October went by in a flash, and I'm glad. Being told I had to go on birth control pills for 21 days was crushing to me, and the physical experience has really sucked. It's been years (over 4 now, to be exact) since I've been on any type of birth control, but probably closer to 10 since I was last on the Pill, and hoo boy, do I hope I never have to do this again. I shudder to think what they're doing to me hormonally, since I've gained several pounds (mostly bloat) and have been forced to wear my Bella Band to keep my unfastened pants up where they belong; my face has been pimply and weird; I'm irritable and easily annoyed; and worse, I've been spotting or lightly bleeding daily for the last 11 days. (At least, perhaps, the latter will help me get over the fear of seeing blood, which haunted me throughout my pregnancy, and, of course, after our loss.) The good news is I take my last pill on Tuesday morning. Sometime later in the week I'll go in for another baseline ultrasound, except that my only purpose for doing that is to make sure that cyst is gone so that we can proceed with trying again (and I can avoid surgical removal of it). I frankly won't be surprised if it's still there, because I've felt ovary "twinges," or little pains like ovulation pain, the past week, when I'm pretty sure I should be feeling nothing of the sort. Figures, but we'll see.
Despite experiencing several more ups and downs with my emotions, I do think I feel ready to be pregnant again. Two darling couples we've met through our support groups are both expecting their first rainbows after full-term stillbirths, and in the last month I've found myself a tiny bit jealous of their milestones, such as having to wear maternity pants and getting to week 13. I take that to mean that I *am* more ready, which gives me hope. I was so worried after my meltdown with last month's chemical pregnancy that my body wouldn't be a proper zen vessel to carry a little life in, so I started acupuncture treatments at a community clinic in Olympia, just minutes from work. I've had four treatments so far and really like it. The practitioner wants to see me twice a week for four weeks, so I'm halfway through with that. If nothing else, it gives me a little time to relax in a dim place, listening to beautiful music. (Many IVF clinics require acupuncture treatments between egg retrieval and embryo transfer, so there must be something to it, right?)
So, for now, it's one day at a time, one experience at a time. First, finish the pills. Second, have another ultrasound. Third (hopefully), start charting my temps again in preparation for trying on our own once Paul returns from elk camp in a couple of weeks. If that doesn't work (and I almost hope it doesn't, because the shots feel like we're doing "more"), then refill my syringe prescriptions, bust into those Menopur vials and add more poke holes to my behind in December.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
What's in a name?
Last week a great burden was finally lifted from my heart as I finished and ordered our birth/name announcements, then received and mailed the very first batch to our immediate families.
Paul and I, as I've mentioned in previous posts, were disturbed to have no names to give our babies when they were blessed by the hospital chaplain late on the night they were born. The whole experience was such a shocking nightmare that having to face decisions, such as what to do with their bodies, and whether to have them blessed, had to be made on the fly. Having them blessed seemed right, but only when Chaplain Sarah asked what their names were did we freeze with the weight of it...we had none. I've said before that we had only been starting to feel safe with the pregnancy the weekend before, having crossed into the magical zone of the second trimester. We probably would have started talking names the next week, but we didn't get there.
Or rather, we did...because in the days immediately following our return home, the gravity of having left nameless babies at the hospital really hit. I couldn't dream of living my life without naming our first children, and quickly. Paul agreed. My mom had given us the idea of naming the babies based on birth order, so that's what we did. We looked for a first name starting with "A" for our daughter, Baby A, and with a "B" for our Baby B, our son.
It took us four days to come up with our son's name, and the second we saw it, we knew it was perfect. It took us an additional three days to name our daughter. We have a book of 100,000 baby names, which we bought to aid in naming calves born on our farm (yes, we know that's odd), and as I flipped through the pages of "Z" names in despair, I felt there would be no name good enough for our little girl...the one we worried over for the duration of the pregnancy, the one we knew we were losing first, our firstborn, the one with my long legs. We did an online search, and Paul saw her name, and we liked it. Turns out, it was in the book but it didn't call to us at the moment our eyes skimmed that page...it took seeing it and the meaning of it electronically for it to strike a chord.
Now that we've received confirmation that the announcement has been received both near and far, we are pleased to finally share with everyone else the names of our children:
On the back, the meanings:
Aliya and Bennett, we will love and cherish you forever and ever.
Paul and I, as I've mentioned in previous posts, were disturbed to have no names to give our babies when they were blessed by the hospital chaplain late on the night they were born. The whole experience was such a shocking nightmare that having to face decisions, such as what to do with their bodies, and whether to have them blessed, had to be made on the fly. Having them blessed seemed right, but only when Chaplain Sarah asked what their names were did we freeze with the weight of it...we had none. I've said before that we had only been starting to feel safe with the pregnancy the weekend before, having crossed into the magical zone of the second trimester. We probably would have started talking names the next week, but we didn't get there.
Or rather, we did...because in the days immediately following our return home, the gravity of having left nameless babies at the hospital really hit. I couldn't dream of living my life without naming our first children, and quickly. Paul agreed. My mom had given us the idea of naming the babies based on birth order, so that's what we did. We looked for a first name starting with "A" for our daughter, Baby A, and with a "B" for our Baby B, our son.
It took us four days to come up with our son's name, and the second we saw it, we knew it was perfect. It took us an additional three days to name our daughter. We have a book of 100,000 baby names, which we bought to aid in naming calves born on our farm (yes, we know that's odd), and as I flipped through the pages of "Z" names in despair, I felt there would be no name good enough for our little girl...the one we worried over for the duration of the pregnancy, the one we knew we were losing first, our firstborn, the one with my long legs. We did an online search, and Paul saw her name, and we liked it. Turns out, it was in the book but it didn't call to us at the moment our eyes skimmed that page...it took seeing it and the meaning of it electronically for it to strike a chord.
Now that we've received confirmation that the announcement has been received both near and far, we are pleased to finally share with everyone else the names of our children:
On the back, the meanings:
Aliya and Bennett, we will love and cherish you forever and ever.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
October 15th - National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day
This morning when I wrote the last blog post I felt fairly peaceful. The tears started a couple hours later when I was out running errands and didn't want to stop. So go the waves of grief.
Today is a special but very painful day. It's not a day Paul and I ever would have known about if we weren't part of this sucky babyloss club. We'd never know that all around the world, mommies and daddies, grandparents, siblings and friends of babies lost to miscarriage, stillbirth or infant death are honored tonight with a wave of candle lighting from one side of the globe to the other. Our government, and the governments of Canada and the parts of the United Kingdom, chose to honor this day formally in support of all of us who have lost our precious children.
Tonight Paul and I will light a candle from 7-8 p.m. to honor our precious daughter and son. We're also sending blessings up to my dear friend Jo's lost twin, and to our lost niece or nephew, and Addison Eloise, and Makenzie Marie, and Evelyn Juliet, and Lainey Grace, and so many other tiny souls.
If you're able, please do the same...light a candle from 7-8 p.m. in your own time zone. When you blow it out, know that thousands of candles are being lit just then in the next time zone to the west. Candles all around the world have been burning brightly and fiercely on this day.
Baby Girl and Baby Boy, Mommy and Daddy love you and miss you so much!
Today is a special but very painful day. It's not a day Paul and I ever would have known about if we weren't part of this sucky babyloss club. We'd never know that all around the world, mommies and daddies, grandparents, siblings and friends of babies lost to miscarriage, stillbirth or infant death are honored tonight with a wave of candle lighting from one side of the globe to the other. Our government, and the governments of Canada and the parts of the United Kingdom, chose to honor this day formally in support of all of us who have lost our precious children.
Tonight Paul and I will light a candle from 7-8 p.m. to honor our precious daughter and son. We're also sending blessings up to my dear friend Jo's lost twin, and to our lost niece or nephew, and Addison Eloise, and Makenzie Marie, and Evelyn Juliet, and Lainey Grace, and so many other tiny souls.
If you're able, please do the same...light a candle from 7-8 p.m. in your own time zone. When you blow it out, know that thousands of candles are being lit just then in the next time zone to the west. Candles all around the world have been burning brightly and fiercely on this day.
Baby Girl and Baby Boy, Mommy and Daddy love you and miss you so much!
Stepping aside
It's amazing what a couple of days can do for one's perspective.
When I wrote my last post, I was about 1.5 hours into a 6 hour crying jag. No kidding. I cried off and on (mostly on) for six hours on Tuesday. Needless to say, when I woke up on Wednesday morning I felt like I'd been killed, or maybe had a giant hangover (and we don't drink in our house, so that's a stretch). I had a headache, my eyes were so puffy I could barely get my makeup on (and yes, when the swelling went down mid-morning I did look a tiny bit clown-like from the "off" makeup placement), and worse than that, I felt so dull and blah I couldn't concentrate. I ended up leaving early from work that day, too, but it was a much more peaceful afternoon.
As a couple of days went by, I gained a little perspective. It used to be it took me eons to figure out what was behind my feelings. Thank you, God, that's no longer true. Yes, sometimes it does take me a little longer than I'd like, but I usually "get it" within a few days.
Part of my anguish on Tuesday was that I don't like having decisions made for me. I've always been a very strong-willed, independent woman with a good, thoughtful head on her shoulders and no one gets to tell me how my life is going to be! To have my body rebel against my head and heart and make a very important decision for Paul and me - without our input, if you will - was devastating. This stupid life of ours has gotten so unfair. We didn't ask for any of this, would never will this life on anyone we care about. I still fight this reality of ours, that we'll forever be "those people who lost their babies." That label will stand until the day we die, whether known by others or simply (not simply!) within our own hearts. Whine, cry, gnash teeth, rinse, repeat.
Ok.
Here's the thing: Paul and I don't often speak about our spirituality to others, and we don't feel called to join a church, but we are very, deeply spiritual. We get how this works for us. To put it simply, as Paul shared after our support group meeting Thursday night (and this applies to me, too), "Sometimes my complicated mind can't grasp a simple truth, and I have to bash my head against the wall several times before I get it." We have many, many examples of God working in our lives, and it ALWAYS follows that exact moment when we realize we're bashing our heads against the wall, trying to get our way, it's not working, and perhaps, just maybe, we ought to stop and let God give it a good college try instead.
Case in point: trying to sell our house in Tacoma so we could move further south into the country. I bought the house, a 1910 Craftsman on a decently busy street (but not an arterial), as a single woman. Paul moved in with me, hated the city and his horrid commute, and we decided to give it up and move to a more peaceful location. We hired a Realtor who specializes in flips, absorbed all his ideas on how best to renovate the house (which had lots of original items but some very outdated spaces and finishes), and got to work. Our self-imposed timeline was VERY short...I think we gave ourselves originally a few months to get it all done, but in reality it took six months to get it all done and the house listed for sale. It looked fantastic and I was sorry we hadn't done it sooner because it was so much nicer to live in...all new flooring (except the original hardwoods), new kitchen cabinets and countertops, remodeled bathroom (we even refinished the original clawfoot tub), new plumbing, improved layout, new built-ins, new paint, etc. The Realtor made lots of promises of showings and marketing strategies, and took us into the next county to look at houses. We fell in love with one - this one, actually - and put in a contingent offer, never imagining our house wouldn't sell like hotcakes. But it didn't. We tried everything. We had several showings, but never any follow ups. No offers. Tick tock, about 4 months later we finally had to let our contingent offer expire. To say we were frustrated was a vast understatement. The Realtor said we needed to drop the price another $15,000, which was shocking. We stopped and thought about the whole situation, and realized we hadn't felt very listened to by our Realtor, or our business valued. (We were, after all, the lowest-priced listing he had...by a long shot!) There was a young female Realtor who had very enthusiastically showed our home to three different buyers. On a whim, we fired our guy and hired her (yes, there were hurt feelings and threats of taking her commission because he "did all the work." What a lie!). And you know what? She got us a full price offer and two back-ups within days! Not only that, but Paul had driven by the home we loved in Tenino, noticed it appeared the owners were readying it to go back the market (it was now spring), and our Realtor jumped and helped us get a new offer in. Our home sold, and we simultaneously bought our dream property, where we have lived now for 3.5 years. Better than that, we got it for more than 1% less in interest rate and $30,000 less in price. When we get out of the way and stop trying so hard to get our way (as we think it needs gotten), things happen for us!
I'm sure you can see where I'm going with this.
See, in our current situation, it occurred to us that God has been throwing a lot of obstacles in our way, trying to get us to open our eyes and stop trying so hard. We both questioned whether we'd be ready to try again so soon. Last month we clearly weren't - especially me. This month, my body told us to piss off. You can't make a baby while on birth control pills, so there! And then November, sweet November, with your dang big deal elk camp trip right when I'd need Paul home most, not only for shots twice a day, but also to make getting his "sample" and being next to me as the medical making of our next potential child(ren) happen as stress-free as possible, you just don't want to play nice! I've had many women offer suggestions for how we can make November work...but that's the thing, it's TOO MUCH WORK! Well, duh. Duh! When something is supposed to happen, we've found, the path is usually pretty smooth. It's time for us to get out of the way, stop trying so hard, and let it be.
The answer came quickly, peacefully: we might try on our own, naturally, in November if Paul's able to come home from elk camp at the right times, but we're not going to pursue our next injectible IUI cycle next month. I will finish these nausea- and cramp-inducing birth control pills on November 1st, and will go in for a baseline follicle scan that same week as Dr. M. ordered, but only to make sure the cyst is gone. I will use OPKs in November for timed intercourse and Paul will do his best to come home on the right evenings. If it works out, cool, but we have no expectations that it will. We'll plan to go forward with an IUI cycle in early December, when the schedule is, gasp!, completely uncluttered, our calendars are clear, and we've (by then) had FOUR months between us and our loss. Hopefully by then our minds and hearts will be less burdened, too, so that I can feel as free and easy that cycle as I did in May...I still believe that's what helped us conceive the twins.
It's always so much better when you stop trying to push the river! Thank you, God, for giving us the clarity we needed to stop the insanity!
When I wrote my last post, I was about 1.5 hours into a 6 hour crying jag. No kidding. I cried off and on (mostly on) for six hours on Tuesday. Needless to say, when I woke up on Wednesday morning I felt like I'd been killed, or maybe had a giant hangover (and we don't drink in our house, so that's a stretch). I had a headache, my eyes were so puffy I could barely get my makeup on (and yes, when the swelling went down mid-morning I did look a tiny bit clown-like from the "off" makeup placement), and worse than that, I felt so dull and blah I couldn't concentrate. I ended up leaving early from work that day, too, but it was a much more peaceful afternoon.
As a couple of days went by, I gained a little perspective. It used to be it took me eons to figure out what was behind my feelings. Thank you, God, that's no longer true. Yes, sometimes it does take me a little longer than I'd like, but I usually "get it" within a few days.
Part of my anguish on Tuesday was that I don't like having decisions made for me. I've always been a very strong-willed, independent woman with a good, thoughtful head on her shoulders and no one gets to tell me how my life is going to be! To have my body rebel against my head and heart and make a very important decision for Paul and me - without our input, if you will - was devastating. This stupid life of ours has gotten so unfair. We didn't ask for any of this, would never will this life on anyone we care about. I still fight this reality of ours, that we'll forever be "those people who lost their babies." That label will stand until the day we die, whether known by others or simply (not simply!) within our own hearts. Whine, cry, gnash teeth, rinse, repeat.
Ok.
Here's the thing: Paul and I don't often speak about our spirituality to others, and we don't feel called to join a church, but we are very, deeply spiritual. We get how this works for us. To put it simply, as Paul shared after our support group meeting Thursday night (and this applies to me, too), "Sometimes my complicated mind can't grasp a simple truth, and I have to bash my head against the wall several times before I get it." We have many, many examples of God working in our lives, and it ALWAYS follows that exact moment when we realize we're bashing our heads against the wall, trying to get our way, it's not working, and perhaps, just maybe, we ought to stop and let God give it a good college try instead.
Case in point: trying to sell our house in Tacoma so we could move further south into the country. I bought the house, a 1910 Craftsman on a decently busy street (but not an arterial), as a single woman. Paul moved in with me, hated the city and his horrid commute, and we decided to give it up and move to a more peaceful location. We hired a Realtor who specializes in flips, absorbed all his ideas on how best to renovate the house (which had lots of original items but some very outdated spaces and finishes), and got to work. Our self-imposed timeline was VERY short...I think we gave ourselves originally a few months to get it all done, but in reality it took six months to get it all done and the house listed for sale. It looked fantastic and I was sorry we hadn't done it sooner because it was so much nicer to live in...all new flooring (except the original hardwoods), new kitchen cabinets and countertops, remodeled bathroom (we even refinished the original clawfoot tub), new plumbing, improved layout, new built-ins, new paint, etc. The Realtor made lots of promises of showings and marketing strategies, and took us into the next county to look at houses. We fell in love with one - this one, actually - and put in a contingent offer, never imagining our house wouldn't sell like hotcakes. But it didn't. We tried everything. We had several showings, but never any follow ups. No offers. Tick tock, about 4 months later we finally had to let our contingent offer expire. To say we were frustrated was a vast understatement. The Realtor said we needed to drop the price another $15,000, which was shocking. We stopped and thought about the whole situation, and realized we hadn't felt very listened to by our Realtor, or our business valued. (We were, after all, the lowest-priced listing he had...by a long shot!) There was a young female Realtor who had very enthusiastically showed our home to three different buyers. On a whim, we fired our guy and hired her (yes, there were hurt feelings and threats of taking her commission because he "did all the work." What a lie!). And you know what? She got us a full price offer and two back-ups within days! Not only that, but Paul had driven by the home we loved in Tenino, noticed it appeared the owners were readying it to go back the market (it was now spring), and our Realtor jumped and helped us get a new offer in. Our home sold, and we simultaneously bought our dream property, where we have lived now for 3.5 years. Better than that, we got it for more than 1% less in interest rate and $30,000 less in price. When we get out of the way and stop trying so hard to get our way (as we think it needs gotten), things happen for us!
I'm sure you can see where I'm going with this.
See, in our current situation, it occurred to us that God has been throwing a lot of obstacles in our way, trying to get us to open our eyes and stop trying so hard. We both questioned whether we'd be ready to try again so soon. Last month we clearly weren't - especially me. This month, my body told us to piss off. You can't make a baby while on birth control pills, so there! And then November, sweet November, with your dang big deal elk camp trip right when I'd need Paul home most, not only for shots twice a day, but also to make getting his "sample" and being next to me as the medical making of our next potential child(ren) happen as stress-free as possible, you just don't want to play nice! I've had many women offer suggestions for how we can make November work...but that's the thing, it's TOO MUCH WORK! Well, duh. Duh! When something is supposed to happen, we've found, the path is usually pretty smooth. It's time for us to get out of the way, stop trying so hard, and let it be.
The answer came quickly, peacefully: we might try on our own, naturally, in November if Paul's able to come home from elk camp at the right times, but we're not going to pursue our next injectible IUI cycle next month. I will finish these nausea- and cramp-inducing birth control pills on November 1st, and will go in for a baseline follicle scan that same week as Dr. M. ordered, but only to make sure the cyst is gone. I will use OPKs in November for timed intercourse and Paul will do his best to come home on the right evenings. If it works out, cool, but we have no expectations that it will. We'll plan to go forward with an IUI cycle in early December, when the schedule is, gasp!, completely uncluttered, our calendars are clear, and we've (by then) had FOUR months between us and our loss. Hopefully by then our minds and hearts will be less burdened, too, so that I can feel as free and easy that cycle as I did in May...I still believe that's what helped us conceive the twins.
It's always so much better when you stop trying to push the river! Thank you, God, for giving us the clarity we needed to stop the insanity!
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Relapse
Paul told me a couple of weeks ago that someone had asked him how I was doing and he replied that I'd been having the best few days I had in a really long time.
Too bad that didn't last. I don't know what triggered what, but I've been crying every day now for what seems like forever. I feel like whatever progress I'd made in my grieving has been erased, and sometimes I'm right back in those early days home from the hospital, after the numbness wore off and I was left to feel my desolate feelings.
We tried to conceive during the last cycle. As expected, it didn't work. Or, rather, it sort of worked, but didn't, and I'm relieved. Our timing was impeccable, could not have been better. We did everything exactly right. My basal body temperature chart was amazing, freaky even. I wasn't going to pee on a stick (POAS) until 13 days post ovulation (dpo), which is the same point at which I got a big fat positive (BFP) on a home pregnancy test in May, the day before our previously scheduled blood pregnancy test. This time, my chart was so awesome I couldn't help myself. At 9dpo, negative...11dpo, barely, faintly positive, but I chalked it up to an evaporation line fluke. Then 12dpo, a little bit darker but still faint positive. I had to hold it up to the light (and peer without my glasses because I need bifocals), but even without being able to focus my eyeballs I could see the pink tint of the line without trying. This was not a gray evap line. I freaked out...not in a good way, more in a, "You traitorous bitch," sort of way. Two days later I got another negative test, and I was relieved. Paul wasn't disappointed we weren't pregnant, either. I told the girls on my private chat board about the test, calling it a fluke, and they reminded me that no, it was actually a chemical pregnancy. A positive is a positive. Chemical pregnancies are any miscarriages that happen prior to detection of a heartbeat, pregnancies almost always lost due to genetic issues with the sperm or egg. In our case, this one was a teeny blip, so brief as to only tweak my hormone levels a little bit. Getting the final negative test was a relief. We realized we weren't ready to be pregnant again quite yet. It's only (already?!) been two months since our loss and it's still too early. I was thrilled when my period started a day early rather than late.
I went in this morning for my scheduled baseline follicle scan as my doctor ordered, officially marking the start of our next injectible IUI cycle. But that was not to be. Instead of a nice antral (resting) follicle count, my doctor saw a large cyst in my right ovary, one that, if we proceeded with the injections and IUIs, would likely prevent ovulation. He cancelled the cycle, ordered me to go on birth control pills for 21 days and said he'll see me again in about 25 days. I start the pills tomorrow morning to reset my "clock" and hopefully make the cyst disappear.
The thing is, in about 25 days, Paul leaves for elk camp for 11 days. If the cyst is gone and Dr. M. gives the all clear, he'll either have to agree to let me give myself the intra-muscular Menopur shots twice daily in the thigh, or we'll have to sit out November, too, because Paul won't be there to give me the shots in the butt like he's supposed to. Sierra offered to give me the morning shots at the clinic, but then realized there's still evenings and weekends to be dealt with. She also said she's seen some patients give themselvesthe injections in the butt. I'm not really sure how that would work, but it could be an option. Maybe.
The storm of complicated emotions continues. I was already near tears just sitting on that table, in the same room next to the same ultrasound machine where we saw our twins and heard their precious heartbeats for the first time back in June. Lying back and seeing the cyst on the screen this month, I knew we were doomed, and my heart broke a little more. This was the last outcome we expected. As of this month, we've been trying to start our family for FOUR years. Now we are forced to wait at least a little longer, still not knowing whether we'll ever become pregnant again or not, or whether we'll bring a healthy baby/ies home. The question of whether or not we're emotionally ready is simply moot; my body says not this month.
As Paul said to me on the phone, calling me at work after getting my text and hearing me crying, "Thank God we have a support group meeting Thursday night, because we need it."
Too bad that didn't last. I don't know what triggered what, but I've been crying every day now for what seems like forever. I feel like whatever progress I'd made in my grieving has been erased, and sometimes I'm right back in those early days home from the hospital, after the numbness wore off and I was left to feel my desolate feelings.
We tried to conceive during the last cycle. As expected, it didn't work. Or, rather, it sort of worked, but didn't, and I'm relieved. Our timing was impeccable, could not have been better. We did everything exactly right. My basal body temperature chart was amazing, freaky even. I wasn't going to pee on a stick (POAS) until 13 days post ovulation (dpo), which is the same point at which I got a big fat positive (BFP) on a home pregnancy test in May, the day before our previously scheduled blood pregnancy test. This time, my chart was so awesome I couldn't help myself. At 9dpo, negative...11dpo, barely, faintly positive, but I chalked it up to an evaporation line fluke. Then 12dpo, a little bit darker but still faint positive. I had to hold it up to the light (and peer without my glasses because I need bifocals), but even without being able to focus my eyeballs I could see the pink tint of the line without trying. This was not a gray evap line. I freaked out...not in a good way, more in a, "You traitorous bitch," sort of way. Two days later I got another negative test, and I was relieved. Paul wasn't disappointed we weren't pregnant, either. I told the girls on my private chat board about the test, calling it a fluke, and they reminded me that no, it was actually a chemical pregnancy. A positive is a positive. Chemical pregnancies are any miscarriages that happen prior to detection of a heartbeat, pregnancies almost always lost due to genetic issues with the sperm or egg. In our case, this one was a teeny blip, so brief as to only tweak my hormone levels a little bit. Getting the final negative test was a relief. We realized we weren't ready to be pregnant again quite yet. It's only (already?!) been two months since our loss and it's still too early. I was thrilled when my period started a day early rather than late.
I went in this morning for my scheduled baseline follicle scan as my doctor ordered, officially marking the start of our next injectible IUI cycle. But that was not to be. Instead of a nice antral (resting) follicle count, my doctor saw a large cyst in my right ovary, one that, if we proceeded with the injections and IUIs, would likely prevent ovulation. He cancelled the cycle, ordered me to go on birth control pills for 21 days and said he'll see me again in about 25 days. I start the pills tomorrow morning to reset my "clock" and hopefully make the cyst disappear.
The thing is, in about 25 days, Paul leaves for elk camp for 11 days. If the cyst is gone and Dr. M. gives the all clear, he'll either have to agree to let me give myself the intra-muscular Menopur shots twice daily in the thigh, or we'll have to sit out November, too, because Paul won't be there to give me the shots in the butt like he's supposed to. Sierra offered to give me the morning shots at the clinic, but then realized there's still evenings and weekends to be dealt with. She also said she's seen some patients give themselvesthe injections in the butt. I'm not really sure how that would work, but it could be an option. Maybe.
The storm of complicated emotions continues. I was already near tears just sitting on that table, in the same room next to the same ultrasound machine where we saw our twins and heard their precious heartbeats for the first time back in June. Lying back and seeing the cyst on the screen this month, I knew we were doomed, and my heart broke a little more. This was the last outcome we expected. As of this month, we've been trying to start our family for FOUR years. Now we are forced to wait at least a little longer, still not knowing whether we'll ever become pregnant again or not, or whether we'll bring a healthy baby/ies home. The question of whether or not we're emotionally ready is simply moot; my body says not this month.
As Paul said to me on the phone, calling me at work after getting my text and hearing me crying, "Thank God we have a support group meeting Thursday night, because we need it."
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
The same, only different
I have so much on my mind and in my hurting heart I don't even know where to begin.
The last few weeks featured some incredibly painful, difficult experiences, some of which are only now catching up to me after I've had some time to process my feelings. I've felt like I've had to defend our pain, the details of our loss, the fact that we are now parents, that our children existed, and on top of that, walking the tightrope of either stomping on someone else's feelings and experiences or being stomped on myself.
I've enjoyed reading the words of another blogger, Devan, who has experienced many more losses than Paul and me with grace and poise. This week, she shared about her experiences blogging to a much larger audience, opening herself up to support and criticism from readers, and identified a phenomenon I completely understand: the prevalence of baby loss mamas, as we're called, to compare our grief. Devan shared that she and her husband classify the loss of their son, Triton, at 14 weeks, as stillbirth, even though the medical community in the United States only recognizes losses after 20 weeks' gestation to be stillbirths. Some of the resulting comments she received from other grieving mother were horrible...and at the same time, not surprising.
Paul and I don't personally consider our loss to be a stillbirth because to do so just never occurred to us. We DO consider it to be horrifying, devastating and life-altering. I struggle with what it's really called: a miscarriage. Yes, the loss of any pregnancy from 4 through 19 weeks' gestation is technically called a miscarriage. Most miscarriages occur during the first trimester, usually due to chromosomal issues with the embryo (or, after 9 weeks, fetus). What happened to Devan and to Paul and me - a late miscarriage, or one that occurs during the second trimester - is much less common.
Folks in some of our circles - and actually, probably most of society in general - assume, after hearing we had a miscarriage, that we've lost an embryo early in our pregnancy, perhaps passed an unrecognizable lump of tissue at home, and probably bled and cramped some, as normally happens. Obviously, anyone who has read our story knows that is NOT what happened to us. Our "miscarriage" was the loss of two perfectly-formed, tiny human beings, each with two tiny shell ears, ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes, after induced labor and delivery in the hospital maternity ward.
And herein, for me anyway, lies the struggle: how do I validate the loss of our precious daughter and son as the tragedy as it was for us without either minimizing those who had an earlier loss OR risking the wrath of those who lost their babies further along in pregnancy than we did?
Quite honestly, it feels like a fight...and I’m tired. I'm quite sure a first trimester loss is very difficult, very sad, and even completely devastating for some. Understand, though, that Paul and I pretty much EXPECTED to lose our pregnancy in the first trimester. Think about it...why would we, aged 37 and 40, who had been through HELL to conceive over a 3.5 year period, knowing the risks of genetic issues with my older eggs, ever expect to have that first, hard-earned pregnancy last past the first trimester? I'm sure we would have been disappointed and sad had our pregnancy ended in an early miscarriage, but certainly not surprised.
Instead, we carried the twins into the "safe" zone. We were fully in the second trimester. We'd learned a week and a half earlier that we'd conceived babies who screened as close to normal as possible for a woman my age. (The risk of Downs Syndrome, Trisomy 21, in a 37-year old woman carrying twins is 1 in 127 (1 in 255 for singleton births). Our daughter scored 1 in 749, and our son scored 1 in 1049, which are unheard of odds for someone my age.) Due to the riskiness of the pregnancy and the fact that we were so well cared for by our fertility doctor, we'd had SEVEN perfect ultrasounds. Most expecting couples will never have the opportunity to peek at their healthy, thriving, growing fetuses so many times during pregnancy. Their little arms and legs, their abdomens and heads had been measured and showed two little beings growing well ahead of schedule. We didn't know things could go so wrong, so fast. We didn't know that there is no "safe," that second and third trimester losses, while "rare" statistically, do happen more often than one would think.
In the last few weeks I've had to go back into situations with people - mostly women - who knew we'd been expecting twins and had learned of our loss. Walking into those groups, I've felt anxiety because I'm never sure how I'll be greeted. Most often I receive silence, neither an acknowledgement of the pregnancy or the loss. As I've heard many times before from other bereaved parents, the silence is deafening, and that couldn't be truer. Whether it comes from folks close to us or from our wider circles, it's painful and reaffirms our fears that our babies are going to be forgotten. But then I hear, "Miscarriages are hard, but don't worry, because 95% of women who miscarry once go on to have a healthy pregnancy," not realizing those stats only really apply to first trimester miscarriages. Worse still, "You’ll be back to normal in no time," not realizing that yes, physically that may be true, but Paul and I can NEVER be normal after having to decide the fate of our beloved babies while they were still both very much alive, knowing they'd be way too early to ever survive...or frankly, that my cervix, because I labored and delivered vaginally, will always be that of a woman who has given birth, never of a woman who hadn't. Or, "There was probably something wrong with them, so it's for the best," when in fact they were perfect...it was MY body that failed. Then, over the weekend, I was faced with this, said in a bitter tone: "At least you didn't lose your daughter at 41 years old." I wanted to scream, but sat there stunned instead. At least that woman HAD 41 years of memories to hold close. All we have are several sets of ultrasound photos, and 14 short weeks of memories: of our excitement and apprehension, stressful doctor appointments, devastation of that fateful emergency room visit at 14 weeks 1 day, and then beauty and wonder of seeing, holding, kissing our perfect, tiny daughter and son. We didn't get a chance to learn of their personalities, to see who they would resemble, to look into their eyes, or have them hear us say how much we love them.
Taken together, the sum of these comments have left me feeling battle scarred and afraid of attending most social functions lest my heart be injured yet again. I'm comforted and supported by other mothers from both our in-person and online support groups who lost their babies later than we did but never make us feel compared to or minimized. They have accepted us where we are and I hope they know we do the same for them. Our stories are very different, and yet the underlying pain is the same. I've also found a few women who had losses close to the same gestation as ours, and that's helpful, too.
Devan wrote, "There is no comparison in grief." I would add, "There shouldn't be...but it's there." We all hurt so much and so want and deserve to have our feelings validated. Yet, because our experiences are inherently so very, very different, we almost can't help but step on one another in our fight to be understood. In the end, though, we are all grieving parents who went through nightmares, miss their babies, and are trying to figure out how to carry on.
The last few weeks featured some incredibly painful, difficult experiences, some of which are only now catching up to me after I've had some time to process my feelings. I've felt like I've had to defend our pain, the details of our loss, the fact that we are now parents, that our children existed, and on top of that, walking the tightrope of either stomping on someone else's feelings and experiences or being stomped on myself.
I've enjoyed reading the words of another blogger, Devan, who has experienced many more losses than Paul and me with grace and poise. This week, she shared about her experiences blogging to a much larger audience, opening herself up to support and criticism from readers, and identified a phenomenon I completely understand: the prevalence of baby loss mamas, as we're called, to compare our grief. Devan shared that she and her husband classify the loss of their son, Triton, at 14 weeks, as stillbirth, even though the medical community in the United States only recognizes losses after 20 weeks' gestation to be stillbirths. Some of the resulting comments she received from other grieving mother were horrible...and at the same time, not surprising.
Paul and I don't personally consider our loss to be a stillbirth because to do so just never occurred to us. We DO consider it to be horrifying, devastating and life-altering. I struggle with what it's really called: a miscarriage. Yes, the loss of any pregnancy from 4 through 19 weeks' gestation is technically called a miscarriage. Most miscarriages occur during the first trimester, usually due to chromosomal issues with the embryo (or, after 9 weeks, fetus). What happened to Devan and to Paul and me - a late miscarriage, or one that occurs during the second trimester - is much less common.
Folks in some of our circles - and actually, probably most of society in general - assume, after hearing we had a miscarriage, that we've lost an embryo early in our pregnancy, perhaps passed an unrecognizable lump of tissue at home, and probably bled and cramped some, as normally happens. Obviously, anyone who has read our story knows that is NOT what happened to us. Our "miscarriage" was the loss of two perfectly-formed, tiny human beings, each with two tiny shell ears, ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes, after induced labor and delivery in the hospital maternity ward.
And herein, for me anyway, lies the struggle: how do I validate the loss of our precious daughter and son as the tragedy as it was for us without either minimizing those who had an earlier loss OR risking the wrath of those who lost their babies further along in pregnancy than we did?
Quite honestly, it feels like a fight...and I’m tired. I'm quite sure a first trimester loss is very difficult, very sad, and even completely devastating for some. Understand, though, that Paul and I pretty much EXPECTED to lose our pregnancy in the first trimester. Think about it...why would we, aged 37 and 40, who had been through HELL to conceive over a 3.5 year period, knowing the risks of genetic issues with my older eggs, ever expect to have that first, hard-earned pregnancy last past the first trimester? I'm sure we would have been disappointed and sad had our pregnancy ended in an early miscarriage, but certainly not surprised.
Instead, we carried the twins into the "safe" zone. We were fully in the second trimester. We'd learned a week and a half earlier that we'd conceived babies who screened as close to normal as possible for a woman my age. (The risk of Downs Syndrome, Trisomy 21, in a 37-year old woman carrying twins is 1 in 127 (1 in 255 for singleton births). Our daughter scored 1 in 749, and our son scored 1 in 1049, which are unheard of odds for someone my age.) Due to the riskiness of the pregnancy and the fact that we were so well cared for by our fertility doctor, we'd had SEVEN perfect ultrasounds. Most expecting couples will never have the opportunity to peek at their healthy, thriving, growing fetuses so many times during pregnancy. Their little arms and legs, their abdomens and heads had been measured and showed two little beings growing well ahead of schedule. We didn't know things could go so wrong, so fast. We didn't know that there is no "safe," that second and third trimester losses, while "rare" statistically, do happen more often than one would think.
In the last few weeks I've had to go back into situations with people - mostly women - who knew we'd been expecting twins and had learned of our loss. Walking into those groups, I've felt anxiety because I'm never sure how I'll be greeted. Most often I receive silence, neither an acknowledgement of the pregnancy or the loss. As I've heard many times before from other bereaved parents, the silence is deafening, and that couldn't be truer. Whether it comes from folks close to us or from our wider circles, it's painful and reaffirms our fears that our babies are going to be forgotten. But then I hear, "Miscarriages are hard, but don't worry, because 95% of women who miscarry once go on to have a healthy pregnancy," not realizing those stats only really apply to first trimester miscarriages. Worse still, "You’ll be back to normal in no time," not realizing that yes, physically that may be true, but Paul and I can NEVER be normal after having to decide the fate of our beloved babies while they were still both very much alive, knowing they'd be way too early to ever survive...or frankly, that my cervix, because I labored and delivered vaginally, will always be that of a woman who has given birth, never of a woman who hadn't. Or, "There was probably something wrong with them, so it's for the best," when in fact they were perfect...it was MY body that failed. Then, over the weekend, I was faced with this, said in a bitter tone: "At least you didn't lose your daughter at 41 years old." I wanted to scream, but sat there stunned instead. At least that woman HAD 41 years of memories to hold close. All we have are several sets of ultrasound photos, and 14 short weeks of memories: of our excitement and apprehension, stressful doctor appointments, devastation of that fateful emergency room visit at 14 weeks 1 day, and then beauty and wonder of seeing, holding, kissing our perfect, tiny daughter and son. We didn't get a chance to learn of their personalities, to see who they would resemble, to look into their eyes, or have them hear us say how much we love them.
Taken together, the sum of these comments have left me feeling battle scarred and afraid of attending most social functions lest my heart be injured yet again. I'm comforted and supported by other mothers from both our in-person and online support groups who lost their babies later than we did but never make us feel compared to or minimized. They have accepted us where we are and I hope they know we do the same for them. Our stories are very different, and yet the underlying pain is the same. I've also found a few women who had losses close to the same gestation as ours, and that's helpful, too.
Devan wrote, "There is no comparison in grief." I would add, "There shouldn't be...but it's there." We all hurt so much and so want and deserve to have our feelings validated. Yet, because our experiences are inherently so very, very different, we almost can't help but step on one another in our fight to be understood. In the end, though, we are all grieving parents who went through nightmares, miss their babies, and are trying to figure out how to carry on.
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