For the first time in the last three years, I've made it through April without the baby(ies) dying. Two years ago last Sunday I had my first miscarriage; a year ago today I had my second. But today is May 1, and this kid still has a heartbeat and is still moving around. I'm starting to believe this might actually happen.
Last week I bought things for the baby for the first time -- I spent a big 40 bucks on a crib sheet and blanket. It's not that I don't have anything; it's just that I'm hugely fortunate to have many generous friends and family members. I partly haven't bought things because so far I haven't needed to, and I partly haven't bought things because -- even though there's ton of baby stuff in my house right now, provided by others -- I'm a bit superstitious.
There are still tons of things to do -- figure out legal stuff, decide about cloth v. disposable, decide about circumcision in the hospital vs. a mohel (don't bother flaming me; comments are moderated for a reason), get the baby's room ready, maybe pick out a few names, find a daycare center. But things are progressing: we've taken our childbirth, newborn care, and breastfeeding classes. I've got a dresser full of gifted baby clothes and a closet full of receiving blankets. I've got a stroller, a crib, a glider on the way, and two slings. And that's before the two showers that incredibly lovely and generous people are throwing for us.
Still: I'll believe it when I see it.
Showing posts with label miscarriage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label miscarriage. Show all posts
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Firsts
"Is this your first?"
That's the question people ask -- in the deli, in yoga classes -- when they find out you're pregnant. It's a question I can't quite bring myself to answer.
My first would be about a year old now. Maybe he'd be walking. (For some reason I feel it was a boy.)
My second and third -- identical twin boys -- would have been born this month.
My fourth stopped developing about five weeks ago, and its sibling -- my fifth -- still seems to be around, kenina hora.
Yesterday after my prenatal yoga class, I went to a crowded taqueria for lunch. A woman from my class sat down to share my table. In talking about our pregnancies, we discussed our past ones. I realized that for the third time in a month, I shared very personal information about my miscarriages with someone I barely know.
I have fought so hard to become a mom. In my life, I've dealt with major work difficulties, breakups, and family health crises. I fought to lose and keep off 75 pounds, and I trained myself to run half marathons. But nothing has been harder than trying to conceive. And nothing has been harder than staying on track after disappointment upon disappointment. So when a woman sits down at a restaurant to share chips and salsa with me, I can't just blithely pretend that this pregnancy came easily. Infertility and miscarriage are part of this narrative, and I don't feel the need to whitewash it. Moreover, I feel that to get me, and to get what this pregnancy means to me, you need the back story.
No, this isn't my first baby. It'll hopefully be my first child, but it isn't the first time a living being has taken up residence in my womb and in my heart.
That's the question people ask -- in the deli, in yoga classes -- when they find out you're pregnant. It's a question I can't quite bring myself to answer.
My first would be about a year old now. Maybe he'd be walking. (For some reason I feel it was a boy.)
My second and third -- identical twin boys -- would have been born this month.
My fourth stopped developing about five weeks ago, and its sibling -- my fifth -- still seems to be around, kenina hora.
Yesterday after my prenatal yoga class, I went to a crowded taqueria for lunch. A woman from my class sat down to share my table. In talking about our pregnancies, we discussed our past ones. I realized that for the third time in a month, I shared very personal information about my miscarriages with someone I barely know.
I have fought so hard to become a mom. In my life, I've dealt with major work difficulties, breakups, and family health crises. I fought to lose and keep off 75 pounds, and I trained myself to run half marathons. But nothing has been harder than trying to conceive. And nothing has been harder than staying on track after disappointment upon disappointment. So when a woman sits down at a restaurant to share chips and salsa with me, I can't just blithely pretend that this pregnancy came easily. Infertility and miscarriage are part of this narrative, and I don't feel the need to whitewash it. Moreover, I feel that to get me, and to get what this pregnancy means to me, you need the back story.
No, this isn't my first baby. It'll hopefully be my first child, but it isn't the first time a living being has taken up residence in my womb and in my heart.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Small steps
It's a cliche that you can't be a little pregnant. But, as Julie has written eloquently, actually being "a little pregnant" is totally realistic. I'm in my third pregnancy and have no children. At least five embryos have seen the inside of my uterus; at least four have implanted. If I'd stayed pregnant the first time, my kid would be 10 months old; if I'd stayed pregnant the second time, I'd be something like 34 weeks along with identical twin boys.
Some women, upon seeing two pink lines on a stick, immediately head to the babies emporium and stock up on maternity wear. They send out mass emails announcing that their baby is due eight months later. They tell their bosses. At the risk of sounding like a complete asshole, when I hear about those people, I sigh and think, good God, they have no idea. I've never bought myself anything baby-related. I refused to go to a prenatal yoga class last time, wanting to wait until I saw a good heartbeat. (I never did.) I go to the dentist while pregnant and hope it doesn't come up.
I am treating this pregnancy as if I were unemployed and saw an ad for my dream job. I've submitted my resume, and secured a first interview, but I'm miles away from getting an offer and signing up for benefits and putting my feet up on my new desk.
The big interview is Monday, November 5. My third seven-week viability check. Sure would be nice if they invite me back this time around.
Some women, upon seeing two pink lines on a stick, immediately head to the babies emporium and stock up on maternity wear. They send out mass emails announcing that their baby is due eight months later. They tell their bosses. At the risk of sounding like a complete asshole, when I hear about those people, I sigh and think, good God, they have no idea. I've never bought myself anything baby-related. I refused to go to a prenatal yoga class last time, wanting to wait until I saw a good heartbeat. (I never did.) I go to the dentist while pregnant and hope it doesn't come up.
I am treating this pregnancy as if I were unemployed and saw an ad for my dream job. I've submitted my resume, and secured a first interview, but I'm miles away from getting an offer and signing up for benefits and putting my feet up on my new desk.
The big interview is Monday, November 5. My third seven-week viability check. Sure would be nice if they invite me back this time around.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Chances
I am obsessed with the numbers. My doctor gave me a 25 to 30 percent chance of getting pregnant if I transfer one embryo, and a 40 percent chance of getting pregnant if I transfer two. In my dream last night, I asked her what she thought my chance of another miscarriage was. She said, since you've had two, I'd give it a 40 percent chance. 40 percent. In the dream, I sat down in the middle of the street and curled up into a ball.
After 10 days on Lupron, I start the "stims" -- the FSH drugs that should make my ovaries feel like baseballs -- tonight.
After 10 days on Lupron, I start the "stims" -- the FSH drugs that should make my ovaries feel like baseballs -- tonight.
Monday, July 30, 2007
From PostSecret
This image from PostSecret resonated with me even before I saw this comment that went with it:
" Sent: Sunday, July 29, 2007 9:09 PM
Subject: "You aren't being punished..."
Not sure if this is the correct email to comment on a post card or not but....
All I can say is thank you. I just recently suffered a miscarriage and have felt for weeks like God was punishing me for something I had done. You have been the only person who knew just what to say."
Still trying to decide about an IUI later this week.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Small blows
It is not getting easier.
At times I think I'm fine, I'm handling this so well, I am a trooper. I rock. Then new information knocks on my door and punches me in the face.
Sunday my period arrived in full force just before I attended a friend's baby shower. In addition to the in-utero fetuses in attendance, a new mom brought her newborn to the shower. I remember when the mom, the pregnant friend, and I were all knocked up at the same time. We were going to go out for pregnant ladies tea, only I nixed it, wanting to wait to see a good heartbeat. I made it through the shower pretty well, but I look miserable in the photos.
Yesterday it was the news that another co-worker is pregnant. I suspected this woman might want to have another baby, and just yesterday I saw her walk by and thought she looked pregnant, so I'm not entirely surprised. Then today the news that another co-worker's wife is expecting -- more news I anticipated. This is now past the time that I would have shared my news. I would have been part of the pregnant people club. Instead I'm part of the one-person club that has to leave the office to walk around the block and keep myself together after someone whispers to me that his wife is pregnant.
When I was a kid, the street next to ours always had block parties for the Fourth of July. I knew kids on that block but always felt left out, wishing we had parties on our street. Thirty years later I feel the same way. As my co-worker mentioned something about how much your hormones rage during pregnancy, I wanted to say, I know -- I've been there. Of course I haven't been there, really; I've spent about 12 weeks being pregnant in my life, less than a trimester. But when someone tells me their news, I feel this urge to share mine, to be recognized. After reacting probably not as enthusiastically as I should have with co-worker number 2 today, I pondered opening up to him. Instead I'm writing a blog post from my desk, wishing my block would just throw its own party already.
At times I think I'm fine, I'm handling this so well, I am a trooper. I rock. Then new information knocks on my door and punches me in the face.
Sunday my period arrived in full force just before I attended a friend's baby shower. In addition to the in-utero fetuses in attendance, a new mom brought her newborn to the shower. I remember when the mom, the pregnant friend, and I were all knocked up at the same time. We were going to go out for pregnant ladies tea, only I nixed it, wanting to wait to see a good heartbeat. I made it through the shower pretty well, but I look miserable in the photos.
Yesterday it was the news that another co-worker is pregnant. I suspected this woman might want to have another baby, and just yesterday I saw her walk by and thought she looked pregnant, so I'm not entirely surprised. Then today the news that another co-worker's wife is expecting -- more news I anticipated. This is now past the time that I would have shared my news. I would have been part of the pregnant people club. Instead I'm part of the one-person club that has to leave the office to walk around the block and keep myself together after someone whispers to me that his wife is pregnant.
When I was a kid, the street next to ours always had block parties for the Fourth of July. I knew kids on that block but always felt left out, wishing we had parties on our street. Thirty years later I feel the same way. As my co-worker mentioned something about how much your hormones rage during pregnancy, I wanted to say, I know -- I've been there. Of course I haven't been there, really; I've spent about 12 weeks being pregnant in my life, less than a trimester. But when someone tells me their news, I feel this urge to share mine, to be recognized. After reacting probably not as enthusiastically as I should have with co-worker number 2 today, I pondered opening up to him. Instead I'm writing a blog post from my desk, wishing my block would just throw its own party already.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Yes, I still exist
It's been a while. One of the things about not trying to conceive for the first time in a year and a half is that you suddenly have all of these other things to think about. It's remarkable to start my day with a Web site other than Fertilityfriend.com. It's amazing to spend the month not constantly monitoring my cervical mucus and breasts for possible signs of ovulation or pregnancy.
I am spending my break trying to drop some weight -- currently on day six of the South Beach diet. It's been nearly 20 years since I actively went on a capital-D diet. This one has its benefits, like the fact that it's not low-fat, but it also has many drawbacks. (Cannot believe I haven't eaten a piece of fruit in six days.) I'm planning to cheat on the Fourth of July, but beyond that I don't know exactly how much weight I'm trying to lose or how long I'll tolerate this. Probably not much and not very.
It feels both good and bizarre to be doing something with my body other than trying to get pregnant. Last week I ate a nicoise salad for the first time in eons. Yes, I know the mercury takes a long time to leave your system, but it sure was a nice change.
At the moment I'm waiting for my RE's IVF coordinator to call me so we can think about getting things moving. I had some blood tests earlier this month, both for my primary care physician (cholesterol and fasting glucose) and fertility doctor (HCG, TSH, and some antiphospholipid thing that could have contributed to miscarriage). Everything was normal. At this point, the only explanation for miscarriage #2 is trisomy 12. Number 1 will always remain a mystery, I guess.
Which leads me to this existential issue. I've always been fascinated by twins. I loved the Sweet Valley High books as a teenager. At the same time, knowing people with twins has only increased my fear of having them myself. (As a result, I'm pretty sure that conceiving identical twins last time around was nature's way of giving me the finger.) One of my main reservations about IVF has been the risk of twins, though of course that can be minimized with a single embryo transfer.
And hence the dilemma. Back in the single-miscarriage days, it seemed perfectly reasonable to transfer a single embryo. Hey, no reason to think that this one embryo will be flawed even if the first one was, right? But miscarriage #2 has changed the game. I've had two conceptions that I know of and two that failed. If I'm going to go to the bother of IVF, and I have a history of making problematic embryos, does it make sense to transfer two in IVF to maximize my chances? (Personal policy is not to transfer more than I am prepared to raise or carry, at the moment.) Or, again, would doing so only ensure that Mother Nature would again give me the double-fingered salute?
I am spending my break trying to drop some weight -- currently on day six of the South Beach diet. It's been nearly 20 years since I actively went on a capital-D diet. This one has its benefits, like the fact that it's not low-fat, but it also has many drawbacks. (Cannot believe I haven't eaten a piece of fruit in six days.) I'm planning to cheat on the Fourth of July, but beyond that I don't know exactly how much weight I'm trying to lose or how long I'll tolerate this. Probably not much and not very.
It feels both good and bizarre to be doing something with my body other than trying to get pregnant. Last week I ate a nicoise salad for the first time in eons. Yes, I know the mercury takes a long time to leave your system, but it sure was a nice change.
At the moment I'm waiting for my RE's IVF coordinator to call me so we can think about getting things moving. I had some blood tests earlier this month, both for my primary care physician (cholesterol and fasting glucose) and fertility doctor (HCG, TSH, and some antiphospholipid thing that could have contributed to miscarriage). Everything was normal. At this point, the only explanation for miscarriage #2 is trisomy 12. Number 1 will always remain a mystery, I guess.
Which leads me to this existential issue. I've always been fascinated by twins. I loved the Sweet Valley High books as a teenager. At the same time, knowing people with twins has only increased my fear of having them myself. (As a result, I'm pretty sure that conceiving identical twins last time around was nature's way of giving me the finger.) One of my main reservations about IVF has been the risk of twins, though of course that can be minimized with a single embryo transfer.
And hence the dilemma. Back in the single-miscarriage days, it seemed perfectly reasonable to transfer a single embryo. Hey, no reason to think that this one embryo will be flawed even if the first one was, right? But miscarriage #2 has changed the game. I've had two conceptions that I know of and two that failed. If I'm going to go to the bother of IVF, and I have a history of making problematic embryos, does it make sense to transfer two in IVF to maximize my chances? (Personal policy is not to transfer more than I am prepared to raise or carry, at the moment.) Or, again, would doing so only ensure that Mother Nature would again give me the double-fingered salute?
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Results are in
It is odd, to say this, but the miscarriage pathology results are good. The embryos were male and had trisomy 12, a genetic abnormality that causes miscarriage; embryos with this genetic profile aren't viable. This is good, because a) the fact that they were male ensures they were able to isolate the embryo's genetic material from my own, and b) this kind of trisomy is a one-time occurrence, more common among women of my advanced maternal age (36), but not a sign of any long-term problem.
My doctor is a dream -- smart, competent, warm, and nice -- and she remains quite optimistic about my chances. She still considers me a "great" candidate for IVF, and she also suspects that if I tried several more times with Femara and IUIs, I'd probably get pregnant again. I'm not exactly sure what I'll do next -- probably IVF. But I'm going to take at least the summer off. Still, I'll have a saline sonogram (to investigate the topography of my uterus) and a blood test in a few days. I'm hoping to get as much of the IVF prep out of the way now, so I can relax and not worry about it.
It's incredible to have a doctor who actually inquires after my well-being. And a relief to hear she's very supportive of me taking a break. Walking into that office today, I really didn't know what to expect; I felt there was a possibility I'd learn I would never have a baby. So to leave the office hearing the echoes of optimism in my head was quite a treat.
My doctor is a dream -- smart, competent, warm, and nice -- and she remains quite optimistic about my chances. She still considers me a "great" candidate for IVF, and she also suspects that if I tried several more times with Femara and IUIs, I'd probably get pregnant again. I'm not exactly sure what I'll do next -- probably IVF. But I'm going to take at least the summer off. Still, I'll have a saline sonogram (to investigate the topography of my uterus) and a blood test in a few days. I'm hoping to get as much of the IVF prep out of the way now, so I can relax and not worry about it.
It's incredible to have a doctor who actually inquires after my well-being. And a relief to hear she's very supportive of me taking a break. Walking into that office today, I really didn't know what to expect; I felt there was a possibility I'd learn I would never have a baby. So to leave the office hearing the echoes of optimism in my head was quite a treat.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
Two small blows
So May pretty much sucked completely. Miscarriage, family stuff, everything. I was so happy when June arrived, a clean slate.
But it didn't start off so easily. Yesterday two small pieces of news felt like punches in the stomach: first, a former co-worker -- someone who could easily be described as the least maternal person on the planet -- had a baby. Second, I overheard another co-worker telling people his wife is pregnant. Her due date? Same as mine would have been. I had to go into the bathroom and breathe deeply to ensure I would remain composed.
Frankly, things have gone so awfully lately that it wouldn't surprise me in the least if the news Tuesday at my pathology appointment was the worst kind.
I sure am making a lot of solo dinner reservations lately under the name "bitter."
But it didn't start off so easily. Yesterday two small pieces of news felt like punches in the stomach: first, a former co-worker -- someone who could easily be described as the least maternal person on the planet -- had a baby. Second, I overheard another co-worker telling people his wife is pregnant. Her due date? Same as mine would have been. I had to go into the bathroom and breathe deeply to ensure I would remain composed.
Frankly, things have gone so awfully lately that it wouldn't surprise me in the least if the news Tuesday at my pathology appointment was the worst kind.
I sure am making a lot of solo dinner reservations lately under the name "bitter."
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
28 days later
It's been four weeks. Incredibly, my period showed up today, almost right on time (usually I have 26-day cycles). I'm surprised only because I thought my body would take longer to kick back into gear. But no, we're back in business, earlier than I'd expected.
Here are a few random thoughts:
1. Overall, I recovered from the D&C very easily. However, my breasts were still really tender for five days afterward, and I didn't feel like myself (read: not pregnant) for about a week.
2. I read and intend to post a review of Rebecca Walker's new book Baby Love: Choosing Motherhood After a Lifetime of Ambivalence. The summary: this book annoyed me. More, hopefully, on that later.
3. I have a few new phrases in my vocabulary. They include, "my first miscarriage," "the second time I was pregnant," "my second D&C," and, my favorite, "I am down two pregnancies and three embryos."
4. Today in Whole Foods I really enjoyed pushing past an extremely fertile woman (two babies under the age of 2) in order to grab three boxes of tampons. Fun!
5. On the bright side, I have lately enjoyed tuna, tequila, and running. I have stopped taking all vitamins. I have painted my toenails with abandon, done a shoulder stand in yoga without caring, and bought clothes without worrying that soon, they may not fit.
6. On the less bright side, I have still not returned to my pre-pregnancy (#2) weight. As I was miscarrying I gained a few pounds, and I have not dropped them. (Lest you think I sound like Bridget Jones: years ago I lost nearly a third of my body weight, and it's important to me to maintain that loss. I do that by trying to vigorously police my weight and dieting when I exceed the maximum weight I can tolerate. I am still not skinny in the least, and as I've said in the past, I'm a girl who enjoys my chocolate cake.)
This has been a difficult and hectic month for me -- aside from the obvious, I've also been dealing with a now-somewhat-abated family health crisis. As a result, I haven't yet adequately mourned my embryos -- I'm sorry, I can't call them babies. Next week I should get the pathology results back from my doctor's office, and that should provide some closure. It seems the results could show a few things:
a) Down Syndrome. This is actually the best scenario, as it explains the cause of the miscarriage and doesn't indicate anything about the prognosis of future pregnancies, theoretically.
b) Genetic translocation. This would indicate something about either my or the donor's genes, in a more permanent way. Since the donor has a number of births, it would probably be me. So not good.
c) Nothing. If the pathology can't explain the miscarriage, that's bad. Either it could mean I have some kind of clotting disorder that prevents blood from getting to the embryo (diagnosed by blood tests, treated by injections that may not be proven to work). Or it could suggest I have a uterine malformation that could explain both the miscarriages and the infertility. (Treatment: surgery.)
Never have I hoped for Down Syndrome more.
Here are a few random thoughts:
1. Overall, I recovered from the D&C very easily. However, my breasts were still really tender for five days afterward, and I didn't feel like myself (read: not pregnant) for about a week.
2. I read and intend to post a review of Rebecca Walker's new book Baby Love: Choosing Motherhood After a Lifetime of Ambivalence. The summary: this book annoyed me. More, hopefully, on that later.
3. I have a few new phrases in my vocabulary. They include, "my first miscarriage," "the second time I was pregnant," "my second D&C," and, my favorite, "I am down two pregnancies and three embryos."
4. Today in Whole Foods I really enjoyed pushing past an extremely fertile woman (two babies under the age of 2) in order to grab three boxes of tampons. Fun!
5. On the bright side, I have lately enjoyed tuna, tequila, and running. I have stopped taking all vitamins. I have painted my toenails with abandon, done a shoulder stand in yoga without caring, and bought clothes without worrying that soon, they may not fit.
6. On the less bright side, I have still not returned to my pre-pregnancy (#2) weight. As I was miscarrying I gained a few pounds, and I have not dropped them. (Lest you think I sound like Bridget Jones: years ago I lost nearly a third of my body weight, and it's important to me to maintain that loss. I do that by trying to vigorously police my weight and dieting when I exceed the maximum weight I can tolerate. I am still not skinny in the least, and as I've said in the past, I'm a girl who enjoys my chocolate cake.)
This has been a difficult and hectic month for me -- aside from the obvious, I've also been dealing with a now-somewhat-abated family health crisis. As a result, I haven't yet adequately mourned my embryos -- I'm sorry, I can't call them babies. Next week I should get the pathology results back from my doctor's office, and that should provide some closure. It seems the results could show a few things:
a) Down Syndrome. This is actually the best scenario, as it explains the cause of the miscarriage and doesn't indicate anything about the prognosis of future pregnancies, theoretically.
b) Genetic translocation. This would indicate something about either my or the donor's genes, in a more permanent way. Since the donor has a number of births, it would probably be me. So not good.
c) Nothing. If the pathology can't explain the miscarriage, that's bad. Either it could mean I have some kind of clotting disorder that prevents blood from getting to the embryo (diagnosed by blood tests, treated by injections that may not be proven to work). Or it could suggest I have a uterine malformation that could explain both the miscarriages and the infertility. (Treatment: surgery.)
Never have I hoped for Down Syndrome more.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
No longer pregnant
It's over. The D&C yesterday was a bit painful, but the pain was brief, and overall it was a piece of cake. (I was in and out of there in less than 45 minutes.) Unlike last time, every person in the office I saw offered their condolences. It's funny how much of a difference that makes.
I spent the remainder of the day on the couch, sleeping, watching quality TV like "Celebrity Fit Club," and eating won ton soup. I was pretty knocked out by the drug cocktail they gave me, but haven't had any pain. Today I'm back to normal.
This time was much less physically draining, but I don't know where I am emotionally. I'm still stunned that this happened again. When this first started happening last week, I thought, I have never been inclined to read a book like When Bad Things Happen to Good People until now. When I mentioned this to someone else, she said, "I just keep thinking of Job." The night before the D&C, I was up for a couple hours in the middle of the night, thinking, reading, and crying. I tried to re-read Job, though my attention span was a little lacking. He has everything -- kids, servants, land, etc. Then he loses it all, and asks God why. Eventually he gets everything back -- twice as much as he had before.
That first pregnancy felt like everything to me. I was so excited; I distinctly remember driving on the freeway being so thrilled with my secret. I was devastated when it ended. And the second pregnancy was really a savior: it came at a very dark moment as my hope was eroding. I was so confident it was going to work this time, especially given my HCG levels. I was superstitious about numbers, about the fact that it was my last IUI attempt before moving to IVF. It felt like everything had finally fallen into position.
So you'll forgive me for not sequestering myself in a corner this time, sobbing constantly. I've done that before. And I really don't know what to do with this experience. I don't think it was my fault; I don't feel there are any lessons to learn; I wouldn't have done anything differently. I am still in shock.
The doctor will analyze the pathology of the tissue she removed yesterday, and we'll get the results in about five weeks. If it's a common chromosomal abnormality, they don't worry too much, but if the tissue has a more unusual genetic variance or is genetically normal, then they'll want to test me for a bunch of other things.
In the meantime, I am taking a big fat break. Last time I miscarried I tried again as soon as I could, and I didn't stop for 12 consecutive cycles. I was a woman on a mission. Now I am really excited about having some serious time off -- time to sit in a hot tub and not worry that it's frying my eggs, time to drink whenever I want and not worry what half of my cycle I'm in, time to eat raw fish, go running, get back into shape, and travel. But most importantly, I am excited about getting back to my pre-TTC self. This process has been so hard on me. It's warped my priorities and made me a crazy person, and it's hurt my relationship. I'm ready to put the bun project aside for a while so I can get my life back.
I spent the remainder of the day on the couch, sleeping, watching quality TV like "Celebrity Fit Club," and eating won ton soup. I was pretty knocked out by the drug cocktail they gave me, but haven't had any pain. Today I'm back to normal.
This time was much less physically draining, but I don't know where I am emotionally. I'm still stunned that this happened again. When this first started happening last week, I thought, I have never been inclined to read a book like When Bad Things Happen to Good People until now. When I mentioned this to someone else, she said, "I just keep thinking of Job." The night before the D&C, I was up for a couple hours in the middle of the night, thinking, reading, and crying. I tried to re-read Job, though my attention span was a little lacking. He has everything -- kids, servants, land, etc. Then he loses it all, and asks God why. Eventually he gets everything back -- twice as much as he had before.
That first pregnancy felt like everything to me. I was so excited; I distinctly remember driving on the freeway being so thrilled with my secret. I was devastated when it ended. And the second pregnancy was really a savior: it came at a very dark moment as my hope was eroding. I was so confident it was going to work this time, especially given my HCG levels. I was superstitious about numbers, about the fact that it was my last IUI attempt before moving to IVF. It felt like everything had finally fallen into position.
So you'll forgive me for not sequestering myself in a corner this time, sobbing constantly. I've done that before. And I really don't know what to do with this experience. I don't think it was my fault; I don't feel there are any lessons to learn; I wouldn't have done anything differently. I am still in shock.
The doctor will analyze the pathology of the tissue she removed yesterday, and we'll get the results in about five weeks. If it's a common chromosomal abnormality, they don't worry too much, but if the tissue has a more unusual genetic variance or is genetically normal, then they'll want to test me for a bunch of other things.
In the meantime, I am taking a big fat break. Last time I miscarried I tried again as soon as I could, and I didn't stop for 12 consecutive cycles. I was a woman on a mission. Now I am really excited about having some serious time off -- time to sit in a hot tub and not worry that it's frying my eggs, time to drink whenever I want and not worry what half of my cycle I'm in, time to eat raw fish, go running, get back into shape, and travel. But most importantly, I am excited about getting back to my pre-TTC self. This process has been so hard on me. It's warped my priorities and made me a crazy person, and it's hurt my relationship. I'm ready to put the bun project aside for a while so I can get my life back.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Coming soon: miscarriage number 2
No heartbeat on today's ultrasound, so I'm having a D&C tomorrow morning.
The universe is awfully rude. Not only do I have two embryos with no heartbeat, but I also have a bad cold coupled with zero miscarriage symptoms and still-present pregnancy symptoms. Good times.
The universe is awfully rude. Not only do I have two embryos with no heartbeat, but I also have a bad cold coupled with zero miscarriage symptoms and still-present pregnancy symptoms. Good times.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Anniversaries, part 2
Today is the anniversary of what may now have the distinction of being my first miscarriage. And since I seem to be the subject of the world's biggest practical joke, it is also Take Your Children to Work Day at my office. Whoo hoo! Plus, there's this whole, 'is my pregnancy going to fail and when' question. Good times, really.
It's hard to know what's going on with my body: my breasts are still quite tender (I keep feeling myself up in the night to double-check), my mild nausea is still around (though is it ebbing? Is my stomach unhappy because I'm upset? Hard to tell), and my temperature is still really high (98.8 this morning, about as high as it ever gets.). I've had no spotting since Sunday, when I had a minuscule amount, and pretty much no cramping. WTF?
Emotionally I don't even know where to begin. Last time I was a mess from the moment I had the bad ultrasound. This time I'm numb and in shock. I feel like, I'm not sure I can afford to go there again. It just seems so obvious. This last two week wait made me crazy. I was tired of being depressed and despairing even when I was depressed and despairing. I identified with what Max's Mommy wrote about being sick of her infertility:
I'm Jewish but not very good at it. In Jewish tradition, you light a Yarzheit candle in memory of someone's death. Judaism doesn't have a ritual for miscarriage, nor does it even recognize a person's existence until something like 40 days after birth. But I always thought I'd light a candle today for last year's miscarried embryo. But given where I am now, I'm not sure I can do it. Last year, after I miscarried, I went to the beach, wrote a letter to what would have been my first baby, said the Mourner's Kaddish, and cried. The letter, the ultrasound picture, and the positive pregnancy tests are in an envelope labeled #1.
I cannot believe I may have to label a second envelope #2 and #3.
It's hard to know what's going on with my body: my breasts are still quite tender (I keep feeling myself up in the night to double-check), my mild nausea is still around (though is it ebbing? Is my stomach unhappy because I'm upset? Hard to tell), and my temperature is still really high (98.8 this morning, about as high as it ever gets.). I've had no spotting since Sunday, when I had a minuscule amount, and pretty much no cramping. WTF?
Emotionally I don't even know where to begin. Last time I was a mess from the moment I had the bad ultrasound. This time I'm numb and in shock. I feel like, I'm not sure I can afford to go there again. It just seems so obvious. This last two week wait made me crazy. I was tired of being depressed and despairing even when I was depressed and despairing. I identified with what Max's Mommy wrote about being sick of her infertility:
I'm tired of me. I'm tired of thinking about This all the time, writing about This all the time, talking about This all the time. I'm tired of hanging out at my very own personal Pity Party. The chips are stale and the music never changes. (For some reason it's Come On Eileen by Dexy's Midnight Runners. Makes me want to jam an ice pick into my eye socket. Repeatedly.) And don't get me started on the guest list, a boring navel-gazing crew which consists solely of Feeling, Sorry, For, Myself.I'm kind of there, too. (But I love "Come On Eileen," and the cookies at my party are always fantastic.) Maybe -- probably -- my somewhat stoic black humor will evolve to massive fits of sobbing. But when you pile upon the logistical challenge of getting pregnant as a lesbian, a miscarriage, a year of unexplained infertility, the reluctant decision to have one more IUI and then move to IVF, and then a second probable failed pregnancy that -- just to pour some kosher salt into the wound and stir it around real good -- would have yielded not one but two children: I mean, if that isn't the universe flipping you the bird, what is?
I'm Jewish but not very good at it. In Jewish tradition, you light a Yarzheit candle in memory of someone's death. Judaism doesn't have a ritual for miscarriage, nor does it even recognize a person's existence until something like 40 days after birth. But I always thought I'd light a candle today for last year's miscarried embryo. But given where I am now, I'm not sure I can do it. Last year, after I miscarried, I went to the beach, wrote a letter to what would have been my first baby, said the Mourner's Kaddish, and cried. The letter, the ultrasound picture, and the positive pregnancy tests are in an envelope labeled #1.
I cannot believe I may have to label a second envelope #2 and #3.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Unkind universe
I wish I had good news to post, but I do not. Today's ultrasound showed almost exactly the same thing that my 7-week ultrasound did last time.
The main difference: this pregnancy started off as identical twins (thus explaining the high HCG numbers), but one twin is very small and has no heartbeat. Unfortunately, the surviving twin is one week too small (measuring 6w1d, as opposed to 7w1d) and has a slow heartbeat (115 -- they'd like to see it at 140). My doctor gave me a 95 percent chance of miscarrying. I am scheduled to go back in a week to see if anything's improved, but this embryo basically grew 2 days worth in 8 days based on the last ultrasound.
If I end up having a D&C, they'll run some tests on the tissue to see if they can figure out what went wrong. (I wasn't able to do that last time, since I passed the bulk of the pregnancy before the D&C.)
I am in complete shock. I was so sure this one was going to work -- I feel more pregnant than last time, and I just felt the universe couldn't do this to me twice. Apparently, I was wrong. I simply cannot believe this is happening again.
The main difference: this pregnancy started off as identical twins (thus explaining the high HCG numbers), but one twin is very small and has no heartbeat. Unfortunately, the surviving twin is one week too small (measuring 6w1d, as opposed to 7w1d) and has a slow heartbeat (115 -- they'd like to see it at 140). My doctor gave me a 95 percent chance of miscarrying. I am scheduled to go back in a week to see if anything's improved, but this embryo basically grew 2 days worth in 8 days based on the last ultrasound.
If I end up having a D&C, they'll run some tests on the tissue to see if they can figure out what went wrong. (I wasn't able to do that last time, since I passed the bulk of the pregnancy before the D&C.)
I am in complete shock. I was so sure this one was going to work -- I feel more pregnant than last time, and I just felt the universe couldn't do this to me twice. Apparently, I was wrong. I simply cannot believe this is happening again.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
What happened last time
I was cautious. I barely told anyone, even my family, and when I rubbed my belly, I said, "I hope I get to meet you."
Thus it was not entirely a surprise when, seven weeks pregnant and on a one-day trip to Los Angeles, I looked at the toilet paper after peeing and saw a tiny, miniscule amount of spotting.
The following day was my "viability check." This is the ultrasound they do at around 7 weeks to check the pregnancy -- is there a heartbeat, is it ectopic, etc. Even before the spotting, I was counting the hours before the appointment, as I knew that if you see a good heartbeat at that first visit, your risk of miscarriage drops from 25 percent to 5 percent. And when that day finally came, the office people gave me a big book about giving birth at the local hospital -- stopping once to swap out the first book they provided after realizing I was an elderly gravid -- before the ultrasound. Or in other words: before they knew if I was going to need it. Which, it seemed, I would not.
I will never forget how Dr. Unsympathetic squinched her face looking at the screen. The ultrasound revealed a week-smaller-than-expected embryo and a slow heartbeat. This, coupled with the spotting, was not good, but she was optimistic and sent me off for urine and blood tests and instructed me to return in a week. Only later would I learn, from reading my own medical records, that on this day she had recorded the phrase "possible embryo demise." Information that might have been useful if she had actually uttered it to me. (The good news, I suppose, was that I was pregnant and it was not ectopic.)
The following day, as I continued to spot, I called her and asked, how likely am I to miscarry? Her answer: 70 percent chance of a miscarriage. Hey, now that's information. Over the agonizing following week I barely held it together, shying away from children, painfully aware of my fading pregnancy symptoms, and petrified the increasing blood would begin flowing uncontrollably while at work. One week later, the follow-up ultrasound revealed what I already knew: the embryo was dead. We scheduled a D&C for the following day.
That night, I woke up with very strong cramps and knew the miscarriage was beginning. Over the next two hours I sat on the toilet, watching the products of my conception fall into the bowl. The bleeding was so heavy that I could barely leave the bathroom without making a complete mess. And though this experience was unpleasant, the fact that I was emotionally prepared for it made a tremendous difference. And since I knew I was going to the doctor the following morning, and since a close friend who had two miscarriages had told me what to watch for, I didn't worry too much as I sat there, cramping and reading magazines. All I can say is: thank god this did not happen at work, as it would have been absolutely horrifying.
The following day I brought my iPod to my appointment. When the D&C started, I pressed play on Coldplay's "Speed of Sound." Forty-five seconds later, it was over.
Note to medical staff everywhere: when a lesbian couple comes into the office with one partner pregnant, you can pretty much guess it's a wanted pregnancy. Therefore, when said pregnancy is miscarrying, it would be polite and decent to offer your condolences and express sympathy. A, "I'm sorry this is happening to you," would suffice. Instead, not a single person in that office ever offered emotional support to me; the closest was the one man in the office, a nurse midwife, who guided my partner over to me during the D&C and held my shoulder. He won the decency award that day, but unfortunately the competition was pretty pathetic.
After returning home, I spent the rest of the day lying on the couch. Friends brought me food. I was back at work the following day, ("what was wrong with you?" one boss asked. "A stomach bug," I lied -- I had decided a email reading, "I'll be out of the office Thursday having the remnants of my brief pregnancy sucked out of my uterus" might be uncalled for) and I was able to resume my normal activities immediately.
When I got pregnant last time, I asked Dr. Unsympathetic if I needed a blood test. She said it wasn't necessary, given that I was having pregnancy symptoms, had a positive pregnancy test, and missed my period. Yet those blood tests might have yielded information about how successful the pregnancy was destined to be. Certainly they would have been useful this time around, when I could have used them as a basis for comparison. (Pregnancies destined to miscarry seem to have lower HCG levels at first, and the rise seems to be slower. The general consensus is that last week's numbers are both high and rising nicely, so that's a comfort.)
This time, I've bid farewell to Dr. Unsympathetic (so long! don't let the door hit you on the way out!) and am hoping both for more empathy and, more importantly, better results when I go for my viability check (at my fertility doctor's office) on April 23. You can bet I'll be counting the hours again.
Thus it was not entirely a surprise when, seven weeks pregnant and on a one-day trip to Los Angeles, I looked at the toilet paper after peeing and saw a tiny, miniscule amount of spotting.
The following day was my "viability check." This is the ultrasound they do at around 7 weeks to check the pregnancy -- is there a heartbeat, is it ectopic, etc. Even before the spotting, I was counting the hours before the appointment, as I knew that if you see a good heartbeat at that first visit, your risk of miscarriage drops from 25 percent to 5 percent. And when that day finally came, the office people gave me a big book about giving birth at the local hospital -- stopping once to swap out the first book they provided after realizing I was an elderly gravid -- before the ultrasound. Or in other words: before they knew if I was going to need it. Which, it seemed, I would not.
I will never forget how Dr. Unsympathetic squinched her face looking at the screen. The ultrasound revealed a week-smaller-than-expected embryo and a slow heartbeat. This, coupled with the spotting, was not good, but she was optimistic and sent me off for urine and blood tests and instructed me to return in a week. Only later would I learn, from reading my own medical records, that on this day she had recorded the phrase "possible embryo demise." Information that might have been useful if she had actually uttered it to me. (The good news, I suppose, was that I was pregnant and it was not ectopic.)
The following day, as I continued to spot, I called her and asked, how likely am I to miscarry? Her answer: 70 percent chance of a miscarriage. Hey, now that's information. Over the agonizing following week I barely held it together, shying away from children, painfully aware of my fading pregnancy symptoms, and petrified the increasing blood would begin flowing uncontrollably while at work. One week later, the follow-up ultrasound revealed what I already knew: the embryo was dead. We scheduled a D&C for the following day.
That night, I woke up with very strong cramps and knew the miscarriage was beginning. Over the next two hours I sat on the toilet, watching the products of my conception fall into the bowl. The bleeding was so heavy that I could barely leave the bathroom without making a complete mess. And though this experience was unpleasant, the fact that I was emotionally prepared for it made a tremendous difference. And since I knew I was going to the doctor the following morning, and since a close friend who had two miscarriages had told me what to watch for, I didn't worry too much as I sat there, cramping and reading magazines. All I can say is: thank god this did not happen at work, as it would have been absolutely horrifying.
The following day I brought my iPod to my appointment. When the D&C started, I pressed play on Coldplay's "Speed of Sound." Forty-five seconds later, it was over.
Note to medical staff everywhere: when a lesbian couple comes into the office with one partner pregnant, you can pretty much guess it's a wanted pregnancy. Therefore, when said pregnancy is miscarrying, it would be polite and decent to offer your condolences and express sympathy. A, "I'm sorry this is happening to you," would suffice. Instead, not a single person in that office ever offered emotional support to me; the closest was the one man in the office, a nurse midwife, who guided my partner over to me during the D&C and held my shoulder. He won the decency award that day, but unfortunately the competition was pretty pathetic.
After returning home, I spent the rest of the day lying on the couch. Friends brought me food. I was back at work the following day, ("what was wrong with you?" one boss asked. "A stomach bug," I lied -- I had decided a email reading, "I'll be out of the office Thursday having the remnants of my brief pregnancy sucked out of my uterus" might be uncalled for) and I was able to resume my normal activities immediately.
When I got pregnant last time, I asked Dr. Unsympathetic if I needed a blood test. She said it wasn't necessary, given that I was having pregnancy symptoms, had a positive pregnancy test, and missed my period. Yet those blood tests might have yielded information about how successful the pregnancy was destined to be. Certainly they would have been useful this time around, when I could have used them as a basis for comparison. (Pregnancies destined to miscarry seem to have lower HCG levels at first, and the rise seems to be slower. The general consensus is that last week's numbers are both high and rising nicely, so that's a comfort.)
This time, I've bid farewell to Dr. Unsympathetic (so long! don't let the door hit you on the way out!) and am hoping both for more empathy and, more importantly, better results when I go for my viability check (at my fertility doctor's office) on April 23. You can bet I'll be counting the hours again.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Choices
At 19 I had a pregnancy scare. I had a boyfriend, the condom broke, and I spent $20 -- a huge sum to me at the time -- on a pregnancy test that didn't provide an intelligible result. Fortunately, I got my period a few days later. But I wouldn't have hesitated for a moment to get an abortion, even though my Catholic boyfriend told me later he would have been upset about it. My body, my responsibility, my choice.
Yesterday's New York Times magazine has an interesting and maddening article about an anti-choice movement that claims abortion harms women psychologically. The movement relies on debunkable, quasi-scientific studies that say women who've had abortions have more psychological problems than those who didn't. One of the main characters in the story is a woman who's had four abortions and mourns them; she now organizes memorials for aborted embryos. She has three daughters and didn't teach them about contraception, because, she says, "“Abstinence works better than birth control, really. It’s just that people don’t do it.” So, big surprise, her 17-year-old daughter got pregnant. It makes me crazy to think there's a woman out there who claims to be advocating for women's health, yet failed to teach her own children about contraception.
I deeply mourned my miscarriage -- a spontaneous abortion in medical parlance -- at eight weeks. It is possible I would have mourned an abortion when I was 19, but I can guarantee you that whatever psychological harm might have been induced by that procedure would have been far eclipsed by the harm -- both to me and to a child -- of regretfully becoming a parent as a college sophomore.
I don't disagree with Bill Clinton's position that abortion should be "safe, legal, and rare." Abortions will be rare when women are educated about birth-control options, when more men start being willing to wear condoms, and when both sexes have access to affordable, effective contraception.
Until that time -- and even after -- let's celebrate. Today is the 34th anniversary of Roe v. Wade. Here's to many more.
Yesterday's New York Times magazine has an interesting and maddening article about an anti-choice movement that claims abortion harms women psychologically. The movement relies on debunkable, quasi-scientific studies that say women who've had abortions have more psychological problems than those who didn't. One of the main characters in the story is a woman who's had four abortions and mourns them; she now organizes memorials for aborted embryos. She has three daughters and didn't teach them about contraception, because, she says, "“Abstinence works better than birth control, really. It’s just that people don’t do it.” So, big surprise, her 17-year-old daughter got pregnant. It makes me crazy to think there's a woman out there who claims to be advocating for women's health, yet failed to teach her own children about contraception.
I deeply mourned my miscarriage -- a spontaneous abortion in medical parlance -- at eight weeks. It is possible I would have mourned an abortion when I was 19, but I can guarantee you that whatever psychological harm might have been induced by that procedure would have been far eclipsed by the harm -- both to me and to a child -- of regretfully becoming a parent as a college sophomore.
I don't disagree with Bill Clinton's position that abortion should be "safe, legal, and rare." Abortions will be rare when women are educated about birth-control options, when more men start being willing to wear condoms, and when both sexes have access to affordable, effective contraception.
Until that time -- and even after -- let's celebrate. Today is the 34th anniversary of Roe v. Wade. Here's to many more.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Cold snap
Did I really think try #13 would work?
When I got pregnant, I thought, I'll have a baby by Christmas. When I miscarried, I thought, surely it'll happen again quickly. I never imagined I wouldn't be pregnant by my due date, yet here I am, buying tampons and making plans for my next series of inconveniences.
Here's hoping for better luck in 2007.
When I got pregnant, I thought, I'll have a baby by Christmas. When I miscarried, I thought, surely it'll happen again quickly. I never imagined I wouldn't be pregnant by my due date, yet here I am, buying tampons and making plans for my next series of inconveniences.
Here's hoping for better luck in 2007.
Monday, December 11, 2006
The red cloth
Yesterday I attended a ceremony for children who have died from abortion, miscarriage, stillbirth, etc. I’m not religious, but when I miscarried I found it frustrating that there weren’t any ceremonies to help me cope. But it turns out that Buddhism has one, and a friend who lost one of her twins during her pregnancy last year heard about the event and asked me to join her.
It was held in a beautiful Buddhist monastery in Berkeley. We were instructed to bring red cloth, a needle and thread, and scissors. We spent the first hour making something, an offering, and then had a brief ceremony where we each placed our items on a figure in the temple. I sacrificed a too-big Old Navy tank top and made a little hat out of it, with red grosgrain ribbon around the rim. (Turns out I don’t have a future as a seamstress.) It was odd to sit on a mat on the floor of a freezing cold temple on a Sunday afternoon, sewing in intense silence with 17 other people, some quietly weeping.
The priest said the act of making the offering was designed to help us release the being we were doing the ceremony for, and that was hard for me. I’ve held on to my pregnancy as a life raft in the trying-to-conceive process; it tells me my body is capable, that there's a possibility. Since our society doesn’t have a way of recognizing miscarriage, it’s been important for me to hold onto it, to tell people, to be visible. But I realized yesterday that perhaps the act of releasing my failed pregnancy could help make room for a new one. Here’s hoping.
It was held in a beautiful Buddhist monastery in Berkeley. We were instructed to bring red cloth, a needle and thread, and scissors. We spent the first hour making something, an offering, and then had a brief ceremony where we each placed our items on a figure in the temple. I sacrificed a too-big Old Navy tank top and made a little hat out of it, with red grosgrain ribbon around the rim. (Turns out I don’t have a future as a seamstress.) It was odd to sit on a mat on the floor of a freezing cold temple on a Sunday afternoon, sewing in intense silence with 17 other people, some quietly weeping.
The priest said the act of making the offering was designed to help us release the being we were doing the ceremony for, and that was hard for me. I’ve held on to my pregnancy as a life raft in the trying-to-conceive process; it tells me my body is capable, that there's a possibility. Since our society doesn’t have a way of recognizing miscarriage, it’s been important for me to hold onto it, to tell people, to be visible. But I realized yesterday that perhaps the act of releasing my failed pregnancy could help make room for a new one. Here’s hoping.
Thursday, December 7, 2006
Aspirations
Let’s get caught up:
Last November I began the Bun Project: an attempt to get myself pregnant at age 35. The ingredients: a basal body thermometer, donor sperm, copies of The Essential Guide to Lesbian Conception, Pregnancy, and Birth and Taking Charge of Your Fertility, an overpriced and underperforming ClearBlue Easy fertility monitor, and a body that was in reasonably decent shape and showed no signs of reproductive inability.
If you think lesbians conceive their kids by either picking up a guy in a bar or sterilizing a kitchen implement most commonly used on Thanksgiving, your horizons could use some broadening. Yes, you could do either of the above. But the professionals would advise something called an intrauterine insemination, or IUI: first the sperm is treated in a lab to remove all that nasty semen, which your uterus doesn’t like (under other circumstances, this job is done by your cervix and something called cervical mucus – having fun yet?). Then the sperm is injected into the uterus with a very thin catheter. Some women find this procedure to be uncomfortable, but aside from the whole speculum/stirrups/lamp shining onto your private parts thing, I don't mind.
From there, you wait two weeks, constantly monitoring your body for signs of success – tender breasts, nausea, crankiness, the absence of blood. Pregnancy tests typically don’t go positive until shortly before your period is due, but if you are pregnant, they can still register a false negative if you take them too early.
A year later, my list of ingredients has expanded to include approximately 12 packs of ovulation predictor kits, two OB-GYNs, one reproductive endocrinologist, two acupuncturists, 21 IUIs, seven blood tests, one hysterosalpingogram, ten doses of Clomid, two estrogen patches, two HCG trigger shots, 12 unwelcome period arrivals, and one miscarriage. This is my story.
Last November I began the Bun Project: an attempt to get myself pregnant at age 35. The ingredients: a basal body thermometer, donor sperm, copies of The Essential Guide to Lesbian Conception, Pregnancy, and Birth and Taking Charge of Your Fertility, an overpriced and underperforming ClearBlue Easy fertility monitor, and a body that was in reasonably decent shape and showed no signs of reproductive inability.
If you think lesbians conceive their kids by either picking up a guy in a bar or sterilizing a kitchen implement most commonly used on Thanksgiving, your horizons could use some broadening. Yes, you could do either of the above. But the professionals would advise something called an intrauterine insemination, or IUI: first the sperm is treated in a lab to remove all that nasty semen, which your uterus doesn’t like (under other circumstances, this job is done by your cervix and something called cervical mucus – having fun yet?). Then the sperm is injected into the uterus with a very thin catheter. Some women find this procedure to be uncomfortable, but aside from the whole speculum/stirrups/lamp shining onto your private parts thing, I don't mind.
From there, you wait two weeks, constantly monitoring your body for signs of success – tender breasts, nausea, crankiness, the absence of blood. Pregnancy tests typically don’t go positive until shortly before your period is due, but if you are pregnant, they can still register a false negative if you take them too early.
A year later, my list of ingredients has expanded to include approximately 12 packs of ovulation predictor kits, two OB-GYNs, one reproductive endocrinologist, two acupuncturists, 21 IUIs, seven blood tests, one hysterosalpingogram, ten doses of Clomid, two estrogen patches, two HCG trigger shots, 12 unwelcome period arrivals, and one miscarriage. This is my story.
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