Denial is a River in Egypt

So.

Six weeks.

That's how much longer we've got until this theoretical "baby" becomes a reality.

I'm still having difficulty coming to terms with this idea.  We spent over a decade striving for one thing: a healthy pregnancy and a living child.  We've made it further than we've ever dreamed of -- 33 weeks pregnant with a strong, healthy, boy.  And while I've finally accepted that I am, indeed, preggers -- I still can't quite wrap my brain around the idea of an actual BABY in my house.  A person, to hold and love and play with and read to and learn from.  A living being that didn't exist before, and that I am solely responsible for.  It just doesn't seem real yet, believe it or not.

I've been burned before, that's true.  And I know our history makes it harder for me to grasp the realities that are inherent in our situation.  I am pregnant -- that much I can finally accept.  I can feel his kicks, my belly is huge, and I haven't slept in months.  However, the idea that pregnancy actually leads to a baby?  Still not quite happening in my brain.

I still keep expecting to wake up and have this all be a dream.  I imagine slipping quite easily back into my infertile, miserable, state -- that much more traumatized for having experienced everything the last eight months have brought.

And I don't know how to make it real.  I don't think I can -- not until I'm holding B.B. in my arms.

So much of pregnancy has been different than I imagined -- and yet wonderful, magical, and terrible all at once.  I'm sure that parenthood will be the same.  And though I can picture myself parenting, see Mo and I doing all those things we've dreamed of doing for so long -- it still seems but a distant, hopeful, future.

Six weeks.

No time at all.

12 years.

A lifetime.

I'm not ready.

Happy....Whatever You Celebrate!

Though no longer Christian, I have wonderful memories of the holidays growing up. My version of Christmas is entirely secular, and I feel no need to give up those traditions just because I no longer believe in the literal birth/resurrection of Jesus. Over the years, despite being sad and childless, Mo and I have carved out our own family traditions. And so tonight we will join my parents for Chinese food and I will bake cookies, before eating them in bed with Santa. In the morning we'll open stockings and eat lil' smokies and biscuits before heading to my parents for a ham dinner with all the trimmings. Presents will be exchanged (all for the baby this year!) and a relaxing, restful day will be enjoyed by all. 

In many ways, this year is just like the years before. And yet it is fundamentally different. Long-time readers may remember that I was pregnant on Christmas once before (in 2009). That tenuous beginning was cut short just a few weeks later....and every year I'm reminded of what could have been. This year, though, Baby Boy is kicking strong and we are into the final countdown before his arrival. I have every reason to hope that, next Christmas, I will be introducing my son to the wonders of the season (namely, twinkling lights, glitter, and shiny things). 😉

I know how hard these days can be when you are struggling. Whether you're recovering from a loss, another BFN, or just another year passing without the fulfillment of your dreams, holidays can be extremely rough. My advice (for what it's worth) is to do what makes you happy - whether that's throwing yourself into the festivities, or ignoring them altogether. Whether you celebrate Christmas, Chanukah, Festivus, or nothing at all - may you find something that makes you smile. And if not, that's okay, too. It's fine to five a big f-you to the universe, crawl under the covers, and wait for New Year's. I've certainly been there, done that. 

And remember: if this year doesn't live up to your expectations, there's always next year. Which is either totally inspiring, or a reason to go drown your sorrows. Just try to survive it, ok? 

What are your plans this week? Will you be keeping busy or enjoying some much needed rest and relaxation? What holiday traditions are you looking forward to/completely dreading? 

Thankful

Warning: PG mentioned.  If, like I often was, you are hiding out from the family and reading blogs, you may want to skip this one this year.  No hard feelings, I promise!

Today I am the most thankful I have ever been!  We are 24 weeks today -- a major milestone that seemed so very impossible just a few months ago.  Although it's not by any means a guarantee of a living, healthy, baby -- it's extremely comforting to know that, were something to go wrong, doctors would at this point actually attempt to save the life of my precious son.  

We are spending the holiday with my parents and some very good friends -- the ones who put us up during all of our treatments last summer.  I am so grateful to all of them for their unending support.  Though neither couple has ever experienced infertility, both my mom and my friend have had losses.  Regardless of shared experiences, they have both been incredibly uplifting and loving towards us, even when they didn't know what to say or do.  I feel thankful for their love and friendship every single day -- though today it does seem even more poignant (pregnancy-hormones, anyone?)

Speaking of Baby Boy, he is growing stronger every single day!  His little twitches and flips have turned into solid kicks and rolls.  At over 1.5 pounds (according to our last ultrasound a week ago), he's starting to fill out a little bit.  We got the most precious 3-D picture of his face -- I stare at it daily, simply entranced by the idea that that is MY son, and that soon I will be able to kiss his sweet cheeks and tickle his tiny feet.

I am beyond thankful that modern medicine has made this experience possible.  I've written before that adoption is an answer for some, though not without its pitfalls and heartbreaks.  We walked that path ourselves, hoping that maybe our family would come to us that way.  It turns out that it didn't -- and while I know that the future is "still unwritten" and may include adoption at some point, I am so very thrilled that I got to feel my firstborn moving around inside of me.  I didn't realize how much it would mean to me until I actually experienced it.  That's not to say that adoptive moms are missing out -- I firmly believe that motherhood is a state of the heart, not of the uterus.  I'm just thrilled that I'm on my way to finally meeting my son; the kicks are just an added bonus.  :-)

I'm also not unaware that many of you don't feel too thankful today.  It's hard to, when nothing seems to be going the way you'd planned.  I hope that, whatever your current status, you do something nice for yourself .  Skip the holiday, indulge in an extra glass of wine, cry your heart out in the bathroom.  Eat a crapload of turkey or fifteen different desserts.  Do whatever it takes to make it through.  I know firsthand how impossible it can seem, how unending and unfair and unbearable to miss your children when everyone else seems oblivious to your pain.  It's my fervent hope that next year is different -- whether that means an adoption, a pregnancy, a living child, or just a peace that eludes you this year.

So Happy Thanksgiving -- or not.  Here's to a holiday that is easier than you anticipate.

  

I Am Happy

I think that I perhaps gave the wrong impression with my last few posts: I am, indeed, very excited and happy to be pregnant.  The FEAR has hidden in the recesses of my brain more and more as each week passes.  The meltdown earlier this week was, in fact, the first occurrence in several months.  I find tremendous joy in every movement, every purchase, every single day that we get closer to bringing Baby Boy home.  Mo and I talk to the baby every day; we cherish lying in bed at night and feeling him squirming around.  I'm absolutely loving talking about ways to decorate the nursery, or what we need to buy, or what we're going to do with him when he gets here.  I am, in short, HAPPY.  In a way that I haven't been in many, many years.

But happiness, for me, does not many blog posts write.  I started this space as a place to vent my frustrations and my fears.  I am, without a doubt, much more verbose when I am experiencing those darker emotions. Writing is cathartic for me, a way to deal with and handle my anger, my bitterness, my terror, my pain.  Those things that I can't talk about with others, at least not in any meaningful way.  It is, in its own way, my therapy.

But please, rest assured, that I am enjoying (almost) every minute of this pregnancy.  Now that the terrible first trimester is over, I feel good physically, and most days I feel pretty damn good emotionally as well.  I have my moments; we all do, I think.  This process leaves us scarred and damaged and its quite normal for The Fear to rear its ugly head every so often.  I am, however, quite happy most of the time.  And even, dare I say it?  Excited.  I went shopping yesterday with my mom to pick out fabric for the stockings she is making for us; we also wandered through two baby departments.  It was surreal, picking out clothes that Baby Boy will wear in just a few short months.  I've started cleaning out rooms in the house to make room for the junk that has accumulated in what will be his room; I'm actually looking forward to going back in there and setting things up.  Most of the time I'm able to believe that things are going to continue to go well, and that Baby Boy will be gracing us with his presence in the spring.

But when I don't?  When the Fear takes over?  That's when I come here, to unload those feelings and to feel better.  It's worked for the past five years (have I really been blogging that long? Holy cow!), and I don't see it changing anytime soon.

So thank you for being there for me, for lending an ear to a rather pessimistic outlook at times.  Just know that, deep down, that's just one part of me -- and lately, that part is getting smaller and smaller.  Happy-Jo rules the roost these days -- I just don't have her voice as finely-tuned.  Perhaps I need to work on that.

Meltdown

So things have been progressing quite nicely.  I'm a day shy of 23 weeks, feeling Baby Boy move every single day, and generally feeling pretty damn good most of the time.

But.

Sometimes the emotional overload of the past decade rears its ugly head.  Last night was one of those times.

I was texting my sister about today's upcoming ultrasound (we have a follow-up scheduled from our anatomy scan four weeks ago because they couldn't get enough pictures of the baby's heart).  I was telling her that I was nervous that they will find something wrong, that things can still fall apart and that there isn't much they can do at this point if they do.

And she said something about me being Miss Optimistic.  And I lost it.  I mean, sobbing in bed, fingers flying, as we continued texting back and forth.  How on earth can I be expected to be optimistic, even this far along?  Why does everyone but me believe that I'm actually going to have a baby in March?

Don't get me wrong.  I've finally bonded with Baby Boy in a way I was unable to do during the first trimester.  Feeling him move has changed things -- if something WAS to go wrong, I don't know how I would survive it.  I've always felt that there's a gradation (feel free to disagree with me, I know many will) when it comes to loss.  Yes,  ALL losses hurt like hell.  My first one rocked me to the core, at just six weeks along.  But all three of mine happened in the first trimester, long before I felt any of them moving around, or knew their gender, or gave them names.  They were still hopes and dreams at that point.  I've always felt that a second-trimester loss, or a stillbirth, would absolutely destroy me.  And now I know, having felt this baby move and given him a name, that losing him would be the worst possible thing that could ever happen to me.  He's not just a ghost-child, a maybe-baby that I'm pinning all my dreams of parenthood on.  He's real in a concrete way that my earlier losses just weren't.

Anyway, I digress.  The point is, I melted down over an insignificant comment yesterday.  It's something that hasn't happened in many months, and it brought all those terrifying feelings back into the forefront. All the pain of infertility and loss that has been hiding behind my happy-pregnant smile and my growing bump -- it's still there.  It may not come out to play as often, but it's still there.  I can't erase the past ten years, and I don't feel like a "regular" pregnant person.  I fought incredibly hard to get here, and while I enjoy it 90% of the time, the terror never really leaves.  I'm constantly on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Wondering if it's this appointment, this ultrasound, that's going to destroy the happy little bubble we've been living in for the past five and a half months.

I know that each day that passes, our chances of bringing Baby Boy home alive and healthy increase.  I know, logically and in my head, that we've passed all of our screening tests with flying colors.  I know that if the doctor was concerned about his heart, he would have said something at our anatomy scan.  I KNOW all of that.  But I can't shake the fear, I can't seem to silence the little "what if?" corner of my brain.

Infertility is more than just a physical disease.  It's an emotional virus, one that infects your core and never, ever, goes away completely.  Like a cancer, those cells may lie dormant for days, or months, or years -- but they often come back, raging like never before.  Being pregnant helps (oh god does it help!) to ease the pain, to make life manageable again.  But it isn't a cure.

In my heart, I am still, and always will be, infertile.  Which, I suppose, makes me as pessimistic as they come.

Baby MoJo is a....

BOY!!!!

To say that we are thrilled is an understatement. We suspected as much after our emergency ultrasound at 14 weeks, but it's nice to know for sure. And he wasn't shy about showing us the goods! We got the money shot within 30 seconds of starting the ultrasound.  Everything else looked lovely; I do get another scan in a month because baby boy was quite comfortable, thankyouverymuch, and didn't allow them a great view of the heart.  We did see all four chambers and structurally it looked fine; doc just wants another peek in a few weeks to hopefully get the pics he couldn't get today.  

No names yet -- though we are close.  I'm using my feminine wiles to convince Mo to see things my way.  I'll let you know how that pans out!

A boy!

Shit just got real.  

Gone, But Not Forgotten

I didn't get this up "officially" on time yesterday, though I did post openly on FB and I did remember to light my candles.  I know none of you "missed" yesterday either, with the flurry of blog postings about Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day.  But a part of me feels a twinge of guilt -- I didn't forget, but on here, it sort of looks like I did.

The thing is, this day is very different today (or yesterday), than it was last year.  Or the year before that.  I'm not going to lie -- I am able to face things much more calmly as Baby MoJo (the Fourth) turns somersaults in my uterus.  But I have not -- cannot -- forget the path that brought us here.  Perhaps I even feel the loss of my other babies a bit more acutely these days, now that I am getting a better sense of what I missed those other times. Despite my lack of posting anything non-pg related lately, I've not forgotten where I've come from, or how it feels on the other side of this equation.  (Quite honestly, I'm just busy and exhausted, though I didn't come here to write excuses about not writing).

But here's the thing: pregnancy loss changes you.  I've been fortunate enough not to experience the loss of an infant or even a full-term pregnancy -- I can't imagine how life-altering and core-shaking THAT would be.  But I -- we -- have lost a lot.  I'm not now, nor will I ever be, the person I was before my first loss.  And certainly not the person I was before my second, or my third.  Nor are many of you.  This journey is long, and difficult, and none of us are guaranteed our happy ending.  And last night, and today, the ones weighing most on my mind are those of you who are still fighting, still hoping, still wishing for the light at the end of the tunnel.  I'm not all the way there yet, but I do realize that I'm closer than ever before.  And I'm incredibly grateful for that.  At the same time, I miss my babies -- the little hands I never got to hold, the sweet faces that I never got to kiss.  Pregnancy doesn't cure infertility, and it certainly doesn't end the grief of loss.  It does make days like yesterday bittersweet, a day of sadness tinged with the rosy edges of hope.

To my little loves: you may be gone, but you are not, and never will be, forgotten.  Momma loves you.

And to the rest of you out there, you're in my thoughts today, as always.  May you find some peace in knowing that you are not alone.  

10 Ways Candy Crush is Like Infertility

1. At first, it seems easy and fun. You breeze through it, confident it will all turn out right in the end. Besides, everyone else is doing it! 

2. You think about it a lot more than you're willing to admit. Sometimes, you envision passing the next level as you are trying to fall asleep. 

3. You are shocked to discover roadblocks in your path. No one ever mentioned needing tickets to get to the next level! 

4. As things get harder, you find yourself more and more determined to "win." But, winning becomes simply passing the next hurdle. You lose sight of the end goal. 

5. You watch your friends breeze past you, and you wonder what they know that you don't. 

6. You start to google hints for getting past your current level. Surely, someone, somewhere, has the answer!!! 

7. You try any and every strategy someone suggests for passing the next level, no matter how ludicrous or far-fetched it seems. 

8. You start to resent people who brag about passing levels that are so far away from yours, it seems impossible to ever reach them. You learn to hide those annoying Candy Crush updates from your Facebook feed. 

9. You begin to wonder why you are still playing this game at all. It's not fun anymore, you are hopelessly stuck, but you keep at it anyway, night after night. 

You vow to stop at a certain point, but find yourself whispering, "Just one more try...."

10. Eventually, you realize that it is, in the end, a game of chance. Sometimes you get lucky, sometimes you don't. Eventually, with enough persistence, most people will find a way out, but it all comes down to luck. There's really very little skill involved. Sometimes, you simply can't pass, despite doing everything right. Sometimes you get impossibly close, but that one tiny jelly stands in your way. And every once in a while, the stars align, and you experience the euphoria that comes with successfully beating the challenge set before you. 

Just in time to start the process all over again. 

12 Weeks and Change

We met with our OB again yesterday, and I have decided that I really like him. He told us we'd take a quick listen to the heartbeat, and Mo said, "No pics today?" Dr. Head Honcho smiled and said, "Sure, we can take a quick peek." I know most docs aren't that liberal with their ultrasounds, and I am tickled that we got another glimpse of our little monkey. 

First, we pulled out the Doppler, and as I lay there for what seemed like eternity, hearing nothing, my heart began to sink. 

And then. 

Whumpa, whumpa, whumpa, whump. 

"There it is," I whispered, my relief tangible in the small room. Mo squeezed my hand and we both just sat there, frozen in time, for several minutes.  

After that, as promised, we got another look at the little one. Head, arms, legs, even tiny little feet were visible. It actually looked like a baby in there. There was a little disconnect as I looked at the screen, because, really, how could that be inside of me? I'm the perpetual infertile. I see follicles, and empty spaces, and on a few special occasions a small, featureless, blob of potential - but never an actual baby. I'm still quite shocked that we've made it this far. 

I pause a moment as I write this, wishing I could describe these feelings of elation mixed with disbelief, of pure joy tinged with black fear. But then I realize - you guys already know. You have walked this path before me, balancing carefully on this tightrope that is Pregnancy-After-Infertility.  Some of you long to be here with me, even knowing that the climb is steep, and there is no safety net if you fall. I am reminded over and over again of the many hands that lifted me up, the gentle voices that continued to encourage me each time my feet began to slip or the destination seemed impossibly far. You already know my heart, my sisters of broken dreams. You understand my heartache and my happiness, even if I find myself unable to put it into words. 

Tonight I am grateful for so many things. A husband whose strength I'll never match, a marriage that's grown stronger despite the flames, and this potential life, this longed-for child-to-be that continues to grow despite his or her mother's neuroses. But most of all, I'm grateful for all of you, in a way I could never explain, nor do I have to.

Because you? You get it. And I am so, so, lucky that you do. 

One Foot In, One Foot Out

That's how I'm feeling these days. Like I'm in that shadowy no-mans land. Not happily ensconced in pregnancy, nor railing against infertility. I'm a few days past 11 weeks - still in that first-trimester haze, wanting to believe in happy endings, but still too battle-scarred to do much more than quietly hold my breath and attempt to shield my heart as I count the days passing. Mo is as joyous as I've ever seen him - he proudly proclaimed the news on FB (and to everyone else he knows) after our last ultrasound. But I've held back, still cautious, waiting for that traditional mile-marker, even though I know that telling or not telling will have absolutely no effect on the viability of this pregnancy. I go in again on Friday for my 12-week appointment, and I hope that I can begin embracing this opportunity a little more. Because that's how it feels -- I've got this one shot, this one chance to finally make all our dreams come true. There will be no more IVF's - we are emotionally, physically, and financially spent. I feel incredibly grateful to have this chance, a chance I honestly thought I would never have again. At the same time, it still seems impossible that this one could end differently than our last three pregnancies did. 

Mo keeps telling me that we're going to have a baby in March. But, to be perfectly honest, after ten years of trying to make exactly that happen, it's hard to imagine that it actually could. I can discuss the abstracts -- possible names and nursery ideas, daycare options -- but when it comes down to it? I simply can't imagine the reality of it. I can't imagine going to sleep with my baby safe and sound next to me. I can see myself rocking an infant, I can imagine those sweet pudgy arms encircling my neck, and I can almost smell that sweet baby smell. I've done that often enough with other people's babies. But the idea that I could have one of my own, one that I don't have to give back? One that is ours to raise, to snuggle and laugh with, to learn and grow and ponder with? I haven't let myself go there in so many years. It seems as though I've forgotten how. 

And so it may seem, even to my sweet husband, that I remain fairly detached from this little person growing inside me. And there is some truth to that. A heart that has been broken will often seek to protect itself from similar, future harms. But there's another part, that one foot, that has already begun sinking its toes into the water. I'm moving slowly, that is true. But I'm making progress, delicately balancing my need to keep my head above water (and my feet firmly planted on the shore) with my desire to dive head first into the unknown. 

Half in, half out. Neither here, nor there. Waiting, hoping, for some sign that the water is safe. But it's murky water, my friends, and I can't quite see the bottom. I'm going to have to leap eventually, but for now, slow and steady caution is the only way I can make any progress at all.