I Know What I Don't Know

People often ask me if the twins are my first, and when I tell them about Peyton they usually follow up with comments about how everything happens for a reason, blah, blah, blah.

The problem with this is that I know.

I know that if Peyton had been born healthy, we would never have tried to conceive so soon.
I know that even if we had turned to IVF eventually, and even if I had gone on to have twins, the result of those cycles WOULD NOT be my Snowflakes.
I know that only in losing her, I gained them.

What I don't know is how I am supposed to feel about that.

Reflecting On My Journey Through Infertility

Last Spring, I stumbled upon a video about infertility entitled "What IF?"

At the time when I first saw it, we were knee deep in grief over Peyton and had been trying desperately for nearly 9 months, without success, to achieve another pregnancy. The previous December, I had gotten the news that an infection from my c-section had left both of my tubes scarred beyond any usefulness, and that my only option, and not a guaranteed option at that, was IVF.

I was in shock.

For over a year after Peyton's birth I had complained to my doctor that I wasn't ovulating or menstruating. When she gave us the green light to try again last June, and I failed to conceive, I knew something was wrong. Through it all, my OB explained my infertility away as the result of me "grieving too hard." "If you don't get over this," she would tell me, "you will never get pregnant."

Lying alone and half naked on a steel table at the hospital, my unresponsive tubes glaring down at me from a monitor overhead, a sympathetic doctor delivered to me the news that I would never again be able to conceive on my own. "There is no justice in this world," she told me, taking a deep breath, and as she did, any last shred of hope that I had held onto for a family of my own, flowed out of my eyes and down my cheeks.

In that moment: grief stricken and infertile - I felt my life was over.

Discovering that I had lost my fertility after losing my only child undid several months of healing, and brought a million questions to my mind. Hard questions. Painful questions.

Was I still a woman if I couldn't conceive?
Was I still a mother if my only child was dead?
Was I still a Catholic if I was willing to pursue IVF when the church is so strongly against it?
Was I still a wife if I couldn't give my husband a family?
Were we still a couple if making love could never create a life?

For someone who just a year and a half prior had been a confident 28 year old, with a promising career, thriving social life, happy marriage, and first child on the way - the downward spiral of those 18 months took me to the darkest depths of my life. Everything I believed would be suddenly felt like a lie, and the truths that I was facing were hard to swallow:

I had lost our child.
I had lost our fertility.
I had lost our hopes.

That's not a typo. I HAD LOST these things, or at least that's how I felt. In my mind, the blame for all of our losses and failures, were mine and mine alone.

I don't know why I always viewed hubs in a different light than myself. In many ways, I saw him as a victim in all this. He had married me and I had failed to hold up my end of the bargain.

Maybe it was because our IF issues were with my body?
Maybe it was because when he proposed he told me he wanted to "grow old together and have lots and lots of children," and the realization I couldn't give him that made me pity him for staying with me?
Maybe it was because I was Peyton's mother, and our miscarried baby's mother, and mothers always blame themselves.

All I know is that when I stumbled across this video, it struck a deep chord with me. I had, for months, been asking myself many of the same questions posed in the video.

What IF I lost my sense of self to my infertility?
What IF I lost my sexiness to infertility?
What IF I lost my spouse to infertility?

What IF?
What IF?
What IF?

Today I was looking around on the internet, and once again came across this video. As I did, the tears came, but they were different somehow. Today I cried tears of gratitude. Though I had felt so sure just six months ago that infertility would beat me, today I realized that I have beaten infertility.

It took over a year of trying, months of hormone injections, the pain of twisting an ovary, Ovarian Hyper Stimulation Syndrome, 4 weeks of bed rest for the Ovarian Hyper Stimulation Syndrome, the heartbreak of learning our first cycle had failed, many, many, MANY hours of therapy to deal with the above mentioned feelings, facing a second cycle after failing the first with no explanation, a bleed that has kept me on bed rest since week 12 and in all likelihood will continue to keep me bed ridden for the next 20 or so weeks, tens of thousands of dollars, countless tears, fears and anxieties, and all the emotions that go into having a high risk pregnancy after loss, but I am here - pregnant - full of hope - and very grateful.

I guess that is why I am writing this post. To let others on their own infertility journey know that I get it. I have been there, at the bottom, the very bottom. I have questioned every aspect of myself, my worth, and my life. I have wondered if joy would ever again return to my heart. If I could ever give my husband a family. If I could ever survive this, and the answer is yes.

There is always a chance.

Sometimes we have to wrestle with these big questions to find our way, but in the end, we can all get there. For us, a couple who lost their fertility to birthing a dying child, our chance came with IVF. For others it comes with surrogacy, or IUI. Medications, or adoption.

I don't know what the future holds for us, but I do know that it is looking brighter once again, and that is something that once felt impossible.

I guess that what I am trying to say is that it is only when we open our eyes and our minds to all of the possibilities in front of us, even those that we fear or resent or are unsure of, that we can find pathways to hope.

Here is the video that had such an impact on me. I am sure for those of you haven't seen it before, or are viewing it a second time, you will feel it resonates at some level with you too. (Be sure to pause the music player in the right column of this blog to hear the video.)

These pictures are worth a thousand words...

As you all know, I am never short on words, 

though I thought today I would try a little change of pace.

Warning - this post contains belly shots and ultrasounds. 

I am putting a little space here 

for anyone dealing with loss/infertility who would rather not see.

(Keep the faith, I have been there too.)

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Baby A who we are pretty darn sure is a boy.

Baby B is too modest for us to know for sure, 

but we think B is a girl.

I love this one!

 The snowflakes are growing...

and so am I!

Feeling very blessed - 

though a little makeup in this picture would have done a world of good :)

!@#$%^&

Dear God,

Please!

Love,

Me

So I went to the doctors today, and gotta say, I am not too happy. The (insert expletive of your choice here) blood clot/SCH has grown... GROWN! Despite now nearly three weeks of bedrest. 

9cm at it's largest point when I had my big bleed, it is now 12.5cm x 5.5cm x 2.5cm. I mean really, cut me some damn slack universe. 

For the most part I have been very optimistic throughout this whole SCH ordeal (annoyed, but optimistic) and yes, I should mention, both babies still look beautiful and well so Thank God for that! It's just that I can only handle so much. I have spent the last four years trying to have a family, and have been met by heartache and roadblocks every step of the way. It's not that I am upset to still be on bedrest, I will do whatever it takes to get these snowflakes here safe and sound, it's that I have been doing all I can and up until now, it hasn't mattered... much like with Peyton I did all I could and it didn't matter, and with the baby before her that I miscarried. It gets to be a bit much to handle.

The doctor talked to me about things I don't want to talk about. Risks of miscarriage, stillbirth and premature labor associated with these hemorrages. She wasn't being an alarmist, just doing her job of keeping me informed, and I started to cry, because these are not distant worries for me. I know what loss feels like. I live it each and every day. She then put the doppler to my belly, and for the first time I heard their heartbeats, but the moment wasn't what it should have been, it was tainted by the fear and worry and tears that came with the news that the SCH had grown, and that makes me even madder at it.

She then asked what I have been doing at home, and I told her that per the other doctor's recommendations (this is a large practice) I have been doing bed to couch to bed type stuff and she said, "oh that must be so hard with a two year old running around at home, I saw in your chart that you already have a child." And I cried harder because I do have a child, or I did, but I never brought her home, and she certainly never was afforded the luxury of running around. The conversation was innocent enough on the OB's part, but it socked me in the gut with a force that made the room spin. On my way out I asked the receptionist to retrieve my file. She did, and I said, "I know this may be an unorthodox request, but can you please mark in some LARGE and LEGIBLE way, that my daughter is dead, and that while I don't mind any doctor here talking about the fact that she has passed, having to re-inform every doctor that asks me seemingly benign question about my child who is not, in fact, running around at home, is very painful for me."

She said she understood.

Every day I have people telling me to embrace each day of this pregnancy with joy, and to be thankful for it, and of course I am thankful - I love my babies and not a day goes by that I forget what a miracle their conception was- but embracing the day with sheer joy really feels like a pretty unrealistic expectation to place on me when countless hours spent in bed, and every trip to the restroom and check of the toilet paper, is a reminder of this stupid clot and the possible threats it brings with it. I will say that up until today (with exception of the day of my big bleed) I have shed no tears for this SCH, trying my best to push it to the back of my mind, but today it got the best of me, and I wept, and wept, and wept.

I know it is pathetic to play this card, because I know that life is not fair, but I just want to scream (yet again) that THIS IS SO NOT FAIR!

So God, universe, law of attraction - what have you, I am begging, pleading, and praying, PLEASE make this stupid SCH shrink and go away so that I CAN embrace every day with these babies with sheer joy and celebration - because I think they (and dare I say, I) deserve it.

PS I have not forgotten about my giveaway. I will announce the winner in my next post. Just feeling a little overwhelmed for it today.

They Paved Paradise & Put Up A Parking Lot

So my little snowflakes are doing exactly what they are supposed to be doing. Granted, I don't know how many are in there, but since two went in, and I have cramps on both sides of my uterus, I just sort of assume that they both decided to stick around.

From what I hear, FET betas tend to be on the low side, but this has not been the case for me. Yesterday's blood work was all very good, thanks to the prayers and good vibes you have been sending my way. My Beta was 9158 (I am doubling every 1.8 days instead of every 2-3 days), Progesterone 39.9 (this huge jump may be due in part to the fact that I had to double up on shots two nights ago because of a needle malfunction), and Estrogen 393. Even though my estrogen numbers look good (they wanted them over 200), the Doc is continuing me on 4 patches per day, and my 1.5 cc's of Progesterone is staying the same, too.

Next Tuesday I go in for more bloodwork (I think just estrogen and progesterone at this point) and then Wednesday is the ultrasound when I get to see my little snowflake or snowflakes.

Please keep those prayers coming!

I have been walking around for the last few weeks with the song "Big Yellow Taxi" in my head. I don't know how it got in there, and even less so how to get it out. The lyrics "Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you've got till it's gone. They paved paradise and put up a parking lot" are stuck on repeat in my mind.

Lying in bed the other morning, having woken up to those words AGAIN, I got to thinking, and it hit me - I am the parking lot.

Bear with me on this one...

Before Peyton's birth/death, when I was happy in all aspects of my life (marriage, job, self, pregnancy, family, friendships, outlook, health) my world was paradise. Though I didn't realize it at the time, it was.

And then came Peyton's birth and death, and that paradise was violently dismantled and torn down.

I became just a heap of rubble, and stayed like that for a long time - probably a year.

That was the year I didn't brush my hair. The year of daily hours long visits at the cemetery. The year I accumulated so many lines around my forehead and eyes that I aged ten. The year that every smile was a lie.

As time progressed, I slowly started to rebuild. Things around me began to rise again - "a pink hotel, a boutique, and a swinging hot spot", and a new foundation for my life, a life after loss, was poured like asphalt as a parking lot.

At the end of the day, I am a poor replacement for what I once was - full, blooming, beautiful. As "paradise" I was untouched, undisturbed, and naive. I was innocent. In falling, that was lost.

Sometimes I get caught up on missing paradise, but then I remind myself that I have to look to the future and see that even as a lousy old parking lot, I have come a long way from that heap of rubble I once was.

I have come a long way, and I have a long way to go.

I wanted to let you all know how much I appreciated your messages of support regarding my pregnancy fears. I wish I could say they have calmed down, but I would be lying.

There are worries that I think all pregnant women feel - analyzing every cramp. Saying a little prayer with each trip to the bathroom. And then there are other worries. Those that are born of the unique situation of being pregnant after your only child has died.

These are the worries that can be debilitating.

I keep thinking, if I did so much right for Peyton in that pregnancy, and she still was born so ill, that I have to find some way to do a hundred times more to protect these little ones. My appetite is suffering greatly because I can't help but wonder with each spoonful of food, whether or not I have done a good enough job of checking the ingredients on my lentil soup or rice mix to be sure that no ugliness like MSG has slipped in under a different name.

I can't tell you how much it irks me that the FDA allows food companies to use misleading names like "Yeast extract" for MSG on packages. Where do they get off? I shouldn't have to do a full out investigation just to know what I am putting in my body. Even more frustrating is that some of the organic products that I have purchased from the health food store, too, have these misleading labels.

I know there are some who may read this post and label me a loon who has gone overboard obsessing about what I eat, but those people (for the most part) have never had their daughter ripped from their body and then learned mere minutes later that though she was pink, and beautiful, and perfect, she had cancer and was going to die.

That being said, this place has always been a space of honest expression for me, and I would rather write what I am truly thinking and feeling, even at the risk of drawing some judgments from others, than censor what I share here.

Even I, a woman of many, many words, cannot sum up appropriately how terrifying it is to live in fear of cancer. Witnessing what Peyton went through was horrible, and ugly, and the threats of this terrible disease seem to be everywhere.

In some way or another, it seems, every item we come into contact with has had some study linking it to cancer - canned food, body lotions, makeup, deodarant, soda, household products, charred bits of meat, potato skins, the list goes on and on and on.

I am afraid.
So very, very afraid.

I used to brush these warnings off. I used to say things like, "yeah, but you would have to eat SO MUCH of it to have any effect," and then I watched chemo deplete my daughter of her immune system, and a fungal infection take over her being, and her die in my arms, and that argument lost its weight with me.

So here I sit, pregnant with two little snowflakes who I love so much, trying, trying, TRYING with all I have to be a healthy vessel and give them the best of everything so that they can come into this world healthy and happy and normal, and there are meth-heads abusing their bodies and birthing  beautiful healthy babies that they don't care for or appreciate, and I have to tell you, it just seems so, so unfair.

Why should these people be entitled to getting off scott free? Why aren't they the ones affected by infertility?

Why does it seem that all of the tough lessons of loss are only reserved for those of us who so love and want our babies?

Why?

I have been thinking about Peyton alot lately. Not that that is any different, but thinking about what she would be like as a nearly two year old, and those thoughts just break my heart for her again.

I think about dressing her up, and watching her promptly get messed up. I think about her playing with our friends' daughter, Caitlyn, born a few months before she was, and how at this age they would be talking with real words, and some bits of sentences, and have their very own bond of friendship.

I think of what it would be, to have a full pregnant belly, with big sis looking over it, and it hurts.

She was robbed.
We were robbed.

I can't imagine that any amount of blessings can every bring peace to the portion of my heart reserved solely for her.

And so I sit here and I wonder how any of this can be possible?

How I can be so petrified, and excited, and heartbroken, and overjoyed all at once?

2nd Beta

So the numbers at yesterday's beta were, for the most part, good. My beta more than doubled, increasing 216% in the 48 hour period. My progesterone stayed just about the same, down to 26 from 28. I asked about the lower progesterone and was told that it was not a big deal. Progesterone levels can change a little day to day, and they think anything over 20 is good. As is my protocol, I am continuing the 1.5 cc injections of Progestrone in Oil daily. There are welts the size of golfballs dotting the landscape of my upper rear, but I don't care. It is all worth it!

The only number that didn't look so great was my estrogen. They want it over 200, and mine was at 140. I have been taking 3 Vivelle Dot patches every 2 days as is, and have now been upped to 4 patches. Please pray that the estrogen situation remedies itself so I can be taken off these patches sooner than later - their side effects really freak me out.

So there it is. I am pregnant as pregnant can be :) I go back next Tuesday for another beta, and then will have our first ultrasound at 6.5 weeks to see how many little snowflakes are in there. At the end of our call, my IVF nurse gave me my due date, which took me off guard for some reason. I guess I am still in a bit of shock about being pregnant. It's March 13, 2011.

I am trying to soak up the joy in this news and just be, but as is usually the case with me, I worry. Yesterday's news about my estrogen threw me into a googling panic searching for success stories of pregnancies with low estrogen, but I didn't come up with much of anything, good or bad. I am trying to tell myself that it's because it is not a big issue.  I think it is maybe to be expected to have low estrogen when coming off a frozen cycle, but I am not sure.

With my first IVF I had high estrogen, but I was on stimulating drugs then. The drugs for the frozen cycle were for suppression of hormones, and essentially put me in menopause. I guess my body is just taking a little longer than we would like to catch up.

I worry about things within my control (what I eat, what I drink, what I do or don't use i.e. lotions, make-up) and I worry about things outside of my control (cramping, if my boobs hurt enough, our stupid town deciding to unexpectedly pave our road yesterday.) The last one really urked me. As soon as we saw what they were doing, hubs and I hit the road, and stayed away all day not wanting me to be near any type of fumes. We came back several hours after they had finished and still, even today, a part of me worries that there might be something lingering that could do harm.

The worrying can be paralyzing.

I don't want to be like this. I want to be overjoyed, and happy, and naive. I guess that's what it really comes down to, isn't it? In losing Peyton, I have lost my right to be naive. My innocence is gone.

Don't get me wrong, I am excited to the point that I am even letting this news sort of sink in and feel real, but even as I celebrate, I can't help worrying about how much is at stake, and that's overwhelming. I thought I did everything right with Peyton. Trying to figure out how to do even more right for these snowflakes is exhausting.

I can't tell you all what it has meant to receive so many loving comments of support and prayer at my news. It can be so hard in the ALI community to see a blog with a BFP while you are still waiting, and I know the strength of character it took for so many of you to extend congratulations. Thank you.

I have been blessed so immensely by this community, in the way that you have stood hand in hand with me through every step of this journey, and want you to know that never, once, has your kindness gone unnoticed or unappreciated.

I ask that you continue to pray with me (or send good thoughts, call on the universe, whatever works for you)  that my estrogen numbers improve and I can get off some of the more scary meds. That at the end of this pregnancy, these snowflakes (however many are in there) come into this world healthy and happy. And for me, that I can see through the worry and fear and find the strength within to feel the sheer joy that is this pregnancy.

I don't claim to be a photographer but...

I think you get the picture...

Needless to say, we are thrilled.

Today's bloodwork:.

Beta 308. 

Progesterone 28. 

Today is 11 days past 3 day transfer of our 2 little snowflakes.

We go back in on the 6th for our second beta. 

Please keep those prayers coming!

**This is a note for my friends struggling with infertility** Please never, ever give up hope! As someone who has spent the better part of the last two years worrying that this moment would never happen for us, I understand what it is to be there. Please see in this post the possibility in all things, even those which at times can feel so painfully impossible.

Waiting for the other shoe...

Last night I had a dream. In my dream I was where I am now, a few days post IVF transfer, awaiting my pregnancy test. 

I dreamt that I was walking along a sidewalk in the city. Each stretch of concrete that I travelled was surrounded by a small patch of grass with little yellow tickets warning that pesticides had been applied. I tried to get away from the harmful chemicals, frantically crossing the street, but as I did, more little signs popped up. It wasn't until I came to an area where there was no longer any grass, that I finally was able to take a sigh of relief - and that's when I saw them. 


Men, dressed in protective gear, were spraying pesticides at weeds growing up through the cracks in the concrete. The smell burned at my nose, and I clasped my hands over my mouth trying not to let any of it in. I held my breath and started running past them as fast as I could, but as I ran, the chemicals from the sidewalk soaked into my socks and shoes, and I could feel the wetness spreading across my skin.

I was desperate to get away. The pesticides, it seemed, were everywhere. Standing in this concrete space, I began screaming and crying for someone to help me. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a taxi stopped, and I begged the driver for a ride. I told him about my little babies, and that I needed to protect them, but he didn't care. He just stared at me, straight faced, demanding payment. When I checked my pockets, and showed him what few coins I had, the driver told me it wasn't enough, laughed, and drove away. 

I was alone, hopeless, and afraid. It felt like no matter what I did, where I turned, or what steps I took, my poor little embryos would be exposed to some cancer causing agent. When I woke up this morning, I was terrified.

I know they say that stress affects implantation, so I wish I could calm my mind, but as I look around me, I see threats everywhere. Threats I didn't pay much heed or attention to when I was pregnant with Peyton. Don't get me wrong. I ate all organic with Peyton, refusing any processed foods except on the rarest of occasions. I worked out five hours a week, and had excellent prenatal care. I did all these things, and still, she was born with cancer.

Now it is as if my eyes have been opened to a world full of hazards. 

I am afraid to walk down my own street, for fear of what neighbors may be putting on their lawns. I went tag sale-ing with my mother the other day, and couldn't even bring myself to get out of the car for the same reasons. I drive with the internal air being circulated at all times, worried that some fertilizer or chemical truck might pass me and send harmful toxins in through my vents, or that the cigarette smoke from the car beside me will harm these little ones too. And my fears don't stop there.

My husband took me out to eat last night. I got meatloaf. I love meatloaf. But last night I looked at the plate wondering if my veggies had been washed enough. If the beef was grain-fed, or full of antibiotics and hormones. If any of the ingredients came from cans lined with harmful BPA. If the water I was drinking, being city water, was being treated in a manner that could harm them. If the adorable dog who came up to me on the street wanting to be pet, had chemicals on his back. If the cheerios I ate to get me through my bout of nausea, were processed with too many chemicals for these little ones to tolerate. If the computer, on a table in front of me, posed any sort of microwave danger, or the cellphone my husband handed to me, was sending harmful rays.

You can see where this is going.

I KNOW that I need to find calm. I KNOW that I can't allow my fears to take over because stress affects success rates, and believe me, I am trying. But how? How, when the first time I did everything right, and still created a child so wracked with cancer, how can I find peace? How can I trust that these precious little embies who I love so much, will one day arrive in this world safe, and healthy, and alive?

How? 

When all I have known of motherhood has been heartache and loss, how can I BELIEVE?

My little snowflakes...

are in!

Now, we rest, and we wait.

Due to a very tipped uterus, and an apparently "twisted cervix" (I have never heard of such a thing) the catheterization process was a little more uncomfortable than we anticipated (thank goodness for that half a valium they had me take before hand) but the transfer itself went smooth, smooth, smooth.

Thank you again for all your prayers, well wishes, and positive vibes through the ups and downs of these last few days.

UPDATE...

First and foremost, thank you for all the prayers and kind messages of support. They have meant so much to me, and better still, they seem to be working!
(I put "seem to be" because Lord knows I have gotten burned on assumptions in the past.)

Thanks, too, for the remedy recommendations. I have given some of them a try, and am happy to report that I am feeling pretty good. My UTI seems to be clear (I am symptom free in that department) but I think the stress mixed with battling an infection, and all the IVF injections and medications, have just left me feeling a bit run down. On a positive note, I must be drinking A TON, because I lost three pounds of medication bloat overnight!

My doc is on vacation this week, but the RE who is performing the transfer has said that as long as I continue to feel well, we will go ahead as scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.

As many of you know, it takes two weeks from the time of transfer to get pregnancy results. Last time I felt so sure I was pregnant, that this time I just don't even know what to expect.

I am hoping (what an understatement that word is) to have good news to post in the weeks ahead, and really want you all to know how extremely grateful I feel for the positive vibes and prayers you have been sending our way.

Here's to two sticky embies!

You Have Got To Be Kidding Me!

So... I have been a bit mum on here about the fact that hubs and I are fast approaching our next transfer date (namely this Wednesday the 23rd.) It was heartbreaking for me to get my hopes (and that of so many readers here) up during our first cycle, and the idea of having to once again break bad news was a hard thing for me to face.

I can't tell you how desperately I want to be in the club. How desperately I want to be one of the women proclaiming that my turn at a rainbow baby has arrived. How much I yearn for a chance at a normal, mothering, life. I can't tell you how much it hurts that with every step that we take forward, another hurdle falls in our lap.

This frozen cycle has been exhausting physically (I was put on a zero sugar, carbs, or fruit diet in the hopes that low insulin numbers would increase our chances of success) and emotionally (taking testosterone, progesterone, and estrogen, each of which have a different affect on my mood and emotions.) It is for these reasons that I took a huge sigh of relief this morning when I saw that I had finished my Lupron protocol, and was moving onto the drugs that are in direct preparation for the transfer.

Everything has been going really well this cycle. My uterine lining (an ideal at 8 or 10) was even measuring at a beautiful 15.

Like I said, it was all going smoothly.
Too smoothly.

I should have known better.

I woke up this morning feeling really tired and rundown, but for the dietary and emotional reasons stated above, was not particularly surprised. Within a few hours I was having trouble going to the bathroom, and by this afternoon, I was peeing blood.

It turns out that today, four frikkin days before my frozen transfer, my body has decided to bestow upon me my first ever urinary tract infection. I called the doctor, went in for a test, and have started antibiotics. I did all that I was supposed to do, and in short order, but the doctor has warned me that this still might not be enough.

A UTI brings about a less than ideal transfer situation for our precious embryos, and because of this, we have been warned that they may opt to cancel the transfer.

A transfer we had to wait two months to reach after the heartbreak of April's failed attempt.
A transfer that the preparation for has required daily infusions of hormones and medications with side effect warnings that, having witnessed my child's battle and subsequent death to cancer, are enough to make me curl up in a ball and cry.
A transfer that, having no more insurance, we have laid out over $6000 in cash for.

It may sound selfish, with all that so many in this community are going through right now, but I am asking - Please pray for us.

To whatever God, or being, or spiritual presence you are moved by, please pray that this infection clears up and doesn't threaten or cancel Wednesday's transfer.

Please.

This Father's Day was hard enough for my husband to keep a brave face through without having to hear this news, and it feels as if my own prayers are falling on deaf ears.

Please.

We really need a break.

how? how? how?

How could this have happened?

Sometimes I can't help but get caught up in these words.

They came to my lips yesterday during an unexpected trip into Peyton's nursery. You could ask me why I entered, and I would have no answer for you. (I haven't been into her room since writing this post in early February.) I can only say that as the knob was turned and I stepped in; as I looked around at the unused baby items, the clothing, the crib, and remembered for too brief a moment what life was like at the time when that room was set up, those words came to my lips... 

How could this have happened?

Tonight a friend stopped over, and out of nowhere, in a way that I haven't in months, I just broke down to her mid-sentence and cried.

I cried that I used to be so in control of things; that I had plans, on top of plans, on top of plans; and now feel that everything is so completely out of my control, that all I can do is collapse into how overwhelming a feeling that is. I feel like a pawn, anxiously awaiting whatever move the universe doles out for me next, and it's terrifying.

I want to be in control of my life.
I want to feel alive.

Even the choice of adding to our family has gone awry. I take shots and patches and pills in an attempt to make happen what had come easily for me in the past, and it doesn't seem to matter.

I see baby items in our house and can't believe that we will ever use them. Not truly believe it. Not in a way that brings any security and comfort to my heart. After all, these things, these precious items that were hung with care, have now been left stagnant, untouched, for a year and a half.

Seeing them makes me feel like they belong to someone else. I feel isolated, left out of a world where babies  happen with ease (or so it seems) to everyone but us. 

Don't get me wrong, I don't want to feel this way.

I have tried positive thinking, The Secret, the law of attraction. I have tried prayer, meditation. I have tried to envision everything working out, but try as I might, right now, I just can't see it, and that hurts.

As someone who so prided herself on five year plans for everything from home ownership to career moves, it breaks my heart that I can't plan five days, five weeks, or five months down the line, because nothing feels within my control. This, too, brings to mind the words...

How could this have happened?

After a blood draw at my RE's office earlier this week, I, like a moth to a flame, walked to the bathroom in the waiting area to wash my hands. I did this, not because they were dirty, but instead for the smell of the soap. Pink and watery, this soap, I had discovered in a flashback of awareness, is the same institution grade soap that we used when scrubbing into Peyton's hospital room.

To anyone else it would smell like soap, but to me it smells like my child. My perfect, beautiful, brave little child who was here long enough to haunt my memory, but too short a time to remain in the memories of others.

Lately Peyton has felt "surreal" to me in a way that hurts like losing her all over again.

I washed, and washed, and rewashed my hands, working the soap deep into my pores, wanting to soak it in, and then as I drove home, I held my fingers just below my nose, breathing in the memory of her, and reminding myself that she was here. She was here. I know she was.

She was real.
I was her mother.
I had a daughter once.

It all felt so cruel to be driving away from the place that signifies my stolen fertility, breathing in the scent of my stolen child, and asking myself over and over...

How could this have happened?

Surviving The Thaw

Ugh.

Many of you have written asking about our next steps, and I wish I had more to report, but unfortunately, right now we are in a bit of a holding pattern.

I guess I should be used to this right?

Our next IVF attempt will be at transferring two of the four embryos frozen from last month's cycle. The doctor tells me that approximately 80 percent of frozen embryos thaw successfully, so hopefully this means that at least three (if not all four) of them will survive. 

Our greatest hope, of course, is that this next cycle works and we get pregnant, and then in a few years we go back and transfer the remaining embryos to complete our family. That being said, we are being a little more emotionally cautious this time around, or trying to be at least, because we know all too well the price of getting our hopes up.

The good news is that we have the embryos and can try again. The bad news is that doing a frozen cycle delays us even further. The drugs for this cycle are intended to do the opposite (suppress my cycle) of last month's drugs, and because of that, are on a completely different timeline. I will start taking Lupron on the 21st day of this cycle, and then continue it for 18 days. This unfortunately means that our next shot at a transfer won't be until mid June.

Ugh.

More waiting.

This is the point where I am going to whine for a minute.

Let me just say, for the record, that it really sucks to go from:

"well, no babies for us in 2009, but at least there is 2010." 

to: 

"we are infertile so a baby in 2010 is unlikely but possible." 

to:

"our only chance at a baby in 2010 is end of December if this cycle works."

to where we are now:

"if this works, maybe a baby mid 2011." 

It's like the carrot of parenthood that has been dangling in front of our faces the last few years seems to be getting further and further out of view with each step we take towards it, and watching the months and years tick away just adds to the frustration.

I think about how this journey started in 2007, and while I know that trying to control the uncontrollable doesn't do me any good, I am human, and overwhelmed, and it just happens. 

A few people wrote last week (here and in emails to me) that maybe I should get that a baby is not in God's plan for me, or that they believe I can't get pregnant because my grief and inability to get over it has hardened me too much. I like to give people the benefit of the doubt and believe that their words are coming from what they feel to be a good and helpful place, but sometimes those comments just feel really unfair and full of blame. 

I wish life was that cut and dry for me, but the reality of my situation is that even if I skipped down the street, handing out balloons and whistling dixie all day, my tubes would still be scarred from bottom to top, and getting pregnant without a great deal of difficulty and medical intervention is just-not-possible.

I understand and respect that everyone is entitled to their own opinion, but also think that to say those things when fertility has not been an issue for you, and you have your own children at home to love and mother, just feels awfully judgmental to me. The truth of the matter is that the only thing that separates my situation from that of the person saying these things is a little bit of bad luck. 

As far as wanting to go ahead with trying to get pregnant and have more children, I cannot (and will not) apologize. Why shouldn't I want them? Am I, for some reason, no longer entitled to be a mother because my husband and I were dealt the shitty hands of child loss and infertility? Have these last few painful years, for some reason, negated our right to want what seems to come so easily to others? To want what we envisioned in our life together- a family of our own? Is that the message we should be sending, if you are dealt a tough hand, give up?

Would I be more entitled to have another child if I had moved right on from Peyton? Would that honestly have made me a better mother - forgetting all that she went through, or acting as if she was never born?

Last week, a man learning through a friend of my loss implied that I should count myself lucky that losing Peyton wasn't a true tragedy  like losing a child that I had known for ten or fifteen years would have been.

Excuse me?

Is that when we are expected to start loving our children, only after they have been here ten or fifteen years? Why hold them as infants? Why even bother with their young childhood?

I think this is a sad stigma, and one that is sort of unique to the babylost community, that there is this segment of society who believe that just because our children were here for such a short time we should get over them more easily, or feel that their lives were somehow less significant just because they were cut so short. 

I know that this is only my opinion, but it is my belief that whether an embryo, a fetus, an infant, a child, a teenager, an adult, or a senior citizen, these are all stages of human life, and no stage is any more or any less important or deserving of respect than the next. I didn't love Peyton less at 28 days, than I would have at 29 days, and I don't count myself lucky that at least I lost her so young as others have implied that I should, nor will I ever get over her just because she was little, and weak, and dealt a lousy hand at only having a month here on earth with us.

Peyton was my child, and is my child, and loving, mothering, and missing her immensely, is not something I will ever apologize for, not in real life, and certainly not here, and if that makes someone uncomfortable - tough.

There is no way for me to know what the future holds in terms of our family building. I don't know if this next round of IVF will be a success, or the round after that. I don't know if we will adopt, or have children, or both. Very few answers have been easy to come by these last few years, but what I do know is that my daughter is gone and I miss her like hell and grieve her everyday and none of that makes me any less deserving of being a mother again, even though my grief takes me there sometimes.

Since September 3rd, 2008, Hubs and I have been sort of frozen in time, stuck on pause just crying out to press play and move forward. We want to do what we set out to do when we left for the hospital that day. We want to do what we expected we would do - to come home with a baby, to start our family life, and watch our children grow.

Peyton's passing, and our subsequent battle with infertility, have spun us around. We have been cooled to the core and left to sit and wait on the rack, and while there are days when seeing other couples moving on and creating families with ease may make it seem that this frozen place is forever, we have to remind ourselves that anything is possible. We have to believe that we, like our little embryos, will survive the thaw, and once we have, something beautiful will be born.

On Full Disclosure

I wish that I could write here and say that journeying through grief is an ever upward march toward healing, or that each day brings you closer to happy, or that it is possible to put things you have felt, seen and experienced behind you, but I can't - it would be a lie. Along the way there are many unexpected dips, turns, and blockades that rob you of your breath, instill anger, or throw you back a few steps in your healing. This is what happened to me last week. 

I know that the tone of my last post may have upset some of you, and I really wanted to address all those who took the time to offer me advice, share stories, and post comments from various belief systems, as a means of reaching out to me regarding my current struggle. The vast majority of messages left here or emailed to me were supportive, insightful, and understanding, and for that I am grateful. 

My story is not a clean one. Hearing about infertility on top of loss makes some people uncomfortable, tired, or frustrated. On a few sad occasions, it even compels them to send a note passing judgement on how long I should be grieving, or how wrongly they think I am handling my infertility. Sometimes I wonder if in telling me that I have done something to contribute to or perpetuate my loss, it makes them feel that they can put distance between their situation, and mine. If they can feel a sense of security, looking down at me from their high perch, and actually convince themselves that they are untouchable. I assume pointing a finger is easier for some, than having to accept the ugly reality that you can do everything right, and still have things go so incredibly wrong.


Most of the people who read this blog can, for the most part, understand. Most of the readers of this blog are dealing with their own losses, or struggling with their own fertility, and it is because of these shared experiences that they have found this page. It is because of these readers that I cannot apologize to the few who have reached out to tell me that I should be somewhere else in my grief. It would be a disservice to myself, to this process, and to those who come here for a sense of validation and understanding. 


I have always prided myself on being truthful here, even when my truth isn't what people necessarily want to hear from me. This blog is not a "life after loss and infertility is all rainbows and sunshine" type blog, simply because that is not where my life is right now. I of course see nothing wrong with those blogs (I hope to get there myself one day) but right now, in the thick of it, saying anything along those lines would just be lying.


There are days on this blog where I share what I feel to be some semblence of beauty revealed to me by this journey. There are days where I can feel myself doing some healing, or looking to the future feeling hopeful and optimistic. On those days, that is my truth, and therefore I write about it. On days like this past Monday, where I felt kicked down once again, where I wondered how much a person was expected to take and felt at my wits end, that is when you get posts like "Oh God."

It may surprise some of you to know that messages on both sides of the faith fence brought healing to my heart these last few days. Messages from those who have no faith, those who are strong in their faith, and those who have been tested in their faith, have felt this level of anger at God, and have come through. 

Messages like Kelly's: "The bottom line is...I'd rather walk through it with Him than without Him." 

Or Deb's: "Don't listen to me or the next person or God. Listen to you. And don't feel guilty or less of a person ever." 

Quotations like Elizabeth's:"For now, let your rage flow. And above all, as the poet said, rage, rage, against the dying of the light ( I take this to mean hope.)"

Or insights like Fran's: "People don't know what God's intentions are no more than you or i do. You have every right to feel betrayed by a God who should have been there." 

Each of these was sent by women standing at completely different corners of the faith spectrum, and each was sent with one goal in mind - to let me know I am not alone.

In the words of these women, and so many others, I felt validated in my feeling things that, if not shared, would have just left me to feel isolated. For the most part, even those who couldn't agree with what I had said, still expressed an understanding of where I was coming from. I received notes on FB, comments here, and via email, and with the exception of a few that stung to read, felt incredibly blessed for the uplifting openness of this community.

If there is one truth in all of this, it is that once you have lost a child (or your dreams of a child) regardless of how long you had them with you, a part of you dies. That doesn't mean you stop living or that you don't appreciate what you have. It doesn't mean you never see the beauty in life around you, or that you refuse to go on to spite the world. It means just what it means, that a part of you dies, and as that part dies off, other parts of you are born, and somewhere along the way you try to mesh the two and find your new place in a world that you never wanted to know existed, and that is not something that you can do according to anyone else's timetable. That is what I try to do here... to give a truthful account of my journey, even on the days when my account is not pretty or clean.

I am open here even when I know that what I say may make one reader roll her eyes, or another tell me to get over it. I am open, even when I know that in doing so, someone may use my words against me, or imply that any of this is a choice. I have to be truthful here, if not for me, than for the next person stumbling across this page, walking in the same lousy pair of shoes, looking for comfort and validation that while their feelings may not be something that their friends, family, or co-workers understand, under these incredibly abnormal circumstances, are understandable.


That is why I think we need to have full disclosure here. We need to be truthful, even when it can result in someone sending you a comment or an email that hurts to read. When we have been dealt the blows that we have, when we face questions and conflicts that the average person is lucky enough not to need to understand, that is when we must be the most open. How sad it would be, if in looking for validation and understanding, someone reading these blogs only found more of the same... a message that they need to brush these feelings aside, or heal according to the standards or time frame that someone else has deemed convenient.

What can I say???

BFN.

Greetings From Inside My Cocoon

Last Thursday, I attended my second monthly grieving mother's group, and just as I had at the close of the first meeting, I felt grateful for having found it. As many of you know, this group isn't the first that I have tried to attend - I went to one early on that was an epic fail of tears and anger - but this group gives me a sense of hope, and so I continue going back. It is also a faith based group, and my faith is totally rocked right now, so I think that it is good for me to be around other women who have had their faith shaken to the core and gotten through it.

Sometimes it feels like the universe takes me by the hand, and leads me to certain people from whom I can learn. As I was preparing to leave the house Thursday, I suddenly felt compelled to wear the sea glass necklace that Hubs had bought me last year. I thought this odd, since I hadn't worn it in months, and when I got there, was floored by the irony of this action - the theme of the group was reinvention after loss, and to illustrate these changes, the group leaders held up marbles and sea glass.

Their interpretation of sea glass was different than mine, but I couldn't help but think about how fitting it was that the universe had brought me to sit among this group of women, talking about how I had left my life of medical sales after Peyton's death, and reinvented myself as a writer - and even more oddly, how one of the first pieces that I had written about grief, was a piece comparing my journey to that of sea glass.

As the night progressed, I thought a lot about reinvention, and grief, and this journey, and my mind kept returning to the old Chinese proverb: "Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly."

I started wondering where I was in that chain, was I a caterpillar, or a butterfly, and decided that I am neither, but instead somewhere in the middle. One of the women came over to share with me the story of her loss - a son who had passed some 8 or 10 years ago, and asked how I was doing. I told her that I have my good days, but for the most part am still quite angry and bitter, and she said, "like the butterfly in the cocoon, your stage of thrashing about can't be rushed."

Have you ever been to a butterfly museum and seen big glorious butterflies sitting on the floor lame, unable to fly? Those beautiful creatures are destined to failure, because they have been let out of their cocoon too early. To become strong enough to fly, butterflies must be left alone to beat their wings against the inside of their cocoon to draw the strength they need for survival, and just like these butterflies, so do I.

I need to throw myself against the inside of my cocoon for as long as it takes. I need to beat my hands at its walls, and scream and be angry. I was wronged! My child was born with cancer - I was wronged! I watched her suffer - I was wronged! She died in my arms - I was wronged! I will never see her grow - I was wronged! I mother a grave -I was wronged!

I was wronged!
I was wronged!
I was wronged!

But I embrace it.

People have asked me time and time again, if I am "feeling better yet," or "have gotten over it." and the answer is "no", and that is okay. Someday I will get to that place, where I shed my cocoon and fly free of the pain of all that happened to her. Someday I will flutter through the air, and others in passing will only see my beautiful colors, and comment on my grace, without knowing of the struggle it took to get me there. Someday I will be that butterfly, who as a caterpillar thought her world was over without believing that a beautiful life still lay ahead of her.

Someday I will be all those things, but first the hard work must be done. First I need to be left to thrash about. First I need to build strength in my wings against the walls grief has built around me. First I must work through the pain of child loss and infertility. First I must do all these things. These are the steps that will help me survive this journey.

I don't mind being stuck in my cocoon. I am used to it now, and know that coming out too quickly would put to waste all of the growing I have done this last year and a half. Coming out too quickly, for the benefit of others, would destine me to a life of looking pretty on the outside, but feeling too weak inside to ever truly lift myself off the floor.

I don't mind my time in the cocoon. It is what is owed to me.



**An IVF update.**
No news is good news right? I have been going back and forth with my symptoms, some days worse than others with OHSS. I find that if I can lay on the couch like a lump and guzzle Gatorade, they get better. When I venture out, they get worse. Sometimes I hate when they get better, because OHSS is so closely tied with HCG. The doctor has lifted some of my restrictions. I am now allowed a "short stroll" each day, and I am grateful for it because the weather is beautiful, and I was getting so bored.

I have been having a lot of pregnancy symptoms - extremely heightened sense of smell, exhaustion, tender gums, mild cramps, did I mention EXHAUSTION?- but I don't know which of these symptoms are due to the progesterone, and which are real. Two more days, and all this wondering will be put to rest, I just pray that the wondering becomes celebrating and planning... until then... I wait.

Slowly but Surely

Have you heard about the hottest fashion trend this Spring?
Permanent red Gatorade mustaches. 
Not convinced? 
Bummer. 


In the last two days alone, I have pounded down about 4 gallons of Gatorade and Smart Water, eaten the saltiest of salty things, and sat around, for the most part, like a lump, and you know what? I think it is working!


The painful pressure feels a little lighter on my chest and back today, and I know I am jumping the gun in thinking this means I have begun taking a turn for the better, because I always feel best in the morning, but at this point, I will celebrate any relief that comes my way.


I spoke with my RE yesterday, who said that with the exception of my white blood cell count being a little high, my blood work looks good. Of course, a high WBC count is a total trigger for me, having lost Peyton to Leukemia, so news that should have been no big deal for me, sent me through a tail spin of fear and what ifs. I told the doctor about my fears, and he assured me that just two weeks ago my numbers were totally normal, and that he is sure this is from the stress that having grossly oversized ovaries is putting on my body. 


I hate triggers, and after a traumatic loss, so many things, even unexpected things, can be triggers. I talked about this with my therapist yesterday, about how much I hate that the simplest things can cause utter panic in my heart. It's like any sense of security flew out that window with Peyton's soul. I'd like to go back to that place, that happy naive, innocent place, but then I realize that after all that we have been through, I don't think we would be welcome back there anyway.


My RE instructed me to continue resting, and said that I still can't exercise :( but that I can take a "little stroll here or there." Last night I "strolled" with hubs into Walmart for more Gatorade, my first time out of the house since Sunday, except for my doctors appointment, and this morning, I took Charlotte for a little pee walk, although honestly now I am totally wiped out so that might be all my "strolling" today.


On the brighter side of things, I am having a few "symptoms." I don't know if they are brought on just by the progesterone or what, but I had taken progesterone to bring this cycle on, and never experienced them then. My chest has a kind of tugging ache when I move too fast, and EVERYTHING, good or bad, smells really strongly to me. I know it is still too early to tell, but I guess feeling something is better than feeling nothing.


Either way, one week from today, we will know for sure.




**Side note... I have heard from a few women who want to spend International Babyloss Mother's Day Together on 5/2, here in the Connecticut Area. If there is anyone else who would like to join us, please email me at doinggoodinhername(at)gmail(dot)com.

Ugh...

Take a deep breath, and repeat after me:  


This too shall pass. 
This too shall pass. 
This too shall pass.


Do we believe it yet?

So it's confirmed. I have OHSS - Ovarian Hyper Stimulation Syndrome, a side effect of IVF that causes your overstimulated ovaries to become so engorged with fluid, that the fluid then gets poured out into your abdomen. Apparently refusing to look up OHSS on Google, and being in denial, does not actually protect you from developing it... who knew!

I am on day three of bed rest, and from what my doctor told me today, I have many, many more in my future. She wants me on the couch all day, with the exception of the occassional walk to the bathroom to keep me from getting a blood clot sitting around. She told me today that she believes that the pain I experienced after my transfer was probably one of my giganto ovaries twisting. "Lucky for me," she said, "it twisted back." If it hadn't, she explained, I would have needed surgery.

I am starting to feel like Murphy's law. Let's do the rundown, shall we?

Pregnancy #1 - Elation, followed by miscarriage.
Pregnancy #2 - Elation, followed by childbirth, followed by extreme traumatic loss of child to disease with 1 in 50 Million odds.
Infection leading to Infertility
Infertility requiring IVF
IVF leading to OHSS

Do you see where I am going with this?

I have some of the major risk factors of OHSS. I am young, and produced a huge number of follicles (over 60 per ovary.) The good news is that my little embryos, Emma and Emelio, will not be affected by this. The bad news is that my ovaries are now so large they can be felt ABOVE my belly button, and I am stretched in my stomach like I am 5 months along.

Wait, scratch that. I just checked out a picture of me at 5 months with Peyton, for comparison. Yes. I know. There is no makeup on, and my hair is undone in this pic, but I am posting it anyway.

(Hey, do you all like that hideous wallpaper in the background? Have no fears, that came down during my nesting period.)

So here I sit, typing this two days post transfer, and already I am much bigger than I was in this picture, and not in the cute little basketball way above, but more in an all over bloatey, gross and utterly uncomfortable way. No, don't worry. I won't be attaching any pictures of that.

Apparently there is no "cure" for OHSS, just various attempts at treatment. Well, that's a lie. There is one cure - Aunt Flow. If she comes, OHSS resolves on its own, but she *fingers crossed* is not coming to town, so onto plan number 2.

The doctors have put me on an extremely high salt, high protein diet, and have ordered me to drink Gatorade all day long. Sounds bizarre, I know. Apparently the salt and electrolytes from the food and Gatorade are meant to suck the extra fluid from my abdomen, and into my veins, so that it can be processed out of my body. I even get the joy of peeing into this little top hat looking thing that is now accessorizing my formerly boring bowl, and reporting my progress to some nurse each morning. Sorry... TMI?

If I am pregnant *sticky vibes*, the problem will actually get worse before it is better, and if both Emma and Emelio decide to stick around, the hormones of having a multiple pregnancy will have me floating down the street like a Macy's Parade Balloon. OHSS can, as my RE told me, last through the first trimester, correcting itself only once the HCG levels level off.

So now I wait, and hope for the best. If the fluid gets too high, my doc will have me admitted to the hospital for observation and my stomach drained. During today's exam, they saw blood and fluid in my abdomen (the blood most likely from the Egg Retrieval Surgery) but not enough fluid to warrant draining.

Let's all collectively pray that this gets better, or that I can at least control it with the bed rest and diet. They took a bunch of blood from me today, to get a firmer understanding of all that is going on, but told me my vitals look good, and that that is a good sign. Tomorrow I will get the blood results, and hopefully they will look fine too.

Until then, its soup and gatorade and salt licks for me, as I sit on my couch repeating this mantra over and over...


This too shall pass.

A bumpy ride but...They're In!

Sorry for the bit of a delay, this last few days has not gone quite as smoothly as I was hoping, and I haven't had the energy to write.

We got the fertilization report on Friday afternoon. 15 eggs were retrieved, 10 fertilized and of that 10, 6 were considered good quality (3/4 on the grading scale) by Sunday's transfer. 2 were set aside for implantation, 4 frozen, and 3 more are going to be allowed to go to day 5 to see if they reach a freeze-able state. Of the 10 fertilized, only 1 didn't make it.

I have been suffering from a great deal of cramping since Thursday's retrieval. My ovaries have grown very, very large (because of the hyperstimulation) to the point where I can feel them if I put my hand on my stomach. The discomfort before the transfer was sort of like a strong tugging type cramping, what came after was so much more than that.

I went in yesterday for the transfer with a full bladder as instructed. I was given the option of taking a Valium, and decided against it (though I later regretted it) and was changed into a gown and seated in a waiting area where we got to see a cute little picture of the two nine-cell embryos to be transferred. Hubs and I have dubbed them Emma and Emelio the Embryos. We said our goodbyes at the door, and I was taken into the operating/procedure room for the transfer.

They put me on an inclined table (butt above head) and inserted a catheter through which the little embryos were delivered to my uterus. This part wasn't really bad at all, except for the very full bladder which the nurse described as "huge" as she pushed on it with the ultrasound wand.

After the transfer, I had to remain on the inclined table for a half hour. About 5 minutes into it, what I thought was just my really full bladder started bothering me. I tried to meditate, and do breathing exercises, but it wasn't working. By 15 minutes I was in agony, and at 25 minutes they took me off the table. I asked if it was going to be a problem, letting me off 5 minutes early, and the nurse assured me that it wouldn't. I sort of hobbled over to the bathroom, hoping that by emptying my bladder I would feel relief, but even after going, I was in agony. It was like stabbing pains from my hips to my neck, and it seemed to be getting worse and worse by the moment.

The nurses assured me that this level of cramping was normal for someone with such hyperstimulated ovaries, and released me. They advised me to take Extra Strength Tylenol for the pain. Hubs got me in the car, drove to the nearest gas station, and bought me some rapid release Extra Strength Tylenol, which I couldn't get into my body fast enough, but relief just wasn't there.

Honestly, what I felt in that next hour was worse than the height of my labor pains with Peyton, and those were pretty awful (I had been induced with Pitocin and labored for 11 hours) but they at least came and went with contractions. This pain was non stop. Every bump in the road was like a knife going into me. One second into my abdomen, the next into my ovaries, the next into my chest. It was unbearable. I considered having Hubs turn the car around to take me back to the hospital, but the prospect of spending anymore time on the bumpy roads than I already had, was more than I could handle.

It felt as if all the laying inclined back the way I had after the transfer had pushed all the fluid of my whole body into my stomach and chest, and my ovaries were just throbbing. I really cannot emphasize how much pain I was feeling. Breathing made my shoulders hurt. I just had pain everywhere.

I usually have a fairly high tolerance for pain. Even after having just had a c-section with Peyton, I was able to work through the pain the next day to stand at her bedside for hours. Yesterday's pain was too much. It was unbearable and left me too exhausted to even cry. It was like I wanted to cry, I could feel that heat in my eyes, but all of my energy was being used to just keep breathing.

When he got me home, and on the couch, Hubs called the hospital from where we had just come, and spoke with the doctor on call. He explained that I was in a great deal of pain, and asked what I could do for it. She told him more Tylenol. He asked if a heating pad would be okay, and she said she didn't think it would help, but might "comfort" me, so it was okay to do. I hugged the pad, and for the most part placed it up high on my stomach near my ribs, because that was where I had the most pain, just praying that it would help the pain to subside a bit.

20 minutes of heat, and four extra strength Tylenol later, I could breathe again. Of course then I made the mistake of reading about heat and pregnancy (all bad of course) and I spent the next hour worrying that maybe I had screwed something up for the baby(ies) by using the heating pad. Sometimes I feel like no matter what I do I am doomed to somehow screw up any baby I carry... is that a loss thing?

The rest of the night went okay, except for my Progesterone shot, which really hurt like hell. I don't know if it was because of all that happened to my body that day, but it was the most painful of the Progesterone shots so far (this is day 3).

For the remainder of the night I took the Tylenol religiously, and even slept through the night (though I did have this really trippy dream about being a doctor and telling a patient that their child was going to turn into a carrot... don't ask. Must be the hormones.) Today I woke up feeling crampy again, but not as bad as yesterday. The doctor told me that the worst of my Ovarian Hyper Stimulation Syndrome symptoms should subside over the next week.

So hopefully little Emma and Emelio the Embryos will find my body a comfy place to be, and set up residence. It was really cool watching them go in. They were like two tiny white dots. I asked the RE why I could see them, when they are only the size of the head of a pin right now, and he told me that what I was seeing was the fluid they are in. I watched them sit against the side of my uterus, and said a little prayer to Peyton to please watch over these babies, and keep them healthy.

Before the transfer, all felt right in the world. It was as if the signs were coming in all around me. Yesterday at mass, the priest gave a homily about Easter being a time of "renewal and new life" and I thought, how fitting, that on a day that signifies new life, these two precious little embryos would be placed inside me. Then, before heading out for the transfer, I read an email from a beautiful friend who wrote:

We just watched "It's the Easter Beagle, Charlie Brown" to get us in the Easter spirit -- goofy, I know-- and there was a line, "spring is a time of renewal" that made me think of you. :) I think it's really awesome how the IVF lines up with Easter, being a time of rebirth and all.... hope this is the beginning of an incredibly bright future! 

So here is to Easter, and Spring, and renewal and rebirth. Here is to Emma and Emelio, who I pray 11 days from now, will be two beautiful little lines on a pregnancy test. If at the end of this all, I have my healthy rainbow baby(ies) to take home, there is no amount of cramping and pain that wouldn't be worth it.

Retrieval Update, Peyton, and IBMD Announcement

Today marks exactly 1 year and 6 months since we said goodbye to our little Peyton. 1 year and 6 months and nothing has ever felt "right" again. They say time heals, but what healing can come to the heart of a mother when her child's death has torn it in a way that is so profound and everlasting?

I find myself wondering... What would she be doing as a nineteen month old? What color would her hair be? Would her personality be outgoing, or shy, or both? Would she look like me at all?

1 year and 6 months have passed without her, and I could write a million sonnets and poems and posts here about how that feels, how deeply the loss of this child has rocked me to the core, or how broken my heart is without her. I could write and write and write, but no words could ever do these feelings justice. Just know little girl that we miss you. A year and a half ago. Today. Always.

****
Thank you all for your prayers, support, and words of encouragement. Yesterday went pretty well. The procedure was expected to take fifteen to twenty minutes, but they actually had me in a little over an hour. As explained earlier, I had A LOT of follicles, so they had to take their time going through them all and retrieving what they considered to be the best ones.

I learned something new about myself yesterday. As one nurse put it, I am "a hoot" under anesthesia. I have no recollection, but apparently I came out talking about chicken parmigiana, and calling the anesthesiologist and other staff by some pet names. Thank god I am not privy to any classified information, they probably could have gotten anything out of me in that state!

From the time that I came out of the procedure, until now, I have physically felt pretty okay. I am crampy, and a little sore, but all in all, not as bad as I expected. Emotionally is another story. I don't know if it was the HCG shot or what, but I have been feeling really down, which doesn't make sense because we came out of it with some pretty great news - they were able to retrieve fifteen eggs (our understanding is that more than 10 eggs is considered a good cycle.)

We decided to expose them all for fertilization because we were told that on average, half the eggs retrieved will fertilize, and half those fertilized will do so "well." Today, between 1 and 3, we will get the call to let us know how many eggs have become embryos, and how they are doing.

Tonight we start the progesterone shots in my back. I have been a pretty good sport up until now about the injections, but this one has me really scared... any hints out there?

*A LITTLE SIDE NOTE* International Babylost Mothers Day is just around the corner (May 2nd.) Are there any other mommas in the CT/Northeast USA area who are interested in meeting up to spend the day together? If you would like to join us, please shoot me an email at doinggoodinhername(at)gmail(dot)com