October 15, 2011 -- I Remember

A Few "Aha" Moments

The last few weeks have been quiet, on the outside anyway.  But inside, I've come to several startling revelations, which of course I feel the need to write about here, on my most personal space.  Call it recording for posterity, or whatever.  They may seem small on the surface, but the effects have been kind of earth-shattering.

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The first one came while running. Yes, me, running. I'll wait while you pick yourself up off the floor.  I haven't run since I was about 7 years old, and for some reason I decided that doing the Couch-to-5-K running program made perfect sense.  I hate running.  Or, I should say, I used to hate running.  Because something unexpected happened as I pounded out those steps those first few workouts -- I felt a sense of accomplishment that I haven't felt in a long time.  I felt GOOD.  It felt good to move, to breathe hard, to use my body in a way that I am not accustomed to.  I may only have been running at a minute at a stretch, but I was running.  I was doing something I didn't think I could do -- and that high hasn't left me yet.  

The second revelation came hand-in-hand with that one -- I realized, mid-run, that there is only one person on this planet that I have ever given up on: myself.  I am loyal to the end, giving absolutely everyone around me chance after chance to change things.  I stick by people despite being treated badly, despite not being respected for the amazing, awesome person that I am.  :-)  In all seriousness, I speak badly about myself before all others and frequently tell myself that I can't do _______________ (insert anything you'd like here). I am working really hard to change that -- not my loyalty to others, but in applying that same loyalty to myself.  Running is one way that I am both physically and metaphorically putting myself first -- something I haven't done in a very, very long time.  

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The third revelation comes on the heels of ten years of infertility.  It comes after three losses, and more heartbreak than I ever thought I could stand.  It comes after a simple comment from a random co-worker, whom I suspect will soon become so much more.  I finally, for the first time, told someone out loud that I am not a Christian.  

This is a fundamental shift that may not surprise you (I've hinted at my agnosticism previously), but it was really strange for me to actually say OUT LOUD.  As I told my friend, I'm not one to really broadcast my religious beliefs.  I never did it when I was an ardent church-goer, and I don't do it now that I am questioning all of it, either.  I live in the Baptist Bible-belt, and I have enough of a sense of self-preservation to keep mum on all illogical proclamations that come my way.  

But I've now had several online and in-person discussions with a handful of people close to me (Mo, my mother, my aforementioned new-friend) in which I was able to articulate (though not with as much clarity as I would have liked) just what it is that I find to be so --- offputting?  Illogical?  Neither word seems exactly right. -- about the organized form of Christianity to which I've been exposed my entire life.  

Now, don't get me wrong.  I am not about to start spouting atheist ideology and trying to convince all of you that you're wrong for what you believe.  My beliefs are more like a quote I read once on an acquaintance's FB page under religion: I don't know, and neither do  you.  I respect every person's right to worship as they see fit, in a manner that makes them comfortable and happy, and fulfills their spiritual needs.  I fully see the importance of spirituality and its contributions to society.   I just don't feel like Christianity fits me any more.  I anticipate I may lose followers for saying this, but it just doesn't make any sense to me.  I don't believe that Jesus was God, nor do I believe that his death somehow makes my unforgivable sins suddenly forgivable.  I wish I could say what I do believe, but I'm not far enough along on this journey for that yet.  I just know that something doesn't fit -- and I felt more like "me" finally saying so, and not being afraid to hide behind the societal expectations that I proclaim differently.  

So there you have it.  I realized that I'm awesome, I'm starting to take care of myself, and I'm accepting myself for what I am, where I am.  I may not have any of the answers, but I am slowly starting to feel good in my own skin.  And that, my friends, is worth blogging about.  

Why Children are NOT a Blessing

Before you roll your eyes at the bitter infertile talking, hear me out on this.

I do NOT believe that children are a blessing from God.

That is not to say that they aren't amazing, wonderful, innocent creatures -- indeed, they are.  That is not to say that parents should not feel grateful for the amazing, wonderful, and innocent creatures that are in their care.

But please, let's stop mistaking gratitude for God's favor.

By saying that you have been "blessed" with a nice home, two cars, a good job, and a houseful of children -- you are also saying that others have not.   What message does that send to the homeless?  The unemployed?  The infertile?  That you are worthy of God's favor, and, by default, they are not.

Our society likes to publicly state that  we owe everything we have to God.  It's a way of sounding humble, of acknowledging that we in no way have done anything to "deserve" the magnitude of success we achieve.  It's also total bullshit.

I am by no means saying that we should not be grateful for things in our lives.  I am very fortunate to have been born into white, middle-class America and have benefited greatly from that.  I got a good education, I have a good job, and Mo and I therefore have a lot of really nice things.  I'm lucky in that, should times turn tough, I have a family to lean on and support me.  I don't anticipate having to go to a shelter, or a food bank, or a welfare office in order to make ends meet.  But -- does that make me more "blessed" than those that do?  Am I, due to circumstances largely beyond my control, somehow in "favor" with God?  I don't really think so.

I know that most parents, when they speak of the blessings that their children bestow, they are in fact trying to express the sincere sense of gratitude they feel for being able to parent.  They are not trying to say that they are somehow "better" than those of us without children.  And yet, to say that you have been blessed with children, it automatically begs the question: why have I not?

Kim. K. of Kar.dashian fame was heard saying recently, "I work hard, so I deserve nice things."  While that may very well be true, don't all of us work hard at something? Is she more deserving of the millions she makes than a serviceman or woman fighting overseas?  Let's face it -- most of us do not "deserve" the crap life hands us.  And yet it keeps on coming, in one form or another.    

And, for all that you (and I, for that matter) may someday feel that our as-yet-unconceived children ARE actually gifts from God, I simply cannot imagine that He is up in Heaven passing them out like candy for deeds well done.  He doesn't look at the drug-addicts, or child-abusers, or neglectful parents and say "THESE are my chosen people!  Let's bless them with an abundance of children!"  In that same vein, I don't believe that my infertility is my "punishment" for lack of faith, or for any sins I may have committed unknowingly in the past.

Some of us are lucky in the game of life.  Some of us are not.  I do think we should focus on being more grateful for the wonderful things we DO have.  We should never take them for granted, because life can change in an instant.  But to publicly state that our material possessions, or our children, are given to us because we're "blessed" by God also sends the message that those who aren't, don't deserve it.

And THAT, my friends, is something I just can't embrace.  So, disagree with me if you will, but I will continue to say it:  children are a host of wonderful things and they bring pure, unadulterated joy to their parents.  But neither they, nor your home/cars/diamonds/job, are a reflection of God's favor (or lack thereof).  Should I ever be fortunate enough to have a child in my life to raise, I will likely thank God every day.  But I will never, ever, ever imply that said child is a blessing, for that is just a slap in the face of those whose lives took a different path.

Left Behind

I didn't mean to go MIA, I promise.  I'm simply swamped with life, and work, and trying to find a balance that leaves me time to do anything besides clean the house or work on lesson plans.  I'm finally starting to get ahead, and promise to try to be a better blogger/commenter/friend.

I must confess, though,  I'm finding it kind of hard to read many of the blogs in my reader these days.  It seems like everyone is either pregnant or in the throes of an IVF cycle.  Everyone else, here and in IRL,  is moving on, except me.  I am tired of being the bitchy infertile, but I just feel left behind.  It's like everyone is graduating, and I've got to go to summer school.  All I want is that diploma, but due to circumstances beyond my control, I'm stuck in the audience, watching all my friends walk across that stage.  They are all celebrating (as well they should) and moving onto the next chapter in their lives.  Meanwhile, I'm here in limbo, still unsure of whether or not I'll ever get to join them, and yet knowing that life will continue to go on regardless.

Mo is making great strides in softening up toward adoption.  I think he's finally coming to the realization that that is quite likely the only way we will ever be parents.  I've quietly started researching all our options, weighing pros and cons of the different paths, and trying to wrap my head around the entire process.  Fellow adopters may shake their heads at my ignorance, but I honestly believe that after all we've been through in the IF world, adoption will seem a helluva lot simpler.  Yes, there's a ton of paperwork, and yes, there's a ton of waiting -- but haven't I been doing that already?  My medical history is as convoluted as my marital one, and I've filled out more than my fair share of forms, affidavits, etc. in the last six years. :-)  And don't even get me started on the waiting!!!!  After nine years and eight months of TTC  -- what's a little longer?

Our "Final FET" as I've begun to call it is tentatively scheduled for November/December.  I got the cycle plan in the mail today, and was so tickled to see how low-maintenance Dr. Down-to-Earth is making it.  Estrace for a few weeks, ONE sonogram (done locally), followed by more Estrace.  Start POI a few days prior to transfer.  Continue until pregnancy test.  That's it.  It almost seems a bit anti-climatic -- certainly not the ending that I anticipated to our fertility treatment journey.

And that's where we are.  Pretty much in the same place we were a month ago, but with slightly more optimistic outlooks for the future.  I keep trying to convince myself that pregnancy is just a tedious, exhausting means to an end -- and through adoption, I can bypass all that misery!  Certainly my body isn't a fan of gestating, as it so efficiently rid itself of all products of conception each and every time we tried to convince it that, truly, that WAS what nature intended it to do.  (Ha!  The uterus scoffs).

I know, I know...I'm a broken record these days.  I've just been on this rollercoaster for way too long and, people, I really, really, really want to get off.

I just don't want to get off emptyhanded.  

Life Goes On

I think that's the hardest lesson Mo and I have had to learn over the last three years.

Even when you wish it wouldn't, even when you can't fathom it being possible, life does, indeed, go on.

It goes on despite deaths, and births, and devastating diagnoses.  It goes on despite the pain, despite the sorrow, despite the desire to curl up in bed for days on end.  Life goes on.

And so, when my sister texted me on September 2nd and asked me how I was feeling, I shouldn't have been surprised when it took me a moment to realize what she was referring to.

One year has passed since I first didn't get to bring my baby home with me.  Had our first pregnancy worked out, my child would be turning one.  And I almost forgot.

How is that even possible?  I feel like the worst mother alive -- and I'm not even technically a mother.  But how, HOW, could I forget, for even a moment?  How could I not remember ever second of every day that life that grew inside of me?  How could that experience -- and the next loss six months later -- disappear from the forefront of my mind?  

It did because life goes on, and the pain that was so excruciating a year ago, has faded.  It hasn't disappeared, but its no longer the blazing hole in my heart that it once was.  No one wants to hear it while in the throes of grief (myself included),  but there's a reason that it's a cliche: time does, indeed, if not heal all wounds, at least allow them to scab over.

Life goes on, whether we want it to or not, whether we think we can survive it or not.  We continue to breathe in, breathe out, to put one foot in front of the other.  We do it because we have to, but it could hardly be said that we enjoy it.  We endure, until one day we realize that it doesn't hurt quite so much.  We learn to smile again, to laugh without feeling guilty.  We return to our everyday, mundane activities.  We go to work, we cook dinner.  Slowly -- oh, so slowly -- we learn how to live again.

Because life goes on, even in the shadow of death.  And while I'm not sure of a whole helluva lot else, I am sure of this: life will continue to go on long after me, and Mo, and all of our trials and tribulations are long gone.  Life will go on -- whether we're able to create it or not.

And for some reason I can't quite articulate, I find that strangely comforting.  

Either/Or

Mo brought home a book the other day.  This is monumental in itself, as he is not really a book-reading kinda guy.  He knows HOW to read, and he reads newspapers and online crap all day long.  He just never got into books the way I did.  I digress.

Anyway, this book was given to him by a co-worker.  It's an older book, written in the 1990's, about a woman who lost her naturally-conceived triplets due to premature labor, then two more pregnancies the same way.  This was in the late 70's/early 80's, and she was very young (19-22) at the time.  She then went on to have three successful pregnancies and three beautiful children.  The book is all about how she maintained her faith in God throughout the tragedies of losing her five babies.

The book was, obviously, very difficult for me to read.  It wasn't that it was overly-preachy, but more that it raised the same questions I grapple with every day.  Why would a loving God allow these babies to be conceived, just to be yanked away?  Why would he give babies to undesiring or undeserving parents, and not us?  She doesn't pretend to have any answers, thank goodness, just maintains that life is full of pain and misery and that it is all part of a grander plan.

My problem, of course, is the idea that it IS all part of a grander plan.  I think it's really easy to say that when you are on the other side.  When three living, breathing, children are sleeping in their beds underneath your roof.  When the pain and frustration are no longer echoing in silent rooms and a way-too-big house.  I'm not discounting her pain, or the pain of anyone who experiences a miscarriage or still-birth.  I know firsthand how much those babies were wanted, loved, and will always be missed.  But I also think it's part of the human condition to want to create order out of chaos, and that is why we will often look back on our lives and try to make sense out of why things happen the way they do.  We turn coincidences into divine providence, and assign meaning where there is none.

It also raised another issue for me, one I've struggled with silently for months now.  At the end of the book, as she is reaching out to others and realizing that she isn't the only one who has experienced this, she writes about how "her story is not my story."  And I feel that, oh-so-acutely these days.  The more I reach out into the blogosphere, searching for others "like me," the more isolated and alone I feel.  Not only am I continuously being lapped by my closest bloggy cohorts, but more and more of the blogs I find are written by women just starting out on their journeys.  And while I understand that to them it doesn't feel like just starting out, that two years absolutely can feel like an eternity, I also long to find someone who has been at it as long as I have, who hasn't yet figured it out, who still wonders what the final family portrait is going to look like.

Please don't misunderstand me.  My pain is not greater than anyone else's.  My frustration and anger are equaled by many, I'm sure.  I just wish I could find someone who is walking this path with me, someone whose story I can relate to.

And I think that's really what it boils down to.  It seems like so many in the ALI community are either/or.  Either we can't get pregnant without medical interventions, or we can't stay pregnant without medical interventions.  Loss is horrific, but even more so when you know that you CAN'T get pregnant again, at least not without considerable effort and cost.  Virtually all of the blogs I read are either IVF or RPL -- but not one of them has both.   And it just seems so unfair that we are saddled with both of these diagnoses.  We will never be one of those couples who stops trying and is blessed with a surprise natural pregnancy.  If we decide to live childfree, my friends, that's exactly what will happen.  And even if we decide to continue to pursue a pregnancy, well -- there's no guarantee there, either.

I would give anything to be one, or the other.  To be able to get pregnant, as many times as it takes, without spending every last penny we have.  Or, to have just one of our expensive treatments result in an actual live baby.  Maybe that sounds callous -- I don't mean it to.  Some of my biggest supporters have suffered more losses than I have, and I don't want to sound like I'm belittling those.  Each and every baby was wanted, and each and every loss was incomprehensible.  I certainly don't wish for more losses.  But the ability to try again -- I admit, I'm jealous of that.  I'm jealous of those who can have sex and get pregnant, even if those pregnancies are riddled with anxiety.  I'm jealous of those who do IVF, get pregnant, and carry to term.  Hell, I'm even jealous of those who have given up on treatments and are pursuing adoption -- they are, at least, making headway on this never-ending, winding path to parenthood.

Sometimes I feel like I'm walking where few have tread.  It's a lonely path, and no matter how hard I try not to, I keep thinking that "her story is not my story."  In doing so, I know I'm isolating myself, closing off opportunities for support and encouragement.  And yet, I can't help myself -- it pops up despite my best efforts to suppress it, to keep it stifled underneath proclamations of hope, and best wishes, and promises of a brighter tomorrow.

I've spent the better part of a decade being resentful, and jealous, and even bitter.  I don't want those feelings to define me.  And yet, what does, if not how I feel 95% of the time?  How do I "keep the faith" when all signs point to a life I am not willing to lead?  How do you stay positive in the face of tragedy?

MIA

As I go back and re-read the outpouring of love on my last post, I'm wiping tears from my eyes and feeling a huge amount of guilt.  I am so sorry to disappear on you ladies (I completely missed ICLW this month), but with school starting and all the other life-altering discussions going on at home, I simply haven't had time to log on.  And, truth be told, I kind of wanted to let things sit for a while, to allow both Mo and myself to recover from the rollercoaster ride that has been the last few weeks.

I am happy to say that, two weeks after we received the news of our latest pregnancy-that-was-not-to-be, that Mo and I are still holding tight to each other. Mo definitely hit a rough patch for several days, particularly once that horribly low beta was confirmed to be falling.  I can't say I blame him -- I have played those same thoughts on an unending loop in my head for the last year and a half.  But, I am also THRILLED to be able to say that it was just venting -- or so I think.  A little over a week ago, Mo confessed to me that he has been talking to a friend of his about adoption, and that he does think that he will be willing to adopt.

I tried so hard to keep my thoughts to myself, to process what he was saying without just reacting, to let him get all of his fears, frustrations, and ideas out on the table.  And I am so, so, happy that I did.

It hasn't been all smooth sailing, don't get me wrong.  We're not just happily bouncing onto the Adoption Train -- the last decade has left scars that I fear will never completely heal.  But, just knowing that he will consider it -- and that maybe I don't have to imagine a life without children, restores my hope that someday I will have a family to call my own.

This week we also had our WTF appointment (via phone) with Dr. Down-to-Earth.  He didn't really say anything we weren't expecting: he is insisting on the chromosomal testing and the recurrent miscarriage panel before any more treatments (thankfully, insurance should cover it now).  He then advised us to go ahead and do our frozen transfer.  He thinks the blasts we have on ice are of comparable quality to our fresh, and provided nothing major comes up with the bloodwork, that we have a pretty decent chance with them.  While I'm not jumping onto that particular hope-bandwagon just yet, I do still want to go ahead and transfer them.  I think I would feel that way even if he said it was a 0% chance of success.  As I tearfully explained to Mo while we were discussing our plan, those babies are us, no matter how small, and they may very well be the only ones we ever again conceive.  If they are going to die, it's going to be inside of my uterus, and not inside of a lab.  He agreed, and so I think the plan (for now, anyway) is to go ahead with the FET in early November or December.

After that, I'm not sure that we will ever again board the Treatment Train.  I can't stomach the cost of IVF with just the chance at success -- our cycles are 100% out of pocket, and we've already thrown away close to $30,000 on three losses.  I would be willing to revert to IUI w/ donor sperm (simply because it's the cheapest option), but I don't think Mo would be game for that.  I did ask Dr. DTE what he thought the post-FET future would hold (donor eggs? donor sperm? donor embryos?) and he didn't want to focus too much on that (one step at a time, he reminded me!) but he did say that donor eggs was not going to be the answer.  I know that Mo feels a huge amount of guilt over this, but at the same time, I don't know how he would feel about a baby that had my DNA, but not his.  He just now has started to consider adoption -- at least in that case, the baby would not have either of our DNA.  Which I am fine with -- I have frequently said that someone could drop a green-haired, purple-skinned alien baby on my doorstep, and I would welcome it with open arms.  I need to do more research on embryo adoption -- but given my history, I'm not sure I'd want to risk that either.  Even if the testing reveals nothing they can pinpoint as "wrong," the bottom line is we've transferred 7 beautiful, perfect, textbook embryos into my uterus -- and every single one of them has died.  Who's to say that someone else's embryos would fare any better?

I've put a lot of thought into this the few weeks, and I don't want anyone to think that moving onto adoption is strictly a financial decision.  I truly believe that, even if money was unlimited, that I am very close to being done with treatments.  Even covered 100% by insurance, IVF is a long, time-intensive, emotionally-draining process.  Followed by an even longer, anxiety-ridden, sick-feeling, ten months.  It would totally be worth it in the end -- but at the same time, I can't say that, given a choice, I wouldn't prefer to skip all of that.  Not that adoption is any easier, its just different.  I can handle the paperwork, the waiting (I've been waiting for a decade after all), etc., if I know that, at the end, we will have an actual LIVE baby.  Pregnancy, for me, is no such guarantee.  To give all of that -- everything I have -- and still end up empty-handed?  I don't know if I can do it.

So, that's the plan.  FET in a few months, followed by more research and hopefully starting the adoption process by summer.  I'm well aware that that means it will probably still be several years before I'm holding my child in my arms -- but I'm willing to wait.  It's the idea of "never" that I just can't embrace.

Negative

Or, as Nurse Chipper so cheerfully stated this afternoon, "completely negative."

Don't you just love how blithely someone can hand over news like that?

I knew it was going to be, but still.  It stings.

What absolutely crushes my soul, however, isn't this chemical pregnancy, but the feeling like all my hopes and dreams are disappearing along with my falling betas.  I cannot see the light at the end of the tunnel anymore.  All I see are different shades of misery: childlessness, loneliness, desperation, frustration.

I don't want a life without Mo.  I don't want a life without children.  I don't want to have to choose.  I am so ready to be a mom -- we have been on this TTC rollercoaster for almost a decade now.  I have been lapped so many times I've lost count.  I don't want to spend another 3 years, or five years, or more chasing this dream.  I've already wasted ten years of my life on this shit.  But, the idea of just giving up makes me want to curl up into a little ball and just scream at the universe.

I don't want to be childfree forever, but I'm desperately afraid that I will be.

Is This The End?

Kudos to any of you who read that title in Ja.net Jacks.on's voice ala "Rhyth.m Natio.n."  She was my hero in the 90's.

Mo and I had a very heartfelt, tear-laden talk on Sunday.  He spent most of Saturday pissed at me (or so it seemed) because I went in to school and got some work done.  Today was the first day with kids, and I was so upset Friday that I just ran out of there.  Luckily, my sister came up and helped me mend things on Saturday morning.  Mo was furious, though I think he's more angry with the situation we're in, than in the fact that I went in to work (instead of resting at home).

Anyway, there was a lot said in our conversation, and I'm still trying to process it.  I'm actually really proud of us for having such an emotionally-charged talk without yelling, or saying mean things.  We actually TALKED.

I am, however, quite devastated, as we seem to be on completely different pages once again.  Mo thinks he's done, for real, this time.  I GET that, and I respect that, but the thing is -- I'm NOT.  Maybe in ten years I will be.  But right now?  Right now I still want children, and I simply cannot -- cannot-- imagine my life without them.

I really can't imagine my life without Mo, though, either.  He's been my rock, my infertile shoulder, the only person who truly understands how I feel and what I've been through, because he's been through it all, too.  When I think about him living in a different state, not seeing him every day, not hearing his voice -- my heart just shatters into a million pieces.

I don't think that it's fair.  I know infertility isn't fair, but this part is even worse.  Why should I have to choose between my husband, and a family?  Why can't I have both?

Mo is still against adoption.  He says its too expensive, the lists are too long, and he's not willing to drain the savings we have left to raise "someone else's" child.  I've done enough reading to know that his feelings are completely normal, and may change in time -- but how much time?  And what if it never does?  I can't spend my precious few fertile years left waiting for him to come around.

As for treatments, those are currently off the table as well.  We have two frozen embryos, neither of which we really think is going to result in a live baby.  Even if they survive the thaw, our batting average just sucks.  Whether its a sperm issue or a uterine issue doesn't even seem to matter at this point.  We can't do PGD because they are already blasts.  So they'll sit, for the time being, and probably be transferred at some point, though neither of us truly believes we'll have any different outcome.

Any other treatment options aren't appealing to Mo (or myself) either.  IVF w/ PGD means more shots, more planning, more money, more time.  We don't have unlimited amounts of any of that.  If it is somehow determined to be a sperm issue, Mo has already expressed reservations against donor sperm (which would mean we could "revert" to IUI, a much cheaper route).  So that's out.  Donor Egg/Surrogacy would mean up to twice the cost of traditional IVF.

I just feel like I keep running up against a brick wall.  I know that emotions are running high right now and Mo may change his mind (he has before).  But, I also know that he is thisclose to turning over to the child-free side of things.  He talked last night of wanting to move back to his hometown (where he went to high school) and wanting to buy a boat, to live on the beach, and be happy.  He doesn't want to stay here, in small-town middle-America, and continue to have happy families thrown in his face day in and day out.  And he's right -- there is nothing here except my family, and other families, and other people's kids.  And every single activity -- from church, to school, to festivals, to movie theaters -- everything is family-centered.

But I spent 10 years away from my family, and I need them.  I need their support, and their love.  I need to see my sister every week, to watch my niece grow up.  I need to hug my mom.  I looked at Mo and told him, as sincerely as I could, that if I couldn't have children, he couldn't take my family from me, too.

So that's where we are.  He wants to move, and I don't.  He wants to move ON, and I don't.  We're at an impasse, and I fucking HATE the biology that means we can't wait this out indefinitely.

Something's gotta give, one way or the other.

I just wish I had any inkling of what it would be.

I Can't Do This Anymore

This wasn't the post I had planned for today.

Beta came in at 14.5.

At that level, I shouldn't have gotten a positive on the CBE digital.

Which means they are dropping.

I will retest on Monday, but I'm not optimistic.

Two miscarriages, and now a fucking chemical.

I hate infertility, I hate IVF, and tonight -- I hate the Universe.

I can't do this anymore.