

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I’ve found at times that it can be difficult to talk to other women about infertility who have never experienced it. They got pregnant quickly or easily. Perhaps accidentally. If you watch their faces as you tell your story of waiting, loss, pain and aching, you might see a small flash of relief that they didn’t have to experience what you do. I’d probably have it, too. It’s not hurtful to me because I completely get it.

Just as often their faces show compassion and genuine sadness for your story. They shake their heads in empathy. A lot of women I’ve spoken to choose their next words carefully, which I appreciate. If you haven’t been through this, please don’t tell me that everything happens for a reason or that we’re not given more than we can handle. You may believe those things, and that’s fine. But I don’t. Not now. Maybe I never did. It doesn’t mean I’ve lost faith; it just means that those words have little comfort for me, and many other women experiencing infertility.

Those of us in this unlucky sisterhood have been burned. I choose the word unlucky here merely to illustrate that there’s often no rhyme or reason for our infertility. I check out fine, as does my husband. I don’t necessarily think “luck” in the traditional sense of the word has anything to do with it; but here we are, together, maybe huddled in the corner of impending parenthood, trying to make sense of what we have to deal with.

In this sisterhood many of us are guarded and know the value of choosing our words carefully. We know that a positive pregnancy test can mean hold our breath during the entire first trimester. Our “I’m pregnant” is often followed by “I hope this sticks.” Unless you’ve said aloud or thought that phrase in context, you can’t really understand the gravity of it. Many couples will never know what it feels like to be both happy and completely unsure if that joy will change on a dime. What placing a bet of thousands of hard-earned dollars down of hormones and ultrasounds will get us. Going all-in to nurse an infant at 3am. To be a human pin cushion and relying on science to see our eyes or our spouses looking back at us from the safety of our cradling arms.

I recently had conversation with a fellow sister who told me of another who’d been rejected as a prenatal patient by an OB because she “wasn’t excited enough about her pregnancy.” In hearing this story, I was shocked that a doctor — an obstetrician, no less — could be so unfeeling toward a woman who’d had a tumultuous time even getting to the point of needing an OB. Clearly that would not have been a good patient-provider fit, but it hurts my heart that a fellow unlucky sister had to hear that from a professional.

The women that I know who are experiencing this with me are so strong, so fierce and so very deserving. I feel connected to this vast network of women that are every shape, size, color… I never wanted to join this unlucky sisterhood, but I’m here now, and sending support from the very bottom of my heart. We can do this.

“We need some light”

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I totally nerd out for musicals. I would stare in awe and stammer if I met Lin-Manuel Miranda more than I would George Clooney. Musicals have always made me happy, since I first fell in love with “Phantom of the Opera” when I was in seventh grade. While I’ve found all types of music resonates with me, I’ve always felt the closest connections to my own life and feelings through musical theatre.

When I saw “Next to Normal” last year it changed my life. The story follows a family coping with the mother’s bipolar diagnosis, through the highs of mania and the lows of depression. The music is so striking and so powerful. It hit me in the gut while reminding me that we’re not alone.

As the countdown is on to starting IVF (T minus four days), I’ve drawn strength from a few key lyrics in the show’s finale, “Light.” I’ve listened to the cast recording of this show ad nauseum, but have only listened to this song a handful of times because it makes me cry (this is not an unusual pattern for me — I regularly skip the last songs of “Rent,” “Hamilton” and “Les Miserables,” too, because the waterworks start). It feels applicable now, as I take this next step in trying to have a baby.

We need some light.
First of all, we need some light.
You can’t sit here in the dark.
And all alone, it’s a sorry sight.
It’s just you and me.
We’ll live, you’ll see.

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