free hit counter turns out you can be a little pregnant madcap
misadventures in infertility and pregnancy loss
Recent Posts
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* Hitting the pelvic floor
* My pie hole revisited
* Rave on, John Donne
* Senseless
* I'm ready to shut my pie hole now
* The Bitter Girl's Guide to Pregnancy After Infertility
* 24-week roundup
* Please let me know and I'll try to fix it
* State of the union
* "They were no doubt agreeable people."
By Category
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* Notes from astride the stirrups
* I've learned a lot...but I'm not sure it's worth it.
* I am full of good ideas
* The doctor is IN
* Welcome to the bad place. Population: You
* The Internet is full. Go home.
* You can pick your friends...
* ...But you can't pick your family.
* New York diary
* Jesus Gay, I'm pregnant.
By Stage
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* The beginning
* IVF #1
Pregnant, but failing. Three fake miscarriages before discovery of
ectopic. Methotrexate and the aftermath.
* IVF #2
Planning the onslaught. Dominant follicle develops. Cycle
cancelled, converted to IUI. Surprise: I'm pregnant! Surprise:
it's failing. Miscarriage, D&C, and aftermath.
* IVF #3
Uneventful stim cycle. Eggs go splat. The donor egg talk.
Negative. A plan and a second opinion.
* Medicated IUI #1
"Excellent stim." Early ovulation. Sex under bitter duress. The
unsurprising negative.
* Medicated IUI #2
Shortest ART cycle ever.
* Waiting
Trying hard to look busy before IVF #4.
* IVF #4
Boring stories. Shooting up in the big city. 11 eggs, 3 embryos. 2
transferred.
* Pregnant
Doubling hCG. Spotting and freaking. Heartbeat. Still growing.
Still freaking.
By Date
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Cheesy. Very Cheesy.
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Vagina Posse
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* Hardscrabble
* The Naked Ovary
* So Close
* Leery Polyp
* Chez Miscarriage
Girls Gone Riled
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* Uncommon Misconception
* Greener Pastures
* Here Be Hippogriffs
* hashai::blog
* SuspendedAnimation
* BrooklynGirl
Blogs Aplenty
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* The great big list of blogs I read
More Information
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* IVF Q&A from IVF Connections
* General infertility Q&A from INCIID
* Fact sheets from ASRM
* Infertility glossary from INCIID
* Ectopic pregnancy info from Medline
Fiber Therapy
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* Quilts for Other People's Kids
* The IVF Quilt
About Me
10/31/2004
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Hitting the pelvic floor
happy fun pelvisYesterday I made the acquaintance of a stuffed pelvis.
You should not think it was your average warm and friendly stuffed
animal, complete with googly eyes, plush fur, and perhaps a
stimulating internal bell or rattle. No, this pelvis was a formidable
thing, white canvas with brown spots, complete with forbidding
projections that made it resemble nothing so much as a soft-sculpture
horny toad.
I met this pelvis in passing at an antenatal class Paul and I
attended. I had some reservations about going in the first place;
since I am expecting to have a C-section, I wasn't convinced I'd find
the information useful. Learning how to focus during labor pains is
something I hope not to have to do — with placenta previa, going into
labor is bad, and if I do, all the relaxation exercises in the world
won't make a dent in my panic. But the childbirth educator said there
would be information on breastfeeding and infant care, and I also
hoped I might sit in a room full of pregnant women and enjoy
pretending to be normal.
I learned a lot.
I learned what an actual placenta looks like. (This is helpful because
if I ever meet mine in a dark alley I'll know which pulsing bloody
disc to kick the bejesus out of.) I learned that pregnant women should
never, ever wear white cotton leggings, no matter what. (I don't ever,
no matter what, but the sight of one of my classmates squatting
athwart a birthing ball was enough to make me feel a little
light-headed.) And I learned that I am really, really sad.
I am not sad specifically to be missing out on labor and a vaginal
delivery. During the riveting vulva-stretching scene in the obligatory
video we were shown, Paul leaned over and whispered, without moving
his lips, "If that placenta migrates after all, we're screwed." I
readily concurred, because I easily got used to the idea of a
C-section some time ago and feel no fear about it. No, I'm sad because
almost everything women are now encouraged to believe about birth —
that it's a natural process, that medical interventions are to be
avoided, that our bodies can do this — seems, in my case, not to
apply.
The educator talked for a while about early signs of impending labor.
All I could think was, "If I get to that point, I'm in trouble." When
your placenta is completely covering your cervix, the dropping of the
baby or cervical effacement can throw a dangerous spanner in the
works. "You'll recognize certain signs and you'll be excited," said
the educator. Sure, I guess, if by "excited" you mean "bleeding like a
murder victim." "Fear is natural," she pointed out, "but you're not
injured, and the pain doesn't mean there's something wrong. It means
there's something right." She forgot to add, "...Unless you're Julie,
in which case it probably means the plague of locusts will be arriving
forthwith."
And what to say about the idea that medical interventions are to be
avoided, when at this point I eagerly embrace them? The last two and a
half years have been nothing but a long parade of interventions —
interventions for which I'm deeply grateful, even aside from ART. The
intensive series of early ultrasounds, the methotrexate injection, the
D&Cs each allowed me to face sadness and loss with some respite from
fear, and some feeling of control, however illusory. I can understand
and endorse the view that in an uncomplicated birth a woman's body is
entirely capable of delivering a baby without intervention any more
elaborate than someone gently mopping her brow, but in my case
intervention is what could save my life and my baby's.
Most women's bodies can do this. It doesn't look easy and it doesn't
look trivial, but it's natural and normal and what our crankcases were
meant to do. But what to do with the information that my body is
giving me: that it didn't want to get pregnant in the first place,
that it had a hard time putting an embryo where it customarily
belongs, that it righteously rejects conventional bourgeois ideas
about where a placenta should go, that you can take your apple pie and
shove it where the sun don't shine?
I will frankly admit that one reason I looked forward to pregnancy,
rather than pursuing adoption immediately, is that for a long time,
between the endometriosis, the STDs, and the infertility, I'd felt my
body was broken in some fundamental way. I hoped for the chance to
disprove that suspicion, some way to validate the awesome power of my
lady parts after all: Okay, it's hard to get pregnant, but once I'm
there I'm gonna glow, goddamn it.
That hasn't been working so well.
I sat in the childbirth class and cried, not loudly or obviously,
because I don't, but with slow and silent leakage of the occasional
tear that I couldn't blink away.
And as I write this, I'm keenly conscious that some of you who read it
will think to yourselves — because thinking to others is a big waste
of time — I can't believe she's not grateful to be pregnant, that
she's still complaining, that not even this can make her happy. At
least she'll get a baby out of it.
And that is true; at this point it is probable that I will bring home
a baby. But how I feel now goes against the grain everything I'd
previously believed about that. The baby is the most important thing,
of course. It's what we all want, above all: a tiny person to love and
be loved by, and it's what I wake up thinking of in the quiet of the
night, what makes me smile every time I feel an indignant thump from
within.
But if the baby — the person, the love, the product — were the only
thing, why would I have volunteered for this? Why would any of us who
have undergone treatment? What I wanted was more than that baby, and
I'm only realizing the enormity of those desires now that it's clear
that they're lost to me.
10:20 AM in Jesus gay, I'm pregnant., Welcome to the bad place.
Population: You | Comments (70) | TrackBack (2)
10/28/2004
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My pie hole revisited
Remember that pie I made? Well, Paul gets to finish it.
I failed my gestational diabetes test, and I failed it with a
vengeance. Out of four blood draws, my blood sugar levels exceeded the
norm on three of them. And my numbers weren't even close.
At the moment, I'm not sure what this means, aside from the fact that
I'll have to alter my diet, do frequent finger-sticks, and continue to
worry. I'm supposed to talk to a specialist in maternal fetal medicine
and a nutritionist, but that consultation won't take place for a
couple of weeks, so until then I'm a little bit lost. I've put in a
call to a nurse to ask for some general guidelines to use while I wait
for an individualized plan.
Only 15% of people who flunk the initial screening actually have
gestational diabetes; it occurs in only 4-7% of pregnancies overall. I
am starting to get tired of being so motherfucking lucky.
What frightens me more than the diabetes itself, which is generally
manageable through diet and exercise alone, is my uneasy awareness
that complications can snowball. For example, let's revisit my ill
placed placenta — if it does, in fact, provoke a premature delivery,
my baby is at greater risk for developing respiratory distress
syndrome (RDS). But, wait, what's this? You say babies born to mothers
with gestational diabetes are at risk of delayed lung maturity, and
therefore also at higher risk for RDS?
Great! This calls for a goddamn donut. I told Paul he could have the
last slice of pie. When I explained why, he said forlornly, "This
wasn't how I wanted to have it...[long pause]...I kind of wanted to
fight you for it."
02:14 PM in Jesus gay, I'm pregnant. | Comments (57) | TrackBack (0)
Rave on, John Donne
Yesterday one of my entries garnered this rare sparkling gem of a
comment:
Just a thought, but why don't you just adopt a child? If your body is
resisting every bit of scientific treatment for infertility and you
can't have a child naturally, maybe you weren't *meant* to conceive a
child.
There are so many children, from babies to pre-teens, that desperately
need homes. You spend so much time and energy having doctors inject
things into, x-ray, poke, prod and generally just plain fuck with your
reproductive organs. Simultaneously, you post an online diary with
every gory detail of your treatments, putting just as much time and
effort, it seems, into the site's layout, updates, links and internet
correspondance.
Why don't you change your priorities? Squeezing a baby from your
vaginal canal isn't really that big a deal. The effort and love you
put forth in raising a child is.
— J, 32, diagnosed as infertile in 2001, wife, proud mother of 2
beautiful adopted boys, 8 and 3
Much to my shock and wonder, upon reading this I suddenly found myself
filled with the spirit of a long-dead Metaphysical poet. Here, then,
is my answer:
A Valediction: Forbidding Asshats
As barren women mourn because
Their urine stick tests yielded naught,
Self-righteous drive-by posters pause
To kindly offer "just a thought."
Dull and brutish posters' tries
— whose one-off sallies seem intrusive —
To browbeat women under guise
of caring feel a touch abusive.
They pepper us with sage advice —
No more procedures, no more shots.
In case we hadn't yet thought twice:
"It's meant to be! Now just adopt."
Thank you, thank you, nameless troll!
Thought we never once of that!
We're lucky that your flapping hole
Enlightened us, you smug asshat.
"Why push a child from your vagina?"
Reasonable question, yes,
When paperwork and trips to China
Bring forth children to caress.
We each have answers, different all,
For why our stubborn souls insist,
For why our hopes remain in thrall,
And why our efforts still persist.
So shall we melt, and make no noise,
No protest, no indignant foam?
Shall we swear off dreamed-for joys
And bring those "needy children" home?
In part, we may — we may decide
To swear off needles, to pursue
Adoption, which we don't deride —
But not because we're swayed by you.
Yes, foam we will, for foam we must
When a troll doth dare presume
To preach that our desires aren't just,
To "just accept" an empty womb.
No matter where our paths may wend —
Adoption, cycling, moving on —
Each choice will come from deep within,
Not from your clumsy rants, Anon.
It's not for you — for anyone —
To scold, to hector, or to scoff
At how we build our families, hon.
We decide that. You fuck off.
(Yes, I am sure noted cleric John Donne laced his every utterance with
obscenities. Why do you ask?)
10:27 AM in The Internet is full. Go home. | Comments (90) | TrackBack
(1)
10/27/2004
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Senseless
This morning I had my three-hour glucose tolerance test. While I sat
patiently in the waiting room in the long intervals between blood
draws, I was unable to avoid overhearing the conversation of the women
at the registration desk.
Familiarity breeds contempt, I suppose, or at least a breezy
nonchalance. Their tone was perfectly matter-of-fact, brisk and
businesslike, this-won't-hurt-a-bit, even when discussing the most
heartbreaking matters. "Her beta's only 62, so she's not going to
bother to come in." "Yes, but the baby died." "Oh, when they miscarry,
I just throw away their purple sheet."
They were not especially callous, I think; they were just getting
through their day. Yet it shocked me — not their talk or their tone,
but the fact that this is the stuff of their every workday. And how do
you make sense of a world when such circumstances are commonplace
enough to inspire anything but a shaken silence?
This is the silence I felt upon reading Sarah's posts on Cecily's blog
yesterday and today. This is a world where such things happen every
day, but never ever should.
How can this make any sense?
01:17 PM in You can pick your friends... | Comments (12) | TrackBack
(0)
10/25/2004
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I'm ready to shut my pie hole now
dough boyLast week in the mail I received the instructions for my
gestational diabetes test. I'd read a bit about the test and knew it
involved fasting. That didn't concern me at all, since I knew I could
depend on my formidable maternal stores for energy. (Come the
apocalypse, everyone's invited over to my thighs for a snack. Don't
worry, no shoving. There's plenty to go around.)
What I didn't know is that the test also requires the consumption of
an entire bakery. In the three days prior to the test, I am to eat not
only MY NORMAL MEALS AND SNACKS — underlined and bold in the
instructions — but THREE SNACKS A DAY CHOSEN FROM THE LIST BELOW.
Said list includes items like a whole bagel. Two slices of bread. A
cup of cooked pasta. A granola bar. A shitload of cooked rice (that's
a third of a shitload uncooked, for ease of measuring). A brace of
Twinkies, including licking the wrappers. Three tubes of Pringles,
eaten in mouthfuls of five stacked chips or more. A big handful of
brown sugar, neat.
Um, I made up those last three.
So to get back to the point, I am to consume all MY NORMAL MEALS AND
SNACKS and ALSO about five additional pounds of FLUFFY WHITE FOOD per
day. This might not be a problem if I weren't already consuming three
cups of pasta a day, plus two slices of toast just to remind my
pancreas who's boss. As it stands, it is 2:30 PM and I am now full to
bursting after only one of MY NORMAL MEALS and one of the mandatory
SNACKS.
Last night I had a real dilemma. I'd made a beauty of a pie,
apple-ginger with a latticed crust. After dinner, I wanted pie, but I
knew I still had ONE MOTHERFUCKING SNACK left on the menu.
Should I have the pie, I wondered, when I knew that pie plus a snack
would leave me oozing a partially digested bready paste from every
orifice as I lay down to sleep? (For future reference, mechanics of
extrusion being what they are, bending in the middle only makes it
worse.)
More troubling was the question of whether the pie should be
considered a NORMAL SNACK. I have homemade baked goods in the house
roughly half of the time, and if they're here, I eat them. Would the
pie count, then, as part of my everyday diet, or as extra? How to
classify the pie? NORMAL SNACK or NOT AT ALL OPTIONAL, CRAM IT IN,
GIRLIE, COOL HAND LUKE-STYLE GLUTTONY?
Stumped, I ate the pie. Two pieces. And the toast. Two slices. With
butter.
If I'm going down, I'm going down with all flags flying, all snacks
pie-ing, and my poor sad pancreas whimpering in humiliating defeat.
02:52 PM in Jesus gay, I'm pregnant. | Comments (38) | TrackBack (0)
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