OK, so I am still alive. The flight home was MUCH better then the flight down. There was barely any turbulence and I even lifted up the shade and peeked out the windows somewhere around the Carolina coast. After the plane touched down, I felt a little silly, as usual, for this crazy fear, but I still think our next vacation is still going to be something that we can drive to.
On Sunday, I am 16 weeks. Four months. I can’t believe it. If it weren’t for the fact that I feel pregnant, I would believe I made this all up I my own head. My pants are really tight; tight enough to cause pain when I sit down. And I can’t really sleep on my stomach anymore. I try to, because I absolutely hate sleeping on my side, even with pillows, but it just feels too uncomfortable. It hurts like it does when you eat too much food. My stomach feels hard, and while I can’t exactly feel where my uterus begins and ends (shouldn’t I be able to do this by now?) it seems like it is way over my belly button. I get up every hour and a half to pee so a good night’s sleep is just a fond memory at this point. Bleeding gums. Voracious appetite. Heartburn every now and then. Weight gain. And, last but not least, I have pain in my back, and after ruling out kidney infection, and assuming this was a sign of impending m/c (this almost sent me to the hospital while on vacation), I settled on it just being another pregnancy ailment.
Now that I am safe on the ground, my thoughts return to Constant Fear About Unborn Babies. I am still worried about a m/c. Or is it stillbirth at this point? I know that the chances of this happening drop after the first trimester, but I am still fuzzy on when the second trimester begins. Some say at 13 weeks, other say at 14 weeks. My last ob/gyn appointment was at 13w1d, and at that point everything appeared to be okay. (Though one heart rate looked a little slow, but my doctor says it “seems fine.”)
Needless to say, my next appointment is scary to me, because it is officially full-on in the second trimester and it has been three weeks since my last peek inside. But who am I kidding? I can concoct a reason to fear each appointment on this (hopefully) 40-week track of hurdles. I will still check my toilet paper for blood. I will stil hyper-analyze every twinge. I will still spend most of my awake hours googling for answers to questions that I haven't even formulated yet.
So five more sleeps (ha) till my next ob/gyn appointment and just less than two weeks till the all-important Level II ultrasound, where we will find out if these babies are looking healthy. And if there are still two, if any, babies.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Bumpy Ride
I made it…but it was rough. It was one of the roughest flights I have ever been on. It started with the pilot telling us there was a “maintenance issue” and that we would be airborne soon. That, of course, was enough o scare me into not staying on this flight. I made Nicole check with the flight attendant about turbulence (can you believe this?) and he assured her that the pilot would find a smooth spot for the ride down. Not quite. The turbulence started almost right away and didn’t end till we touched down in torrential rain in tornado-ridden, storm-riddled Florida.
I feel awful because I took an Ambien (on an empty stomach…one of the first times in my pregnancy that I haven’t felt ravenous) to help me relax. (But I will try Sophia’s suggestions for the trip back.) My doctor said it was okay for an emergency situation like this, but not to do it more than once or twice this pregnancy. I realize that another doctor might say something entirely different. Nicole researched it online and determined it was acceptable to take during pregnancy, but not regularly. Even still, I felt awful that I was subjecting these unborn babies to the Ambien-induced amnesia, craziness and lethargy and am haunted by the fact that there is maybe a tiny possibility that I took it at such a critical time that it causes damages to the babies. If the are still alive in there. Yet it seems like the stress I was under was worse than anything Ambien can do.
Seven long days till my next doctor appointment. It seems like forever away. We are going back to Northampton for New Year’s Eve, like we did last year and staying at the Northampton Inn, just like last year. And just like last year, I am pregnant. I was six weeks then, and already I was feeling ectopic pains. I remember hobbling around the hotel room, complaining about this pressure I felt that we chalked up to pregnancy. I was having difficulties sitting down and getting up, but we chalked it up to pregnancy pains as well. Now I look at that hotel and remember all that. Nicole thinks going there will create new and better memories. I hope she’s right. But I wonder…this pregnancy is filled with (pardon the bad analogy) its own turbulence. And sometimes I feel too distracted and too on edge to create new memories.
But first, I need to make it on the flight back to New York City on Friday…
I feel awful because I took an Ambien (on an empty stomach…one of the first times in my pregnancy that I haven’t felt ravenous) to help me relax. (But I will try Sophia’s suggestions for the trip back.) My doctor said it was okay for an emergency situation like this, but not to do it more than once or twice this pregnancy. I realize that another doctor might say something entirely different. Nicole researched it online and determined it was acceptable to take during pregnancy, but not regularly. Even still, I felt awful that I was subjecting these unborn babies to the Ambien-induced amnesia, craziness and lethargy and am haunted by the fact that there is maybe a tiny possibility that I took it at such a critical time that it causes damages to the babies. If the are still alive in there. Yet it seems like the stress I was under was worse than anything Ambien can do.
Seven long days till my next doctor appointment. It seems like forever away. We are going back to Northampton for New Year’s Eve, like we did last year and staying at the Northampton Inn, just like last year. And just like last year, I am pregnant. I was six weeks then, and already I was feeling ectopic pains. I remember hobbling around the hotel room, complaining about this pressure I felt that we chalked up to pregnancy. I was having difficulties sitting down and getting up, but we chalked it up to pregnancy pains as well. Now I look at that hotel and remember all that. Nicole thinks going there will create new and better memories. I hope she’s right. But I wonder…this pregnancy is filled with (pardon the bad analogy) its own turbulence. And sometimes I feel too distracted and too on edge to create new memories.
But first, I need to make it on the flight back to New York City on Friday…
Sunday, December 24, 2006
It's All About Me
For the first time, I am not worried about the babies at all. I am worried about me.
I don’t know where this came from, but I have developed a ridiculous, insane fear of flying. Not the garden variety fear, but the full-on pre-flight breakdown, cry during turbulence, what-was-that-noise? variety. Where this came from, I don’t know. Maybe a little 9.11. Maybe just getting older. Maybe it is a control-freak thing. All I know is not five years ago, I flew halfway across the world on my own to join Nicole on a business trip with absolutely no issues. I used to look forward to flying. I’d fly anywhere, with a little trepidation, perhaps, but in general, very content, with my books, magazines, music, and computer to entertain me between bad airline food and trips to the bathroom, where I would wonder if was really true that some woman had her intestines sucked out because she flushed the toilet while sitting on it.
This fear is compounded by the fact that there appears to be a very large storm across Florida and said storm doesn’t appear to be going anywhere. There are thunderstorms and rain expected, which will make for a bumpy ride, I’m afraid. And we all know that weather is unpredictable. So this storm can take a bad turn while we are in it, perhaps. Part of me has actually considered just not going.
And the worst part is I can’t really take anything to take the edge off. During recent flights I have anesthetized myself with ambien or xanax. That really helped to take the edge off (by putting me to sleep!). Now I can take a Benadryl, and I feel guilty even doing that. Maybe I will stay up all night tonight so I will just sleep on the plane.
At least we had a nice day. We had our traditional Christmas Eve lunch at Tea & Sympathy. Then went to my brother’s house for dinner. Dinner was lovely, but sickness was in the air. My niece threw up three times and my nephew appears to have ringworm. My brother told Leif that means he has a little snake in his head and now little Leif is worried about that. (“Where are its eyes?” he asked) So on top of this flying/fear thing, I am googling ringworm and comptemplating my chances of getting whatever awful virus that Skye has, and wondering what long-term psychological damage Leif will suffer from in thinking there are snakes in his head.
Off to bed…so much for staying up all night and sleeping on the plane.
I don’t know where this came from, but I have developed a ridiculous, insane fear of flying. Not the garden variety fear, but the full-on pre-flight breakdown, cry during turbulence, what-was-that-noise? variety. Where this came from, I don’t know. Maybe a little 9.11. Maybe just getting older. Maybe it is a control-freak thing. All I know is not five years ago, I flew halfway across the world on my own to join Nicole on a business trip with absolutely no issues. I used to look forward to flying. I’d fly anywhere, with a little trepidation, perhaps, but in general, very content, with my books, magazines, music, and computer to entertain me between bad airline food and trips to the bathroom, where I would wonder if was really true that some woman had her intestines sucked out because she flushed the toilet while sitting on it.
This fear is compounded by the fact that there appears to be a very large storm across Florida and said storm doesn’t appear to be going anywhere. There are thunderstorms and rain expected, which will make for a bumpy ride, I’m afraid. And we all know that weather is unpredictable. So this storm can take a bad turn while we are in it, perhaps. Part of me has actually considered just not going.
And the worst part is I can’t really take anything to take the edge off. During recent flights I have anesthetized myself with ambien or xanax. That really helped to take the edge off (by putting me to sleep!). Now I can take a Benadryl, and I feel guilty even doing that. Maybe I will stay up all night tonight so I will just sleep on the plane.
At least we had a nice day. We had our traditional Christmas Eve lunch at Tea & Sympathy. Then went to my brother’s house for dinner. Dinner was lovely, but sickness was in the air. My niece threw up three times and my nephew appears to have ringworm. My brother told Leif that means he has a little snake in his head and now little Leif is worried about that. (“Where are its eyes?” he asked) So on top of this flying/fear thing, I am googling ringworm and comptemplating my chances of getting whatever awful virus that Skye has, and wondering what long-term psychological damage Leif will suffer from in thinking there are snakes in his head.
Off to bed…so much for staying up all night and sleeping on the plane.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
2006…The Year That Was
My own little breakdown of one of the not-so-good years of my life:
January: Started out pregnant, but quickly slid into Miscarriage No. 2. Had a D&C mid-month. The doctor also turned up some precancerous cells on my cervix, so I had to have a biopsy (luckily, negative).
February: Excruciating pain finally convinces my doctor (who is, for obvious reason, no longer my doctor) to do a few tests and Baby No. 2…the twin to the last pregnancy…is found in my tube. Three months after conception. Not a good day.
March: Cycle returns, but take the month off. Discuss future options; decide on IVF.
April: IVF No. 1. Full of optimism and hope! 3 blasts transferred; chemical pregnancy.
May: Waiting for my cycle to return….Pass due date of Baby No. 1. Misery.
June: IVF No. 2! Full of optimism and hope! 4 blasts transferred; BFN.
July: The Dark Days. Turn 34. Wait for cycle to return. Switch RE practices. Decide that I will be a stay-at-home girlfriend and concentrate on getting pregnant only (not too much pressure…)
August: Start Pill to regulate my cycle.
September: Pass due date for Babies 2&3. More misery. IVF No. 3. Filled with pessimism and dismay. Unbelievably, BFP.
October: The month of weekly sonograms/hurdles
November: More sonograms/hurdles…and release to OB.
December: And here we are. Cautiously optimistic. I was pregnant last December, too. And we know how that turned out.
January: Started out pregnant, but quickly slid into Miscarriage No. 2. Had a D&C mid-month. The doctor also turned up some precancerous cells on my cervix, so I had to have a biopsy (luckily, negative).
February: Excruciating pain finally convinces my doctor (who is, for obvious reason, no longer my doctor) to do a few tests and Baby No. 2…the twin to the last pregnancy…is found in my tube. Three months after conception. Not a good day.
March: Cycle returns, but take the month off. Discuss future options; decide on IVF.
April: IVF No. 1. Full of optimism and hope! 3 blasts transferred; chemical pregnancy.
May: Waiting for my cycle to return….Pass due date of Baby No. 1. Misery.
June: IVF No. 2! Full of optimism and hope! 4 blasts transferred; BFN.
July: The Dark Days. Turn 34. Wait for cycle to return. Switch RE practices. Decide that I will be a stay-at-home girlfriend and concentrate on getting pregnant only (not too much pressure…)
August: Start Pill to regulate my cycle.
September: Pass due date for Babies 2&3. More misery. IVF No. 3. Filled with pessimism and dismay. Unbelievably, BFP.
October: The month of weekly sonograms/hurdles
November: More sonograms/hurdles…and release to OB.
December: And here we are. Cautiously optimistic. I was pregnant last December, too. And we know how that turned out.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Teacup and Sympathy
This morning, Nicole and I went downtown to The Pink Teacup for breakfast. We debated going, since I was so tired, as usual, and couldn’t imagine hauling myself all the way down there, even though they have the best scrambled eggs and home fries in the city. But we did.
Part of the charm of the Teacup—and its downfall, perhaps—is that fact that it is very small. The tables are tiny and stacked right on top of each other. You are sitting elbow-to-elbow with complete strangers. Not nearly as bad as Tea and Sympathy—another favorite haunt—but cramped just the same. If you have to sit on the inside row of chairs, you need to suck your stomach in to prevent yourself from knocking over your new neighbor’s coffee cup or orange juice as you oh-so-delicately tuck yourself into your seat.
This morning, the Teacup was busy and seating options for us were limited. There were a couple of tables available, and for some reason, I chose a table right up front, despite the fact that I don’t really like to sit near the door. Nicole kept pushing for the back table, but I insisted on the front one. Then came the tricky part: Now that I am beginning to feel bigger, I am a little apprehensive about putting myself into tight places. Nicole hates squeezing in more than I do, so I figured I might as well take off my coat and suck in my stomach and wedge myself into the seat.
I made some comment about my stomach and tight jeans to Nicole and the woman seated at the table next to us, reading her paper and eating her eggs and grits, asked me how far along I was. Now this took me aback: I am a pretty forward and open person, but I am not one to insinuate myself into other’s conversations nor am I one to boldly ask someone how many weeks they are. How could she know I was pregnant? I could just be gaining weight. This made me feel warm and fuzzy for a minute because I imagined that maybe just maybe I looked pregnant and not fat (which is how I feel).
I told her (14 weeks today), and a whole conversation ensued. So much for the newspaper we brought to peruse! Turns out this woman was a labor and delivery nurse for 30 years. She had lots of good advice and reassuring words for a paranoid pregnant person such as myself. After rattling off another list of complaints, I told her that I was grateful to be feeling all of this, as it has been a long and rocky road and it took a lot to get here. I told her I had the miscarriages and the ectopic and that I knew I was lucky and shouldn’t complain.
She got it. She didn’t brush it aside, or ignore it or gloss over it. I told her how in my journal that I am diligently trying to keep, I couldn’t fill in the blank for the line that said “Is this your first baby?” I couldn’t write it was my first and second, because they aren't. But I couldn’t handle writing it was my fourth and fifth because it is too sad. I don’t like to touch grief.
She told a sad story of how she had to bury her first child, a son. She had tears in her eyes as she explained how she finally came to peace with it. She said when he died, she buried him and all of the feeling about him and this tragedy with him. It took her decades to (metaphorically) unbury him and deal with the feelings and emotions. She reminded me that we all go through such challenges, and come through to the other side, even if it takes us 20 years.
With that, all of us with tears in our eyes, she got her stuff together to leave. Before she left, she leaned over to give me a hug (and a kiss on my neck and shoulder, which made me a tad uncomfortable, though I knew she meant nothing untoward as she asked earlier if Nicole was my girlfriend!). And then she was off into the unseasonally warm winter's day.
At this point, Nicole was upset in her stoic little way. She couldn’t finish her breakfast because she was upset and her eggs were too runny. (I finished the potatoes, though). It was just such a surreal experience. Nicole said that it was clear that I was drawn to that table and that seat next to her. And it’s kinda true, since there were other better seating options. It’s like we were fated to meet this woman. And to hear her story, and for her to hear ours. To remember that we all go through unspeakable horrors that we hide from the world day-to-day. And to remember that we are so lucky to have these two babies. And not to forget those who we lost.
Part of the charm of the Teacup—and its downfall, perhaps—is that fact that it is very small. The tables are tiny and stacked right on top of each other. You are sitting elbow-to-elbow with complete strangers. Not nearly as bad as Tea and Sympathy—another favorite haunt—but cramped just the same. If you have to sit on the inside row of chairs, you need to suck your stomach in to prevent yourself from knocking over your new neighbor’s coffee cup or orange juice as you oh-so-delicately tuck yourself into your seat.
This morning, the Teacup was busy and seating options for us were limited. There were a couple of tables available, and for some reason, I chose a table right up front, despite the fact that I don’t really like to sit near the door. Nicole kept pushing for the back table, but I insisted on the front one. Then came the tricky part: Now that I am beginning to feel bigger, I am a little apprehensive about putting myself into tight places. Nicole hates squeezing in more than I do, so I figured I might as well take off my coat and suck in my stomach and wedge myself into the seat.
I made some comment about my stomach and tight jeans to Nicole and the woman seated at the table next to us, reading her paper and eating her eggs and grits, asked me how far along I was. Now this took me aback: I am a pretty forward and open person, but I am not one to insinuate myself into other’s conversations nor am I one to boldly ask someone how many weeks they are. How could she know I was pregnant? I could just be gaining weight. This made me feel warm and fuzzy for a minute because I imagined that maybe just maybe I looked pregnant and not fat (which is how I feel).
I told her (14 weeks today), and a whole conversation ensued. So much for the newspaper we brought to peruse! Turns out this woman was a labor and delivery nurse for 30 years. She had lots of good advice and reassuring words for a paranoid pregnant person such as myself. After rattling off another list of complaints, I told her that I was grateful to be feeling all of this, as it has been a long and rocky road and it took a lot to get here. I told her I had the miscarriages and the ectopic and that I knew I was lucky and shouldn’t complain.
She got it. She didn’t brush it aside, or ignore it or gloss over it. I told her how in my journal that I am diligently trying to keep, I couldn’t fill in the blank for the line that said “Is this your first baby?” I couldn’t write it was my first and second, because they aren't. But I couldn’t handle writing it was my fourth and fifth because it is too sad. I don’t like to touch grief.
She told a sad story of how she had to bury her first child, a son. She had tears in her eyes as she explained how she finally came to peace with it. She said when he died, she buried him and all of the feeling about him and this tragedy with him. It took her decades to (metaphorically) unbury him and deal with the feelings and emotions. She reminded me that we all go through such challenges, and come through to the other side, even if it takes us 20 years.
With that, all of us with tears in our eyes, she got her stuff together to leave. Before she left, she leaned over to give me a hug (and a kiss on my neck and shoulder, which made me a tad uncomfortable, though I knew she meant nothing untoward as she asked earlier if Nicole was my girlfriend!). And then she was off into the unseasonally warm winter's day.
At this point, Nicole was upset in her stoic little way. She couldn’t finish her breakfast because she was upset and her eggs were too runny. (I finished the potatoes, though). It was just such a surreal experience. Nicole said that it was clear that I was drawn to that table and that seat next to her. And it’s kinda true, since there were other better seating options. It’s like we were fated to meet this woman. And to hear her story, and for her to hear ours. To remember that we all go through unspeakable horrors that we hide from the world day-to-day. And to remember that we are so lucky to have these two babies. And not to forget those who we lost.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Life is Butter Dream
My nephew is now interpreting lyrics. Leif was belting out at the top of his little lungs “Row Row Row Your Boat” as we walked to the food store to buy him strawberry ice cream for dessert, much to the delight/annoyance of onlookers (the singing also involved a special dance-walk that I think Leif choreographed himself). The sugar anticipation got him in a singing/dancing/chereographing kind of mood. Bt when he got to the end, he just repeated that sweetly-mangled refrain over and over again, in this bizarre little barbershop-quartet-esque voice. It was very cute. But after hearing “Life is butter dream” for the fifth time, I wondered if there was some sort of message in his little song. Perhaps even a double entendre? I’m sure I could take this to existential dimensions, but right now I am too tired to do that.
Today I felt an teensy bit pregnant because my stomach is distended in a not-very-flattering way. I still think it is my constant need to eat (and then eating with wild abandon) that is causing this change. Where does fat end and pregnancy begin?
And I also experienced a moment of pregnancy excitement today when I saw a woman at Borders with a small stack of pregnancy books. I wanted to rush up to her and say “That’s me, too!” and swap war stories (assuming she has one, which chances are she doesn’t) and ask all sorts of Exclusive Pregnant Society questions that I now so amazingly have a right to ask. Is she worried that her baby is dead too? Probably not. Is she concerned that even if she does go full term that the baby will be still born? Doubt it. even after the baby is born and appears healthy, is she worried that some chromosomal abnormality will manifest itself a year down the road? My morbid mutterings might likely cause her to call over a manger and get me barred from the store. Bottom line is I still feel like I don’t fit in with the Exclusive Pregnant Society, and maybe I never will.
This is only the beginning of my pregnancy woes, but I feel like I don’t have the right to complain. This is what I wanted; and I am so grateful to be here. But there is only so much gratefulness I can exude when my clothes are uncomfortably tight, I am exhausted beyond belief, and the nausea that I though was supposed to go away a couple of weeks ago still lingers, and sometimes with a vengeance, and I am constantly worried about the well-being of these tiny beings.
And I am dizzy. At least I have an excuse: low blood pressure. Make that extremely low blood pressure. My blood pressure measured at 80/50 for the second appointment in a row. At first, I thought this was something to be proud of: My faulty logic was high blood pressure is bad, so the lower the blood pressure, the better. Not so. My doctor says that I don’t have to worry unless I am symptomatic. I felt fast relief, as I am not suffering from anything other than typical pregnancy ailments. But I asked her just to be safe what symptoms could she possible mean? Dizzy? Check. Blackouts? Check. Cold? Check check check. Did I mention I also run into walls and even lose my balance while I am sitting sometimes? Turns out I am symptomatic. What does this mean right now? Nothing. Another thing we are going to “keep an eye on.” When do all of these things we are Keeping An Eye On become Something To Be Concerned About?
Today, my body reminded me that it was in charge (most definitely a benevolent dictator). It wanted salt and vinegar chips, so I got them. I think my body craved it because it knew it had to bring up my blood pressure to something on the other end of the near-coma scale and it figured salt was the way to go. I steadily ate through most of the bag (the big bag, not the snack-size, .99 cents bag), even though there were clear “Stop! Enough!” signals being sent to my brain. I even tried to show moderation: I ate one bowlful at a time, making the trek into the kitchen to replenish the bowl instead of just eating it out of the bag (my first instinct). Yet I finished three bowls, which equates to let’s just say a lot of the bag. The result is more nausea and queasiness and a general feeling of yuck. I felt too sick to eat anything else all day, which only made things worse. Hopefully, the babies were able to live off my various fat stores today. At night, I toyed with the idea of making a Billy’s Cupcake run for a dozen delicious cupcakes and a slice of Icebox Cake (more healthy foods). But in the battle of hunger/cravings vs. lethargy, lethargy always wins. I haven’t ruled out a morning run, though.
Right now the babies are about the size of a sign language “C”, which, conveniently, is formed by forming your thumb and pointer finger into the letter “C”. It’s a nice, rounded curve with the fingers (about three inches), not a wide, stretched-out version. I find it hard to believe—almost impossible—that there are two of these little babies inside of me, with hearts beating and teeth forming and intestines pushing through umbilical cords to their tiny tummies. Thinking about it too much almost hurts because I am convinced it will all be taken away from me. As much as you protect yourself and swear that you are not going to get attached, you do. Let’s face it, I fell in love with the embryo picture. It was all downhill from there.
Today I felt an teensy bit pregnant because my stomach is distended in a not-very-flattering way. I still think it is my constant need to eat (and then eating with wild abandon) that is causing this change. Where does fat end and pregnancy begin?
And I also experienced a moment of pregnancy excitement today when I saw a woman at Borders with a small stack of pregnancy books. I wanted to rush up to her and say “That’s me, too!” and swap war stories (assuming she has one, which chances are she doesn’t) and ask all sorts of Exclusive Pregnant Society questions that I now so amazingly have a right to ask. Is she worried that her baby is dead too? Probably not. Is she concerned that even if she does go full term that the baby will be still born? Doubt it. even after the baby is born and appears healthy, is she worried that some chromosomal abnormality will manifest itself a year down the road? My morbid mutterings might likely cause her to call over a manger and get me barred from the store. Bottom line is I still feel like I don’t fit in with the Exclusive Pregnant Society, and maybe I never will.
This is only the beginning of my pregnancy woes, but I feel like I don’t have the right to complain. This is what I wanted; and I am so grateful to be here. But there is only so much gratefulness I can exude when my clothes are uncomfortably tight, I am exhausted beyond belief, and the nausea that I though was supposed to go away a couple of weeks ago still lingers, and sometimes with a vengeance, and I am constantly worried about the well-being of these tiny beings.
And I am dizzy. At least I have an excuse: low blood pressure. Make that extremely low blood pressure. My blood pressure measured at 80/50 for the second appointment in a row. At first, I thought this was something to be proud of: My faulty logic was high blood pressure is bad, so the lower the blood pressure, the better. Not so. My doctor says that I don’t have to worry unless I am symptomatic. I felt fast relief, as I am not suffering from anything other than typical pregnancy ailments. But I asked her just to be safe what symptoms could she possible mean? Dizzy? Check. Blackouts? Check. Cold? Check check check. Did I mention I also run into walls and even lose my balance while I am sitting sometimes? Turns out I am symptomatic. What does this mean right now? Nothing. Another thing we are going to “keep an eye on.” When do all of these things we are Keeping An Eye On become Something To Be Concerned About?
Today, my body reminded me that it was in charge (most definitely a benevolent dictator). It wanted salt and vinegar chips, so I got them. I think my body craved it because it knew it had to bring up my blood pressure to something on the other end of the near-coma scale and it figured salt was the way to go. I steadily ate through most of the bag (the big bag, not the snack-size, .99 cents bag), even though there were clear “Stop! Enough!” signals being sent to my brain. I even tried to show moderation: I ate one bowlful at a time, making the trek into the kitchen to replenish the bowl instead of just eating it out of the bag (my first instinct). Yet I finished three bowls, which equates to let’s just say a lot of the bag. The result is more nausea and queasiness and a general feeling of yuck. I felt too sick to eat anything else all day, which only made things worse. Hopefully, the babies were able to live off my various fat stores today. At night, I toyed with the idea of making a Billy’s Cupcake run for a dozen delicious cupcakes and a slice of Icebox Cake (more healthy foods). But in the battle of hunger/cravings vs. lethargy, lethargy always wins. I haven’t ruled out a morning run, though.
Right now the babies are about the size of a sign language “C”, which, conveniently, is formed by forming your thumb and pointer finger into the letter “C”. It’s a nice, rounded curve with the fingers (about three inches), not a wide, stretched-out version. I find it hard to believe—almost impossible—that there are two of these little babies inside of me, with hearts beating and teeth forming and intestines pushing through umbilical cords to their tiny tummies. Thinking about it too much almost hurts because I am convinced it will all be taken away from me. As much as you protect yourself and swear that you are not going to get attached, you do. Let’s face it, I fell in love with the embryo picture. It was all downhill from there.
Stolen from Another Blog
This was too good to ignore. I'd post the link only, but I think this is wrth repeating. (Here's the link: http://survivingttc.wordpress.com/)
The difference between fertile women and women who struggle to conceive:
Faint line at 11dpo
Fertile Woman: “I’m pregnant!” (tells friends, family and sticks a pregnancy ticker in her emails)
IF Woman: “It’s probably a false positive….”
Strong line at 15dpo
Fertile Woman: Picking names…
IF Woman: “I’m not pregnant until its official with a beta”
Beta #1 comes back great
Fertile Woman: “I’m sure its twins”
IF Woman: “I won’t consider myself pregnant until I see a doubling beta”
Beta doubles
Fertile Woman: Starts working on designs for the nursery
IF Woman: “I won’t consider myself pregnant until I see a heartbeat”
Heartbeat
Fertile Woman: Starts shopping for martenity clothes…
IF Woman: “I won’t consider myself pregnant until I’m past the first trimester…”
End of First Trimester
Fertile Woman: “I can’t wait to know boy or girl already!”
IF Woman: “I won’t breathe a sigh of relief until my amnio comes back OK….”
End of Second Trimester
Fertile Woman: Has a baby shower
IF Woman: “I won’t breathe a sigh of relief till I’m clear for gestetional diabetes and Rh antibodies…”
Third Trimester
Fertile Woman: “Pregnancy sucks. I can’t wait till he/she is here already”
IF Woman: “Wow.. I actually may be pregnant..!”
Birth of the baby
Fertile Woman: “We have a baby!”
IF Woman: “We have a miracle!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
The difference between fertile women and women who struggle to conceive:
Faint line at 11dpo
Fertile Woman: “I’m pregnant!” (tells friends, family and sticks a pregnancy ticker in her emails)
IF Woman: “It’s probably a false positive….”
Strong line at 15dpo
Fertile Woman: Picking names…
IF Woman: “I’m not pregnant until its official with a beta”
Beta #1 comes back great
Fertile Woman: “I’m sure its twins”
IF Woman: “I won’t consider myself pregnant until I see a doubling beta”
Beta doubles
Fertile Woman: Starts working on designs for the nursery
IF Woman: “I won’t consider myself pregnant until I see a heartbeat”
Heartbeat
Fertile Woman: Starts shopping for martenity clothes…
IF Woman: “I won’t consider myself pregnant until I’m past the first trimester…”
End of First Trimester
Fertile Woman: “I can’t wait to know boy or girl already!”
IF Woman: “I won’t breathe a sigh of relief until my amnio comes back OK….”
End of Second Trimester
Fertile Woman: Has a baby shower
IF Woman: “I won’t breathe a sigh of relief till I’m clear for gestetional diabetes and Rh antibodies…”
Third Trimester
Fertile Woman: “Pregnancy sucks. I can’t wait till he/she is here already”
IF Woman: “Wow.. I actually may be pregnant..!”
Birth of the baby
Fertile Woman: “We have a baby!”
IF Woman: “We have a miracle!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Monday, December 11, 2006
The Sobering Part
I forgot this, but how could I? Nicole’s mother and niece spent the night with us on Sunday, so they were our Special Guests at today’s early morning appointment. As Nicole and I were in the tiny room with the doctor setting up for the sonogram, Nicole asked if it was ok if her mom and niece came in to see too. “Of course,” the friendliest doctor in the universe replied. “But let’s make sure everything is ok before they come in.” See? Maybe it isn’t so crazy to think that awful things might happen at anytime.
It’s a Good Day...But a Long Month
They are still there, kicking their very tiny limbs, with very tiny pumping hearts. Nicole was there to witness this miracle. It is such a feeling of relief to see that they are still alive.
In other news, my cervix is nice and long, which apparently is a good thing. We need it to stay as long as possible for as long as possible. This will help ensure we avoid delivering way too early. I also asked my doctor if it is normal to think that the babies are gone in between all appointments. She smiled and said yes, though I think she was indulging me. After all, very few of my friends have admitted to this fear. Maybe they are putting up a brave front. Maybe they don’t Google as much as I do. Maybe they just don’t realize that there are a million things that can go wrong. Life gets complex (unbearable) when you keep looking up for a storm cloud. I’m trying to look for the sun breaking through, but that is so very hard.
Next appointment is 23 days away. 23. I don’t know how I can wait that long without dipping back into the well of fear. That week is also when we do Part 2 of the nuchal blood work. And 9 very l-o-n-g days after that is the anatomy screen. And that is when we will find out whether we have boys or girls or one of each and if they are developing properly. And we will get to watch the twins on the fancy Level 2 Ultrasound screen for almost a full hour. Must-see TV for us.
I’d like to think that the upcoming holidays will be a nice distraction from all this worry and fret, but I know myself better than that. It’s going to be an interminable 23/32 days.
In other news, my cervix is nice and long, which apparently is a good thing. We need it to stay as long as possible for as long as possible. This will help ensure we avoid delivering way too early. I also asked my doctor if it is normal to think that the babies are gone in between all appointments. She smiled and said yes, though I think she was indulging me. After all, very few of my friends have admitted to this fear. Maybe they are putting up a brave front. Maybe they don’t Google as much as I do. Maybe they just don’t realize that there are a million things that can go wrong. Life gets complex (unbearable) when you keep looking up for a storm cloud. I’m trying to look for the sun breaking through, but that is so very hard.
Next appointment is 23 days away. 23. I don’t know how I can wait that long without dipping back into the well of fear. That week is also when we do Part 2 of the nuchal blood work. And 9 very l-o-n-g days after that is the anatomy screen. And that is when we will find out whether we have boys or girls or one of each and if they are developing properly. And we will get to watch the twins on the fancy Level 2 Ultrasound screen for almost a full hour. Must-see TV for us.
I’d like to think that the upcoming holidays will be a nice distraction from all this worry and fret, but I know myself better than that. It’s going to be an interminable 23/32 days.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
The Tags Stay On
I am officially 13W today, which means, I guess, that I am in the second trimester? I am still not sure. Perhaps I have to get through this week before it is official? Or maybe I am exactly at the demarcation line. Have I literally just crossed the border into the middle part of pregnancy? I just don’t know.
I can ask the doctor on Monday because I have another appointment, thank goodness. It’s been two weeks since my last, so—of course—I am back on the pessimistic side of the tracks. This pregnancy is like one awful, extended 2ww after another. My stomach is getting bigger for certain, but who can tell if it is nature or nachos? I lean toward the latter because my appetite has been insatiable lately, and I certainly am not going to stand in its way. This hunger can in itself can be either a side effect of being pregnant with twins or just nerves. I lean toward the latter again.
I did have a milestone this week, though. For the first time this pregnancy I made a trip down to Buy Buy Baby and I actually went in. The last time was there I had a breakdown in the furniture department. It was right after a D&C and I had to get someone a baby present. I should have known better than to venture forth alone into that universe of all things baby and nesting pregnant women who are registering, but I thought I could handle it. Ha!
This time, I went with defiance. I am pregnant, dammit, and I have a right to go. I was 12 weeks along, so it was time. As I rounded the corner, I felt a little giddy. I let myself pretend that everything was just fine (it might be) and that this pregnancy will have a happy ending (it could, right?).
I went through the entire store. I realized just how little I know about what we will need to get, and feel very grateful to have a few people to help guide us. Yet there was still a detachment. I can look, but I can’t touch. But I did buy a little present for each baby to put in their optimistically-hung stockings. And I kinda felt like a mother as I left the store. But I kept the receipt, just in case, and the tags stay on until we are out of the woods (when the babies are 18).
Any maternal feelings I had after that experience were ripped away when I realized once again that I am unfit to stay alone in the middle of NYC in a doorman-protected apartment. Nicole was in San Francisco again this week (ridiculously for one night only), which meant I was checking behind the shower curtains, looking in the closets and obsessing all night over the potential of someone climbing up the fire escape and into our apartment. It was a windy, windy night. I heard strange noises coming from upstairs, which was unusual since there is no upstairs, as we are on the top floor. I was convinced I wouldn’t live to morning.
And all through it, I kept thinking what would I do if I had children? (I already do, in a way, right?) I thought about that house with all the windows that we looked at in Northampton, down the long, woodsy country-ish road, under a canopy of trees, with neighbors too far away to hear me scream. How could I ever be there alone? Especially with kids? Where is the old me, who used to sleep alone on a boat in a semi-empty marina or walk through the streets of New York at 4 a.m. and even flew on planes without needing Xanax and Ambien? I used to be fearless, assured and borderline cocky, which is exactly how I wish I were feeling right now. Instead, I have to settle for fearful, unsure and about as far from cocky as one can get.
I can ask the doctor on Monday because I have another appointment, thank goodness. It’s been two weeks since my last, so—of course—I am back on the pessimistic side of the tracks. This pregnancy is like one awful, extended 2ww after another. My stomach is getting bigger for certain, but who can tell if it is nature or nachos? I lean toward the latter because my appetite has been insatiable lately, and I certainly am not going to stand in its way. This hunger can in itself can be either a side effect of being pregnant with twins or just nerves. I lean toward the latter again.
I did have a milestone this week, though. For the first time this pregnancy I made a trip down to Buy Buy Baby and I actually went in. The last time was there I had a breakdown in the furniture department. It was right after a D&C and I had to get someone a baby present. I should have known better than to venture forth alone into that universe of all things baby and nesting pregnant women who are registering, but I thought I could handle it. Ha!
This time, I went with defiance. I am pregnant, dammit, and I have a right to go. I was 12 weeks along, so it was time. As I rounded the corner, I felt a little giddy. I let myself pretend that everything was just fine (it might be) and that this pregnancy will have a happy ending (it could, right?).
I went through the entire store. I realized just how little I know about what we will need to get, and feel very grateful to have a few people to help guide us. Yet there was still a detachment. I can look, but I can’t touch. But I did buy a little present for each baby to put in their optimistically-hung stockings. And I kinda felt like a mother as I left the store. But I kept the receipt, just in case, and the tags stay on until we are out of the woods (when the babies are 18).
Any maternal feelings I had after that experience were ripped away when I realized once again that I am unfit to stay alone in the middle of NYC in a doorman-protected apartment. Nicole was in San Francisco again this week (ridiculously for one night only), which meant I was checking behind the shower curtains, looking in the closets and obsessing all night over the potential of someone climbing up the fire escape and into our apartment. It was a windy, windy night. I heard strange noises coming from upstairs, which was unusual since there is no upstairs, as we are on the top floor. I was convinced I wouldn’t live to morning.
And all through it, I kept thinking what would I do if I had children? (I already do, in a way, right?) I thought about that house with all the windows that we looked at in Northampton, down the long, woodsy country-ish road, under a canopy of trees, with neighbors too far away to hear me scream. How could I ever be there alone? Especially with kids? Where is the old me, who used to sleep alone on a boat in a semi-empty marina or walk through the streets of New York at 4 a.m. and even flew on planes without needing Xanax and Ambien? I used to be fearless, assured and borderline cocky, which is exactly how I wish I were feeling right now. Instead, I have to settle for fearful, unsure and about as far from cocky as one can get.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Bad Math
I am well aware of the significance of making it out of the first trimester. This pregnancy—the first in which it seems getting through the first trimester is even a possibility—I had my mind focused on the magical 12-week target. Once I reach 12 weeks, my chances of m/c drop significantly and my chances of this pregnancy having a happy ending increase significantly.
Today I am exactly 12 weeks, and yet this isn’t the end of the first trimester. Just like that realization that a pregnancy last 10 months and not nine months, the first trimester doesn’t end when you hit 12 weeks. After all, that would imply that pregnancy is only 36 weeks long. And yet 40 weeks isn’t neatly divisible by three (13.333 isn’t neat to me). Pregnancy has its own rule book, and so now I find out I need to get to the 14th week, which means I have all of this week and all of week 13 before I can officially say good-bye to this trimester. And this seems very unfair, like someone moving the finish line just when I had it in sight.
I still haven’t signed up for the weekly email update. The pregnancy books I have are literally gathering dust on the shelf, as I never neither the inclination to read them nor the energy to dust and clean them. I haven’t stepped foot into Buy Buy Baby or any child section of a store. And though I have made a few forays online, I only allow myself a few moments to ponder high chairs before I think, “This can wait.”
I did have a baby moment though, which made me long for the chance to feel those moments all of the time. I was at Columbus Circle, which is bustling with holiday craziness and obnoxious shoppers. And the light show started, which basically consists of giant star-like objects lowering from the ceiling to the tune of Christmas carols. I watched it for about 20 seconds, which is uncharacteristic of me because (1) I don’t like to stop or slow down to smell any roses while I am on a mission and (2) it really is a boring little show, despite the potential and the stunning backdrop of five-story windows. But that day I found myself stopping and watching if only for a moment and then I found my hand touching my stomach, in that I’m Pregnant way, wondering if the babies were kicking around in there or if they were sleeping. It just felt so foreign and familiar at the same time.
And now it is the dreaded wait till the next appointment. I have another ob/gyn appointment on Monday, December 11th, which might as well be a year from now. I think about all the things that are going to happen before that appointment and I am overwhelmed. Nicole’s mom will come into town; I will have a presentation and the last meeting of one of my three classes this semester; Nicole will fly to San Francisco and fly back; I will student teach three days down in Chinatown; I will have my dreaded Fordham observation; I will have to figure out how to complete a rather complex section of my portfolio; Jennie will return from her week-long St. Maarten vacation; and then there is that long weekend before Monday to endure…all of these events must come to pass before I am back on that table in the little room at my doctor’s office. Once again, a test of my patience, faith and strength. I guess I keep getting these lessons thrown at me until I get it right.
Today I am exactly 12 weeks, and yet this isn’t the end of the first trimester. Just like that realization that a pregnancy last 10 months and not nine months, the first trimester doesn’t end when you hit 12 weeks. After all, that would imply that pregnancy is only 36 weeks long. And yet 40 weeks isn’t neatly divisible by three (13.333 isn’t neat to me). Pregnancy has its own rule book, and so now I find out I need to get to the 14th week, which means I have all of this week and all of week 13 before I can officially say good-bye to this trimester. And this seems very unfair, like someone moving the finish line just when I had it in sight.
I still haven’t signed up for the weekly email update. The pregnancy books I have are literally gathering dust on the shelf, as I never neither the inclination to read them nor the energy to dust and clean them. I haven’t stepped foot into Buy Buy Baby or any child section of a store. And though I have made a few forays online, I only allow myself a few moments to ponder high chairs before I think, “This can wait.”
I did have a baby moment though, which made me long for the chance to feel those moments all of the time. I was at Columbus Circle, which is bustling with holiday craziness and obnoxious shoppers. And the light show started, which basically consists of giant star-like objects lowering from the ceiling to the tune of Christmas carols. I watched it for about 20 seconds, which is uncharacteristic of me because (1) I don’t like to stop or slow down to smell any roses while I am on a mission and (2) it really is a boring little show, despite the potential and the stunning backdrop of five-story windows. But that day I found myself stopping and watching if only for a moment and then I found my hand touching my stomach, in that I’m Pregnant way, wondering if the babies were kicking around in there or if they were sleeping. It just felt so foreign and familiar at the same time.
And now it is the dreaded wait till the next appointment. I have another ob/gyn appointment on Monday, December 11th, which might as well be a year from now. I think about all the things that are going to happen before that appointment and I am overwhelmed. Nicole’s mom will come into town; I will have a presentation and the last meeting of one of my three classes this semester; Nicole will fly to San Francisco and fly back; I will student teach three days down in Chinatown; I will have my dreaded Fordham observation; I will have to figure out how to complete a rather complex section of my portfolio; Jennie will return from her week-long St. Maarten vacation; and then there is that long weekend before Monday to endure…all of these events must come to pass before I am back on that table in the little room at my doctor’s office. Once again, a test of my patience, faith and strength. I guess I keep getting these lessons thrown at me until I get it right.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
We’re Off the See the Scanner….Again
My first Ob/Gyn appointment went well. Sort of. First—most important—I saw the babies. Still alive. I had an abdominal ultrasound, which made me feel pregnant, if only for the moment. Baby A was kicking and moving his/her arms, showing off for the camera. I started to laugh, but that made it harder to see. But it was mesmerizing. Baby B was very still, which scared me to death. But all that poking woke him/her up and then he/she started moving too, mainly the little hands. What a relief. I wish Nicole had seen it too, because words don’t do it justice. It is a miracle, and that is not lost on me.
Baby B’s heart rate seemed slower to my untrained eye, but Dr. B says it “seems” fine. She can’t measure it with her dinky little machine, so I need to go with her instinct. But “seems” is such a wishy-washy word that doesn’t exactly instill confidence. I pushed Dr. B to be more specific but she insisted again that it seemed fine. Almost 12 weeks and I am still terrified of losing one or both.
In other news, my thyroid levels are “off.” I need to repeat blood work to see if it was just a glitch or if there is indeed something wrong. My platelet levels were also higher than normal. I asked Dr. B what this all means, and she launched into a detailed explanation of how the thyroid works, etc. I then asked the bottom line question: Is this going to cause a miscarriage or hurt the babies? The answer was a resounding no. Thank goodness. I can deal with thyroid disease if I have to, but I can’t deal with another negative ending.
The good news is I really like my new doctor, but I don’t like how the practice is run. The appointments were running more than an hour late because the temp receptionist scheduled 12 new patients in one day. And she was flustered and unresponsive. While waiting in the tiny room, I listened to her awful phone manners. She practically berated patients who called in with seemingly innocent questions and was unable to schedule a single appointment for any of the other patients because she couldn’t work the computer, leaving many nervous pregnant women walking out without knowing when they would be in next. I know she has been here for at least three weeks, because she scheduled my appointment (it took almost 15 minutes on the phone!). So she should have the system down by now.
Wednesday is The Big Scan. We are doing the Nuchal Fold scan to test for potential abnormalities. Nicole took the day off, so she is coming in with me, which makes everything seem so much easier to deal with. Everything is better when Nicole is with me. Plus, she will be able to share in seeing the babies, which will make it all seem more real that our family of two is now a family of four.
You would think by now I might start to relax, but I am not relaxed at all. The first trimester is almost over and I am still worried. There are still too many milestones to hit and still too many things that can go wrong.
I used to think that I was having an easy first trimester, but when I think about it, it actually has been hard. My mythical tolerance for pain and discomfort clouds my perception once again. I’m exhausted all the time. I wake up at least 5 times a night to pee, so I never get a good night’s sleep. I get a little queasy if I don’t eat anything. I get dizzy all the time, in that old-fashioned-fainting-pregnant-woman type of way. I get so winded just walking to the bathroom, and I practically hyperventilate when walking up the stairs from the subway. I even have a hard time walking and talking on the phone because of the out-of-breathness.
And then, of course, there’s food. While I enjoy a good meal as much as the next person, I now am officially obsessed with food. I went an hour out of my way to today to get German potato salad, sauerkraut and homemade pretzels on the Upper East Side. Everything tastes delicious. I have so many new taste buds. I don’t crave anything in particular: I crave everything. Sourdough bread with unsalted butter. Sour pickles. Salad with homemade buttermilk dressing. Rice with sour cream. Spicy rice with lime. Pasta with olive oil and shaved Parmesan cheese. Cracklin’ Oat Bran. The aforementioned German potato salad. New England clam chowder. Manhattan clam chowder. Stove Top stuffing. See’s chocolate with brown sugar filling. Salt bagels with melted cheddar. I could go on…. but there’s a toffee almond bar in the fridge with my name on it.
Baby B’s heart rate seemed slower to my untrained eye, but Dr. B says it “seems” fine. She can’t measure it with her dinky little machine, so I need to go with her instinct. But “seems” is such a wishy-washy word that doesn’t exactly instill confidence. I pushed Dr. B to be more specific but she insisted again that it seemed fine. Almost 12 weeks and I am still terrified of losing one or both.
In other news, my thyroid levels are “off.” I need to repeat blood work to see if it was just a glitch or if there is indeed something wrong. My platelet levels were also higher than normal. I asked Dr. B what this all means, and she launched into a detailed explanation of how the thyroid works, etc. I then asked the bottom line question: Is this going to cause a miscarriage or hurt the babies? The answer was a resounding no. Thank goodness. I can deal with thyroid disease if I have to, but I can’t deal with another negative ending.
The good news is I really like my new doctor, but I don’t like how the practice is run. The appointments were running more than an hour late because the temp receptionist scheduled 12 new patients in one day. And she was flustered and unresponsive. While waiting in the tiny room, I listened to her awful phone manners. She practically berated patients who called in with seemingly innocent questions and was unable to schedule a single appointment for any of the other patients because she couldn’t work the computer, leaving many nervous pregnant women walking out without knowing when they would be in next. I know she has been here for at least three weeks, because she scheduled my appointment (it took almost 15 minutes on the phone!). So she should have the system down by now.
Wednesday is The Big Scan. We are doing the Nuchal Fold scan to test for potential abnormalities. Nicole took the day off, so she is coming in with me, which makes everything seem so much easier to deal with. Everything is better when Nicole is with me. Plus, she will be able to share in seeing the babies, which will make it all seem more real that our family of two is now a family of four.
You would think by now I might start to relax, but I am not relaxed at all. The first trimester is almost over and I am still worried. There are still too many milestones to hit and still too many things that can go wrong.
I used to think that I was having an easy first trimester, but when I think about it, it actually has been hard. My mythical tolerance for pain and discomfort clouds my perception once again. I’m exhausted all the time. I wake up at least 5 times a night to pee, so I never get a good night’s sleep. I get a little queasy if I don’t eat anything. I get dizzy all the time, in that old-fashioned-fainting-pregnant-woman type of way. I get so winded just walking to the bathroom, and I practically hyperventilate when walking up the stairs from the subway. I even have a hard time walking and talking on the phone because of the out-of-breathness.
And then, of course, there’s food. While I enjoy a good meal as much as the next person, I now am officially obsessed with food. I went an hour out of my way to today to get German potato salad, sauerkraut and homemade pretzels on the Upper East Side. Everything tastes delicious. I have so many new taste buds. I don’t crave anything in particular: I crave everything. Sourdough bread with unsalted butter. Sour pickles. Salad with homemade buttermilk dressing. Rice with sour cream. Spicy rice with lime. Pasta with olive oil and shaved Parmesan cheese. Cracklin’ Oat Bran. The aforementioned German potato salad. New England clam chowder. Manhattan clam chowder. Stove Top stuffing. See’s chocolate with brown sugar filling. Salt bagels with melted cheddar. I could go on…. but there’s a toffee almond bar in the fridge with my name on it.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Crack Whores and Roller Coasters
I have heard (and read…mainly read) so many laments of how perfectly good, healthy, sane, stable and loving people can’t get pregnant, but crack whores can.
It’s bizarre how this process makes you look at some people of undeserving of fertility. But understandable: Women dealing with infertility issues are usually the most health conscious people I know. They deserve to be pregnant. Many stop drinking and smoking and drinking caffeine altogether. They watch what they eat. They see therapists and acupuncturists and doctors. They try to get exercise or do yoga or go for long walks. They read and research infertility enough to be able to open their own clinics or, at the very least, field difficult questions. They drink special teas and eat special foods and take special vitamins. They visualize and meditate and pray and vent in journals and blogs. They believe in karma. Thy support other women in the same boat with compassion and kindness, offering support, love and friendship in abundance over the Internet without judgment. They weather relationship storms and trials unlike any other. And they are strong, withstanding the inane questions from others who want to know if they are pregnant yet or watching everyone around them get pregnant and deliver healthy babies. Infertility wasn’t exactly a club I wanted a membership in, but I must say I am proud to be in the ranks of people like this.
Yet since I am pregnant I guess I belong among the ranks of pregnant people. But I don’t relate. I still find more in common with the TTC people, much more so than with the pregnant women. It’s weird. At just over 11 weeks, I still feel like this isn’t happening. I still don’t feel pregnant. My stomach seems larger, but I feel certain that is because I am eating more than I should (after all, last night’s ice cream with caramel and sprinkles and chocolate chips needs to settle somewhere on my body). I still can’t bring myself to read pregnancy books or browse the aisles at Buy Buy Baby or sign up for the dreaded “This Week” emails that detail what is developing in the baby this week in utero. And here I am, almost at the end of my first trimester. I haven’t really enjoyed one day of this so-called special time. It’s hard to, when you are constantly looking over your shoulder.
The roller coaster is another familiar refrain in the infertility world. I too used to view this journey as a roller coaster. But a recent casual conversation with Nicole about Disneyland made me realize that infertility is nothing like roller coasters, really. On a roller coaster, you can see what’s coming up. You can see the big drops, and armed with this knowledge, you can steel yourself for the plunge (a little, at least). Most importantly, you see the end coming ont he horizon. But in reality, with infertility you have no idea what is around the corner. Drops come randomly. Sharp turns come without warning. The good and bad are mixed up in such a manic way. You have no idea when the madness is going to end. Infertility is more like Space Mountain. You are in the dark and have no idea what is going to happen. And you are so grateful when it is over.
Today I have my first OB/GYN appointment and I am scared to death. I can barely concentrate. I haven’t had a sonogram in two and a half weeks, which is quite a while when you are accustomed to weekly check-ins. I’m not supposed to get a sonogram today, but I will refuse to leave until I am wanded. I am convinced the babies are dead. In fact, I had a dream last time about it. Was it a premonition? Instinct? Or just worry? The appointment isn’t until 12:45, but I plan to get there a full hour early just in case there is a chance I can get in. I'd rather wait an hour in a waiting room than sitting home fretting.
There has to be a lesson here. Does the pregnant crack whore worry and fret? Or does she just sail through pregnancy with confidence and security (and denial, in the face of daily drug use), and little to no prenatal care. What does one have to do to achieve an even disposition for pregnancy? Worry, after all, gets me nowhere; that much I know. But that isn’t stopping me from worrying.
Nicole left a note on my orange juice this morning, telling me to say hi to the babies when I saw them today. Such optimism. It made me happy. I wish I had her indefatigable spirit when it comes to the health of these babies. Maybe she should have been the one to carry these babies. I bet she wouldn't even insist on a sonogram today if it were her.
Four more hours till I see if my worry was warranted or not.....
It’s bizarre how this process makes you look at some people of undeserving of fertility. But understandable: Women dealing with infertility issues are usually the most health conscious people I know. They deserve to be pregnant. Many stop drinking and smoking and drinking caffeine altogether. They watch what they eat. They see therapists and acupuncturists and doctors. They try to get exercise or do yoga or go for long walks. They read and research infertility enough to be able to open their own clinics or, at the very least, field difficult questions. They drink special teas and eat special foods and take special vitamins. They visualize and meditate and pray and vent in journals and blogs. They believe in karma. Thy support other women in the same boat with compassion and kindness, offering support, love and friendship in abundance over the Internet without judgment. They weather relationship storms and trials unlike any other. And they are strong, withstanding the inane questions from others who want to know if they are pregnant yet or watching everyone around them get pregnant and deliver healthy babies. Infertility wasn’t exactly a club I wanted a membership in, but I must say I am proud to be in the ranks of people like this.
Yet since I am pregnant I guess I belong among the ranks of pregnant people. But I don’t relate. I still find more in common with the TTC people, much more so than with the pregnant women. It’s weird. At just over 11 weeks, I still feel like this isn’t happening. I still don’t feel pregnant. My stomach seems larger, but I feel certain that is because I am eating more than I should (after all, last night’s ice cream with caramel and sprinkles and chocolate chips needs to settle somewhere on my body). I still can’t bring myself to read pregnancy books or browse the aisles at Buy Buy Baby or sign up for the dreaded “This Week” emails that detail what is developing in the baby this week in utero. And here I am, almost at the end of my first trimester. I haven’t really enjoyed one day of this so-called special time. It’s hard to, when you are constantly looking over your shoulder.
The roller coaster is another familiar refrain in the infertility world. I too used to view this journey as a roller coaster. But a recent casual conversation with Nicole about Disneyland made me realize that infertility is nothing like roller coasters, really. On a roller coaster, you can see what’s coming up. You can see the big drops, and armed with this knowledge, you can steel yourself for the plunge (a little, at least). Most importantly, you see the end coming ont he horizon. But in reality, with infertility you have no idea what is around the corner. Drops come randomly. Sharp turns come without warning. The good and bad are mixed up in such a manic way. You have no idea when the madness is going to end. Infertility is more like Space Mountain. You are in the dark and have no idea what is going to happen. And you are so grateful when it is over.
Today I have my first OB/GYN appointment and I am scared to death. I can barely concentrate. I haven’t had a sonogram in two and a half weeks, which is quite a while when you are accustomed to weekly check-ins. I’m not supposed to get a sonogram today, but I will refuse to leave until I am wanded. I am convinced the babies are dead. In fact, I had a dream last time about it. Was it a premonition? Instinct? Or just worry? The appointment isn’t until 12:45, but I plan to get there a full hour early just in case there is a chance I can get in. I'd rather wait an hour in a waiting room than sitting home fretting.
There has to be a lesson here. Does the pregnant crack whore worry and fret? Or does she just sail through pregnancy with confidence and security (and denial, in the face of daily drug use), and little to no prenatal care. What does one have to do to achieve an even disposition for pregnancy? Worry, after all, gets me nowhere; that much I know. But that isn’t stopping me from worrying.
Nicole left a note on my orange juice this morning, telling me to say hi to the babies when I saw them today. Such optimism. It made me happy. I wish I had her indefatigable spirit when it comes to the health of these babies. Maybe she should have been the one to carry these babies. I bet she wouldn't even insist on a sonogram today if it were her.
Four more hours till I see if my worry was warranted or not.....
Sunday, November 19, 2006
The 40WW
I reached the ten-week mark today and that is quite a milestone for me. How far I have come. Betas and sacs and fetal poles and yolk sacs and sonograms and heartbeats and growth measurements and more blood tests and arm buds. Ten whole, long, baby-growing weeks. I’ve never made it to the seven-week mark before, let alone the double digits. All of my unhappy endings were early, but long enough for me to get attached.
Ten weeks and yet it all still doesn’t feel real. I’m waiting for some seemingly inevitable bad thing to happen. I hyper analyze every twinge, throb and slight pain. I check for “disappearing symptoms” (not that I have many symptoms anyway). I can’t tell if my growing stomach is from the babies inside or from my tendency to eat so very much all day long.
I haven’t had a single sonogram since I was officially released from the RE. I won’t have another sonogram for 10 days. 10 days. Might as well be 10 weeks. I don’t know how I can get through that many days without some sort of scientific proof that these babies are alive and kicking inside me. That forces me to rely on faith and to believe what I can’t see; two things that I have never been very good at. And harder still when you’ve already had babies taken away from you.
I want to buy cribs and cute little outfits and pick out a stroller and settle on names. I want to feel certain that they are coming this spring.
So to pass the time, I am counting down the days. How many days till the next sonogram? How many days till the next doctor’s appointment? How many days till I am out of the first trimester? How many days till the babies are viable outside of me? How many days till the end?
Ten weeks and yet it all still doesn’t feel real. I’m waiting for some seemingly inevitable bad thing to happen. I hyper analyze every twinge, throb and slight pain. I check for “disappearing symptoms” (not that I have many symptoms anyway). I can’t tell if my growing stomach is from the babies inside or from my tendency to eat so very much all day long.
I haven’t had a single sonogram since I was officially released from the RE. I won’t have another sonogram for 10 days. 10 days. Might as well be 10 weeks. I don’t know how I can get through that many days without some sort of scientific proof that these babies are alive and kicking inside me. That forces me to rely on faith and to believe what I can’t see; two things that I have never been very good at. And harder still when you’ve already had babies taken away from you.
I want to buy cribs and cute little outfits and pick out a stroller and settle on names. I want to feel certain that they are coming this spring.
So to pass the time, I am counting down the days. How many days till the next sonogram? How many days till the next doctor’s appointment? How many days till I am out of the first trimester? How many days till the babies are viable outside of me? How many days till the end?
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Whatever Happened to Congratulations?
Some recent reactions to our news:
Oh wow! Do twins run in your family?
Why, yes they do, in fact. My mother is a twin. And apparently there are some other twins scattered about on her side. And, when you get down to it, the odds of having twins are 1/89. So that means out of every 89 births, there is one set of twins. Throw me in a room with 89 women and I can imagine someone calling my name. I’ve hit greater odds for lesser things. But our twins are courtesy of IVF.
Oh Wow! Twins! You are going to be so tired!
Well, yes, I probably will. But I would be so tired with one baby as well. Those who I know with one child complain endlessly about how little sleep they got in the beginning. It’s fine. I’ll deal. As a new mother I don’t expect to get much sleep, but I am pretty certain that the sleep issue will work itself out in the end.
Oh Wow! Twins! Twin pregnancies are really hard!
Of course any women pregnant with twins is aware of the risks. Preterm labor, to start with. Fetal death. Vanishing twins. Preemies. Preemies who have to live in the NICU for a week. Preemies who have to live in the NICU for a month. Preemies who never leave the NICU. Yes, I am aware of the potential complications. It scares the shit out of me. So maybe this is not a good thing to discuss with any woman who is pregnant with twins.
Wow! Twins! Just what you need! (without being ironic)
Eight failed IUIs. Two spectacular failures of IVF. Hundreds of doctor’s appointments. At least 30K out-of-pocket expenses (almost 7K on sperm alone). A career postponed because I can’t do IVF and work at the same time. Stress. Fear. Stress. Depression like I have never felt. Stress. Weight gain. Raging hormones. Weight loss. Potential increased cancer risk due to all of the drugs pumped in my body (depends on which research you believe). Months of intramuscular shots in my ass. Three miscarriages, including a horrifically painful ectopic. And now I am pregnant with two babies? Two (so far, knock on wood) perfect little babies? How can anyone see negative in that?!
Wow! Twins! How are you going to fit them in your apartment?
For the life of me I cn't figure out why people worry about these sort of things. We realize that children hog up a lot of space, but we aren’t so worried with where to put them. I wouldn't say it is the least of our worries, but I can say that it is easily the most solve-able issue. By NYC standards, our apartment is the square footage of a typical two-bedroom. We can carve a corner of the living room into a perfectly usable bedroom (with windows). There are plans to renovate the under-utilized entry office area. And plans for a place for weekend getaways so they (and we) can enjoy lawns and trees and nature. Babies will have their own closet and tons of cabinet space. (We still have cabinets in the kitchen that hold One Towel or Nicole’s old Snack Plate.) So no one over here I worried about space.
Wow! Twins! You are going to be huge!
Anyone who knows me knows I gain and lose the same 20 pounds, all my life. That may be a clue that maybe just maybe there are a few small food issues going on with me. Do you really think it is beneficial to discuss how my body is going to change? In giant terms, no less? Right now, what matters most to be is delivering two healthy babies. So if that means I blow up like a blimp, so be it. One thing I know for certain I am dedicated enough to get back into shape. So today I indulged in a Napoleon when I was in Little Italy. I went to a separate restaurant to get an order of French Fries for my take-out dinner. I had a pudding cup for dessert. And I don’t really feel guilty at all. Maybe just a little…..
Wow! Twins! How are you going to manage?
I’m guessing we’ll manage just like anyone with two kids manages. In other words, we will manage just fine.
We wanted two children, maybe three. The way I look at it, we are getting both at once. Considering all that we went through to get to this point, it is a relief. After all, I didn’t want to go through all the stress and challenges of an IVF cycle again. Or the chance of having another m/c. Not to mention the time commitment. And the money….and I could go on.
I look at my niece and my nephew—I love both to the extreme—and I can’t imagine life without either of them. If they came at the same time, would I look at them as a burden? I doubt it. I look at this pregnany for what it is: A gift; a blessing; buy-one-get-one-free; answered prayers times two.
Oh wow! Do twins run in your family?
Why, yes they do, in fact. My mother is a twin. And apparently there are some other twins scattered about on her side. And, when you get down to it, the odds of having twins are 1/89. So that means out of every 89 births, there is one set of twins. Throw me in a room with 89 women and I can imagine someone calling my name. I’ve hit greater odds for lesser things. But our twins are courtesy of IVF.
Oh Wow! Twins! You are going to be so tired!
Well, yes, I probably will. But I would be so tired with one baby as well. Those who I know with one child complain endlessly about how little sleep they got in the beginning. It’s fine. I’ll deal. As a new mother I don’t expect to get much sleep, but I am pretty certain that the sleep issue will work itself out in the end.
Oh Wow! Twins! Twin pregnancies are really hard!
Of course any women pregnant with twins is aware of the risks. Preterm labor, to start with. Fetal death. Vanishing twins. Preemies. Preemies who have to live in the NICU for a week. Preemies who have to live in the NICU for a month. Preemies who never leave the NICU. Yes, I am aware of the potential complications. It scares the shit out of me. So maybe this is not a good thing to discuss with any woman who is pregnant with twins.
Wow! Twins! Just what you need! (without being ironic)
Eight failed IUIs. Two spectacular failures of IVF. Hundreds of doctor’s appointments. At least 30K out-of-pocket expenses (almost 7K on sperm alone). A career postponed because I can’t do IVF and work at the same time. Stress. Fear. Stress. Depression like I have never felt. Stress. Weight gain. Raging hormones. Weight loss. Potential increased cancer risk due to all of the drugs pumped in my body (depends on which research you believe). Months of intramuscular shots in my ass. Three miscarriages, including a horrifically painful ectopic. And now I am pregnant with two babies? Two (so far, knock on wood) perfect little babies? How can anyone see negative in that?!
Wow! Twins! How are you going to fit them in your apartment?
For the life of me I cn't figure out why people worry about these sort of things. We realize that children hog up a lot of space, but we aren’t so worried with where to put them. I wouldn't say it is the least of our worries, but I can say that it is easily the most solve-able issue. By NYC standards, our apartment is the square footage of a typical two-bedroom. We can carve a corner of the living room into a perfectly usable bedroom (with windows). There are plans to renovate the under-utilized entry office area. And plans for a place for weekend getaways so they (and we) can enjoy lawns and trees and nature. Babies will have their own closet and tons of cabinet space. (We still have cabinets in the kitchen that hold One Towel or Nicole’s old Snack Plate.) So no one over here I worried about space.
Wow! Twins! You are going to be huge!
Anyone who knows me knows I gain and lose the same 20 pounds, all my life. That may be a clue that maybe just maybe there are a few small food issues going on with me. Do you really think it is beneficial to discuss how my body is going to change? In giant terms, no less? Right now, what matters most to be is delivering two healthy babies. So if that means I blow up like a blimp, so be it. One thing I know for certain I am dedicated enough to get back into shape. So today I indulged in a Napoleon when I was in Little Italy. I went to a separate restaurant to get an order of French Fries for my take-out dinner. I had a pudding cup for dessert. And I don’t really feel guilty at all. Maybe just a little…..
Wow! Twins! How are you going to manage?
I’m guessing we’ll manage just like anyone with two kids manages. In other words, we will manage just fine.
We wanted two children, maybe three. The way I look at it, we are getting both at once. Considering all that we went through to get to this point, it is a relief. After all, I didn’t want to go through all the stress and challenges of an IVF cycle again. Or the chance of having another m/c. Not to mention the time commitment. And the money….and I could go on.
I look at my niece and my nephew—I love both to the extreme—and I can’t imagine life without either of them. If they came at the same time, would I look at them as a burden? I doubt it. I look at this pregnany for what it is: A gift; a blessing; buy-one-get-one-free; answered prayers times two.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Cheese But No Wine
Today was a special day. It is Nicole’s 5th anniversary, which also means our 5 year anniversary is about five months away. Coincidence? Probably not. If she never made that step 5 years ago (and then me, 9 months later) we would probably never be together. When that part of her life ended, our life together began (again, 5 months later). So we will acknowledge this day (and August 28th) forever.
Another cause to celebrate: I am in the 8th week and I am still pregnant (knock on wood). And today our babies officially graduate from “embryos” to “fetuses.” I am still in shock at have to write all that in the plural form. Shocked, but grateful. How could I not be grateful that my dream was answered twice?
It would have been a better day if I still wasn’t fighting this awful cold. The congestion and sore throat and hacking cough and general ennui I can handle; what scares me is the low-grade fever. Apparently, according to the pregnancy experts, I can have 106 fever at eight months and all will be fine. But ten minutes at 102 at eight weeks and you are pretty much guaranteed a m/c or birth defects. Now, my temperature of 99.4 is nowhere near 102, but I still lived in fear that it will go up and up and up. And still fear that maybe it was already that high, at night, in bed, when I was sweating through another sleepless night.
The good news is my fever is down. I still have a slight temperature, but I no longer feel the need to dunk myself in tepid/cold baths to lower it to a fetus-acceptable range. I took some Tylenol and drank some Gatorade and rested like it was my job. I still feel awful, but fortunately I can convalesce another couple of days.
Another cause for celebration: For the first time in three days I left the apartment. We ventured to the Dorothy Parker play/event/fundraiser on Broadway and it was so worth it, even if it sets my sickness back a couple of days. Two hours felt like 20 minutes. The performances and performers were great. Dorothy Parker proved to be timeless, and, once again, I was reminded why I was so obsessed with her for the past decade. And we even had some celebrities in the audience: Barbara Walters (who blinks a lot when she talks) and Tom Brokaw (who is really tall). Luckily (for my neighbors) I managed to cough and sniff and make all sick noises during the extended interludes of clapping and laughing.
And leaving the theater I experienced one of those rare New York moments that makes me love this city. Maybe it’s good that NYC can be such a big, impersonal place, because it makes those occasional touches of kindness so much more poignant. As we waked through the aisles toward to exit, I struggled with my putting on my jacket. I snaked my arm through one sleeve but struggled with the second. Apparently I can’t walk and put on clothes at the same time. The woman behind me, one with whom I had shared a brief debriefing conversation with (pieces we both lamented that should have been included but weren’t) when we first started our exodus, helped me with the other arm. So random, and maybe it is silly to be so touched, but I almost cried. This city (world) is sorely in need of these types of kindnesses from strangers.
And now I am home on my comfy couch and eating cheese (I think cheese of all kinds is my first true craving…fondue is in my very near future, I can feel it) and even though I am sick and tired, I am very content.
Another cause to celebrate: I am in the 8th week and I am still pregnant (knock on wood). And today our babies officially graduate from “embryos” to “fetuses.” I am still in shock at have to write all that in the plural form. Shocked, but grateful. How could I not be grateful that my dream was answered twice?
It would have been a better day if I still wasn’t fighting this awful cold. The congestion and sore throat and hacking cough and general ennui I can handle; what scares me is the low-grade fever. Apparently, according to the pregnancy experts, I can have 106 fever at eight months and all will be fine. But ten minutes at 102 at eight weeks and you are pretty much guaranteed a m/c or birth defects. Now, my temperature of 99.4 is nowhere near 102, but I still lived in fear that it will go up and up and up. And still fear that maybe it was already that high, at night, in bed, when I was sweating through another sleepless night.
The good news is my fever is down. I still have a slight temperature, but I no longer feel the need to dunk myself in tepid/cold baths to lower it to a fetus-acceptable range. I took some Tylenol and drank some Gatorade and rested like it was my job. I still feel awful, but fortunately I can convalesce another couple of days.
Another cause for celebration: For the first time in three days I left the apartment. We ventured to the Dorothy Parker play/event/fundraiser on Broadway and it was so worth it, even if it sets my sickness back a couple of days. Two hours felt like 20 minutes. The performances and performers were great. Dorothy Parker proved to be timeless, and, once again, I was reminded why I was so obsessed with her for the past decade. And we even had some celebrities in the audience: Barbara Walters (who blinks a lot when she talks) and Tom Brokaw (who is really tall). Luckily (for my neighbors) I managed to cough and sniff and make all sick noises during the extended interludes of clapping and laughing.
And leaving the theater I experienced one of those rare New York moments that makes me love this city. Maybe it’s good that NYC can be such a big, impersonal place, because it makes those occasional touches of kindness so much more poignant. As we waked through the aisles toward to exit, I struggled with my putting on my jacket. I snaked my arm through one sleeve but struggled with the second. Apparently I can’t walk and put on clothes at the same time. The woman behind me, one with whom I had shared a brief debriefing conversation with (pieces we both lamented that should have been included but weren’t) when we first started our exodus, helped me with the other arm. So random, and maybe it is silly to be so touched, but I almost cried. This city (world) is sorely in need of these types of kindnesses from strangers.
And now I am home on my comfy couch and eating cheese (I think cheese of all kinds is my first true craving…fondue is in my very near future, I can feel it) and even though I am sick and tired, I am very content.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Sinking (In)
I’m afraid to say anything because I don’t want to jinx things. But so far all signs point to things are going just fine.
I tell myself this isn’t like my first pregnancy, when the sac was measuring a week behind and my HCG levels suddenly stopped rising, after perfectly good beta levels. This isn’t like my second pregnancy, where my betas were low the entire time (but the sac measured fine) and I was told from the get-go that it might not be a viable pregnancy (not that that numbed the pain of losing later on). And it certainly is not like my third pregnancy (call it what you like: the heterotopic baby or twin-baby-in-the-tube) discovered a month after my D/C only after going through a horrifically painful experience.
This pregnancy, so far, is progressing exactly as it should. This pregnancy seems strong and viable. Each weekly appointment has gone well, and the doctors confirm this. At the last appointment the doctor turned the sound up and we heard the beating little hearts. Both of them. The doctors have given me absolutely nothing to worry about, even when I prompt them to or slightly unravel a thread of thought to encourage a negative response.
Nicole flew back from SF last night and made it to our sonogram appointment this morning. I am still officially pregnant. 7 weeks and 4 days. We saw the hearts again and heard them, too. The doctor said we graduate next appointment to our ob/gyn (of which we don’ have yet).
Grateful doesn’t even begin to encompass how I feel. I feel so fortunate and so lucky to be at this point, but it’s not like it happened overnight. It did, after all, did take us 10 IUIs and 3 IVFs to get here. I have lost track of how much money we have spent, but it is safe to say at this point that at least a full year’s salary of mine (before taxes). I have watched many of my friends lap me in the baby-making department. I know how it feels to have breakdowns in baby departments of random stores and at baby showers. To take longer walks around bookstores to avoid the baby section filled with books I am not allowed to buy. I have endured the fruitless attempts by others to make me feel better and I have endured the loud silence when others seem to forget the horror I’ve gone through.
And yet I know enough not to get too comfortable. Being pregnant is a whole new set of worms (which I think very much needs a support group). I have seen far too many late trimester disasters brought on for chromosomal reasons. I have heard too many stories of seeing heartbeats and moving along only to have things abruptly stop thriving for no good reason. I know of too much heartache experienced by others. I can’t sit back and r-e-l-a-x and take everything for granted, as so many pregnant women can and do. I haven’t signed up for Your Baby This Week email services and I have kept the receipts for the couple of pregnancy books. I have bought. Color me Cautiously Optimistic.
This Sunday, Nicole and I are going to a Dorothy Parker one-night show on Broadway. When I heard about this show months ago, I told Nicole how badly I wanted to go but how superstitious I was. I now associate Broadway with m/c, since Nicole and I ended up wandering about the city after both m/c and somehow ended up getting tickets for a Broadway show in an al-out attempt to soothe ourselves with anything (interesting, really, because we both pretty much steer clear of the Great White Way or whatever it is called and may even go so far as to mock certain shows). I was afraid that if we got tickets, we’d pretty much seal our fate for a negative ending. Nicole went ahead and got the tickets anyway. And we will be in attendance this Sunday, when I turn exactly 8 weeks pregnant. It seems more like a celebration now than capitulation to the undertow of grief (knock on wood).
I tell myself this isn’t like my first pregnancy, when the sac was measuring a week behind and my HCG levels suddenly stopped rising, after perfectly good beta levels. This isn’t like my second pregnancy, where my betas were low the entire time (but the sac measured fine) and I was told from the get-go that it might not be a viable pregnancy (not that that numbed the pain of losing later on). And it certainly is not like my third pregnancy (call it what you like: the heterotopic baby or twin-baby-in-the-tube) discovered a month after my D/C only after going through a horrifically painful experience.
This pregnancy, so far, is progressing exactly as it should. This pregnancy seems strong and viable. Each weekly appointment has gone well, and the doctors confirm this. At the last appointment the doctor turned the sound up and we heard the beating little hearts. Both of them. The doctors have given me absolutely nothing to worry about, even when I prompt them to or slightly unravel a thread of thought to encourage a negative response.
Nicole flew back from SF last night and made it to our sonogram appointment this morning. I am still officially pregnant. 7 weeks and 4 days. We saw the hearts again and heard them, too. The doctor said we graduate next appointment to our ob/gyn (of which we don’ have yet).
Grateful doesn’t even begin to encompass how I feel. I feel so fortunate and so lucky to be at this point, but it’s not like it happened overnight. It did, after all, did take us 10 IUIs and 3 IVFs to get here. I have lost track of how much money we have spent, but it is safe to say at this point that at least a full year’s salary of mine (before taxes). I have watched many of my friends lap me in the baby-making department. I know how it feels to have breakdowns in baby departments of random stores and at baby showers. To take longer walks around bookstores to avoid the baby section filled with books I am not allowed to buy. I have endured the fruitless attempts by others to make me feel better and I have endured the loud silence when others seem to forget the horror I’ve gone through.
And yet I know enough not to get too comfortable. Being pregnant is a whole new set of worms (which I think very much needs a support group). I have seen far too many late trimester disasters brought on for chromosomal reasons. I have heard too many stories of seeing heartbeats and moving along only to have things abruptly stop thriving for no good reason. I know of too much heartache experienced by others. I can’t sit back and r-e-l-a-x and take everything for granted, as so many pregnant women can and do. I haven’t signed up for Your Baby This Week email services and I have kept the receipts for the couple of pregnancy books. I have bought. Color me Cautiously Optimistic.
This Sunday, Nicole and I are going to a Dorothy Parker one-night show on Broadway. When I heard about this show months ago, I told Nicole how badly I wanted to go but how superstitious I was. I now associate Broadway with m/c, since Nicole and I ended up wandering about the city after both m/c and somehow ended up getting tickets for a Broadway show in an al-out attempt to soothe ourselves with anything (interesting, really, because we both pretty much steer clear of the Great White Way or whatever it is called and may even go so far as to mock certain shows). I was afraid that if we got tickets, we’d pretty much seal our fate for a negative ending. Nicole went ahead and got the tickets anyway. And we will be in attendance this Sunday, when I turn exactly 8 weeks pregnant. It seems more like a celebration now than capitulation to the undertow of grief (knock on wood).
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Houston, We Have a Heartbeat(s)
Actually, we have two heartbeats. Two perfect little flickering heartbeats. Two thriving embryos inside of me. It was like seeing a miracle.
Here’s how it happened. I was flat on my back on the table waiting for the doctor. Nervous doesn’t begin to describe how I was feeling. Even with the calming, steady presence of Nicole, I was close to losing it. The doctor swoops in at 7:30, looks over my chart, and after some pleasantries and an overly exuberant hello to Nicole, he comes out with the “you’re going to feel me touching you” prelude to the sonogram insertion. (Why they need to narrate these things I’ll never know.) I think my heart stopped. I know I stopped breathing. And I didn’t know what I was supposed to look for, despite my best googling efforts. I was in the dark and scared out of my mind. All I saw was fuzz. Lots and lots of fuzz. And then a sac. After maybe 5 seconds the doctor points to a corner of the one of the sacs showed us the flickering. That, he says, is a heartbeat. He wiggled the wand around to find the second embryo who was, according to the doctor, tucked away in a corner (my uterus has corners?) and points out another flickering heart.
I don’t remember what happened immediately next but I know I felt such relief and gratitude. And that lasted all of a minute.
As the doctor was leaving, I panicked and tried to spurt out as many questions as I could muster under distress. Were they flickering enough? Were they flickering in the right place? Do they look normal? What about the yolk sacs? Do we need to worry about those? What about the size of the embryos? Did he even measure then to see if they were perfect 6w1d? Rapid fire questions of which none he really answered except to say that he was pleased with how everything was progressing and we’ll see you next week. Underlying context: Relax, silly girl. He quotes my chances of a negative outcome (I can’t write out that word) as between 5 and 8 percent. That’s 92 to 95 percent chance of everything turning out ok. Yet I am not comforted at all. I can find pessimism in optimism. It’s a gift.
So it’s another week of fretting, googling, stressing, distressing, and general all-around freaking out for me. Nothing like a few failed pregnancies to ensure that you don’t take anything too lightly. It’s Wednesday now and I realize that there is no way I can make it all the way till next Monday before I see what it going on in there. Next step: Making sure the sacs are growing at the rate they are suppose to and monitoring the heartbeats in terms of beats per minute.
We’ve become attached already. I want these babies; both of them. We’ve picked out names and designed how we are going to build the babies’ bedroom. We’ve picked out the crib (Stokke) and the stroller (the new double-decker Phil and Ted) and wardrobe (they will dress like Casual Weekend Nicole regardless of sex, so that means khaki pants or critter pants and Ralph Lauren button downs).
We tried for so long and suffered so much and endured so much pain and loss and put our relationship through the wringer and spent so much money…we are ready for this to work. I pray this is going to work. Yet I am looking over my shoulder every second of the day, questioning every twinge, waiting for something bad to happen. What a way to live.
I read a quote the other day and it has become my new mantra: It will all be ok in the end. And if it isn’t ok, it isn’t the end.
Here’s how it happened. I was flat on my back on the table waiting for the doctor. Nervous doesn’t begin to describe how I was feeling. Even with the calming, steady presence of Nicole, I was close to losing it. The doctor swoops in at 7:30, looks over my chart, and after some pleasantries and an overly exuberant hello to Nicole, he comes out with the “you’re going to feel me touching you” prelude to the sonogram insertion. (Why they need to narrate these things I’ll never know.) I think my heart stopped. I know I stopped breathing. And I didn’t know what I was supposed to look for, despite my best googling efforts. I was in the dark and scared out of my mind. All I saw was fuzz. Lots and lots of fuzz. And then a sac. After maybe 5 seconds the doctor points to a corner of the one of the sacs showed us the flickering. That, he says, is a heartbeat. He wiggled the wand around to find the second embryo who was, according to the doctor, tucked away in a corner (my uterus has corners?) and points out another flickering heart.
I don’t remember what happened immediately next but I know I felt such relief and gratitude. And that lasted all of a minute.
As the doctor was leaving, I panicked and tried to spurt out as many questions as I could muster under distress. Were they flickering enough? Were they flickering in the right place? Do they look normal? What about the yolk sacs? Do we need to worry about those? What about the size of the embryos? Did he even measure then to see if they were perfect 6w1d? Rapid fire questions of which none he really answered except to say that he was pleased with how everything was progressing and we’ll see you next week. Underlying context: Relax, silly girl. He quotes my chances of a negative outcome (I can’t write out that word) as between 5 and 8 percent. That’s 92 to 95 percent chance of everything turning out ok. Yet I am not comforted at all. I can find pessimism in optimism. It’s a gift.
So it’s another week of fretting, googling, stressing, distressing, and general all-around freaking out for me. Nothing like a few failed pregnancies to ensure that you don’t take anything too lightly. It’s Wednesday now and I realize that there is no way I can make it all the way till next Monday before I see what it going on in there. Next step: Making sure the sacs are growing at the rate they are suppose to and monitoring the heartbeats in terms of beats per minute.
We’ve become attached already. I want these babies; both of them. We’ve picked out names and designed how we are going to build the babies’ bedroom. We’ve picked out the crib (Stokke) and the stroller (the new double-decker Phil and Ted) and wardrobe (they will dress like Casual Weekend Nicole regardless of sex, so that means khaki pants or critter pants and Ralph Lauren button downs).
We tried for so long and suffered so much and endured so much pain and loss and put our relationship through the wringer and spent so much money…we are ready for this to work. I pray this is going to work. Yet I am looking over my shoulder every second of the day, questioning every twinge, waiting for something bad to happen. What a way to live.
I read a quote the other day and it has become my new mantra: It will all be ok in the end. And if it isn’t ok, it isn’t the end.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
The Path of Least Regret
The transfer was almost an out-of-body experience. Since Nicole was in Texas, I had to remember on my own white-gown-opening-in-back under blue-robe-opening-in-front myself. That is challenging for someone with a full bladder, a tenuous grip on her emotions, and a girlfriend 3,000 miles and a time-zone away. Then for the good luck charms: Nicole’s picture in my blue skid-proof booty; Jen’s medal safely safety-pinned inside the robe; Mina’s Mom’s ring on my pinky finger (the only finger it would fit considering The Bloat) and a picture of Leif and Skye too. I felt that I smuggling contraband (a.k.a., liquids onto an airplane).
While not-so-patiently waiting for the doctor I vaguely recall talking on my cell to Nicole, who was delayed at the airport (thank God, so we could speak before the transfer). I had on my cumulous hair net, which makes me look ridiculous. I guess we need to protect my uterus from stray migrating head hairs. My only solace is that everyone has to wear the hair net, doctors and nurses included.
When he came in, I couldn’t read him at all. Did his face say Sorry, all of the embryos are gone? I recall him introducing himself (he is the director of the practice and one of the doctors I rarely met with during monitoring) and I stupidly said “I’m Jennifer.” Which he probably knew. His news was good; I was relieved. Nine embryos made it to Day 5. We discussed how many to put back and decided on three. Icy terror coursed through my veins as I recalled Nicole’s Absolutely No More Than Two rule. But the doctor seemed confident that this wasn’t a triplet event; just an increased-chance precaution. And this is what happens when I have to voice opinions/decisions on my own. There is a reason why I shouldn’t do these things alone!
We went back down the hall together to the operating room, which is almost romantically dark. The nurses and lab staff were moving about in such Official Business way. I settled onto the table and after a flurry of activity (confirming my name on all sorts of documents, seeing the embryos for the first time on the video screen on the wall, watching them getting sucked up the tube) it was all done. Three embryos are happily looking for real estate in my uterus. I am, as they say, pregnant until proven otherwise.
I was then wheeled on the bed to recovery. The short trip there was in itself surreal. We moved at a dizzying pace that was compounded by the fact that there was something metallic in the lights on the ceiling that reflected my imagine back to me. I have never seen myself from that birds-eye view before, and probably never will again. There was something sobering about seeing myself laying there with the hair net on and tucked into the nubby white blanket.
As soon as I got to recovery I reached for my phone and asked the nurse if it was ok to call Nicole, who was still delayed in Texas. I placed the phone on my stomach and she gave her what is now sadly ritual pep talk to the embryos.
No coffee. No strenuous exercise. No heavy lifting. I can’t take baths. I can’t sleep (insomnia). I can’t concentrate for more than three seconds on anything.
As much as I complain I am happy to sacrifice baths and coffee and bleu cheese and strenuous activity and even Ambien for this cause. After all, when I look back I want to think I made the right decisions so I can live with no regrets.
And that—as Mina I hope prophetically said—was the most beautiful day of my life.
While not-so-patiently waiting for the doctor I vaguely recall talking on my cell to Nicole, who was delayed at the airport (thank God, so we could speak before the transfer). I had on my cumulous hair net, which makes me look ridiculous. I guess we need to protect my uterus from stray migrating head hairs. My only solace is that everyone has to wear the hair net, doctors and nurses included.
When he came in, I couldn’t read him at all. Did his face say Sorry, all of the embryos are gone? I recall him introducing himself (he is the director of the practice and one of the doctors I rarely met with during monitoring) and I stupidly said “I’m Jennifer.” Which he probably knew. His news was good; I was relieved. Nine embryos made it to Day 5. We discussed how many to put back and decided on three. Icy terror coursed through my veins as I recalled Nicole’s Absolutely No More Than Two rule. But the doctor seemed confident that this wasn’t a triplet event; just an increased-chance precaution. And this is what happens when I have to voice opinions/decisions on my own. There is a reason why I shouldn’t do these things alone!
We went back down the hall together to the operating room, which is almost romantically dark. The nurses and lab staff were moving about in such Official Business way. I settled onto the table and after a flurry of activity (confirming my name on all sorts of documents, seeing the embryos for the first time on the video screen on the wall, watching them getting sucked up the tube) it was all done. Three embryos are happily looking for real estate in my uterus. I am, as they say, pregnant until proven otherwise.
I was then wheeled on the bed to recovery. The short trip there was in itself surreal. We moved at a dizzying pace that was compounded by the fact that there was something metallic in the lights on the ceiling that reflected my imagine back to me. I have never seen myself from that birds-eye view before, and probably never will again. There was something sobering about seeing myself laying there with the hair net on and tucked into the nubby white blanket.
As soon as I got to recovery I reached for my phone and asked the nurse if it was ok to call Nicole, who was still delayed in Texas. I placed the phone on my stomach and she gave her what is now sadly ritual pep talk to the embryos.
No coffee. No strenuous exercise. No heavy lifting. I can’t take baths. I can’t sleep (insomnia). I can’t concentrate for more than three seconds on anything.
As much as I complain I am happy to sacrifice baths and coffee and bleu cheese and strenuous activity and even Ambien for this cause. After all, when I look back I want to think I made the right decisions so I can live with no regrets.
And that—as Mina I hope prophetically said—was the most beautiful day of my life.
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