Please

Tell me.

What does one do when the waves of bad news and heartbreaking statements simply

do.
not.
stop.

What does one do? What am I supposed to do. Please, someone. Tell me.

Tell me how to share this news with my beloved husband, someone who, on a good day, is not quite sure why he's getting out of bed and pretending. Pretending anything matters now that his daughters are dead and every

single

chance

of trying again just reveals more and more layers of bad news. How am I supposed to do this?

**

I know things cannot be as bad as they seem right now. But right now, damn.

I thought grief and all that comes with it was supposed to happen in waves. How can I catch my breathe if there is no ebb and flow?

I am waiting for a free pass here. Waiting for some divine intervention to tap fate on the shoulder and say, "now, now, don't you think m's had enough? Why don't you let them alone for a while?"

Please, fate. (chance, circumstance, gods, whatEVER) Please leave us alone. At least long enough to lick our wounds before you inflict more.

Please.

No Dice

No stars. No dice. Transfer was canceled.

As so many of you unfortunately know, making the thaw does not necessarily mean turning into embryos that are ready to grow and flourish. Three thawed. None grew. Nurse tried to reach us all morning to: a.) tell us before we started the drive and b.) to be sure she was the one to tell us. And these are just 2 reasons why she is awesome.

But, well fuck, we were already dressed and on our way out the door, both of us had called off sick, and the prospect of sitting at home today sounded beyond awful, so we got in the car and drove to the clinic anyway. Not for a transfer, but for a review of any donor profiles they might have.

Lots of tears. From us, from Nurse (who frankly, looked worse than we did), from the financial advisor who told Nurse she looked like shit and wanted to know why, from the grief counselor who sat with us for most of the day. None from our RE. She gave us what we needed, which was hope and encouragement to keep moving forward. If there was any consolation to be had, at least we didn't spend the day feeling alone.

Its funny, this is pretty much the same cast of characters we spend our very first day with, back at square one. And in a sense, we are back there again. But this time with a lot more baggage.

We are home now. Drying our eyes. Thinking about what next. No donors in sight. Lots cycling now though at our clinic, so there may be some options opening up later. Later. It's all about waiting, isn't it?

If I sound calm and rational right now, it is simply because I am all cried out. M. too. I think we dumped off most of our despair and feelings of hopelessness with the counselor. Now we are just looking forward to dinner - like the very first day, we spent the morning on the road, the day in a cubicle and the early evening in traffic. All on an empty stomach. So, I am clearing off the little coccoon I had made on the bed filled with knitting, magazines and such, tidying up the house since there is no bedrest in sight and getting ready to roll some tortillas. It is all I can do not to pull every last radish from the garden.

Measuring Heartache

• lining measured a whopping 4.9 on Thursday. A whole .2 mm more. How about that.
• My estrogen level is above 2000. Off the charts. So, its not a matter of my body not ingesting the estrogen. It's a matter of my endometrium simply failing to comply.
  
• lining is neither thick nor trilaminar - the 2 things you shoot for for a successful cycle. There are little white spots on the ultrasound which indicate little pieces of scarring. So, 0 for 2 with a little extra punch in the gut. Things don't look good.
  
• what now? this officially turns into a mock cycle with 10 days of progesterone (shots and suppositories, hey!) leading up to an endometrial biopsy around June 11.
  
• if, despite everything, the lining is "in phase," we will move towards an FET. If it is not, we will not. There would be no point.
  

But we're here. At the beach. Managing to eke out a few smiles and laughs over the heartache that really has just become a familiar part of our lives. It is not going to go away, so we might as well acknowledge it. Yes, yes, I see you. You're right there. How could we miss you? And then take things from there.

Comment from M. on the beach after we dodge seagulls that have gathered behind us because a little boy thought throwing his french fries to them was funny (discarded french fries! blasphemy!) and a big rubber ball that came loping down the sand from a game played by another bunch of young 'uns:

"You know, truth be told, I actually liked kids a lot less before. Now I can actually tolerate them. Well, not tolerate them, but I don't hate them. I know some of your friends have trouble seeing kids these days. For me, it's kind of the opposite."

Are you telling me that your kid aversion was really sour grapes?

"Yes. I hated them because I didn't think we could ever have them. But we did. We do."

Resignation

I might just have to come to terms with the fact that I will not be able to get pregnant again. Ever.

That our few moments with Isa and Jovi is all we're going to get. Ever.

And dammit. This is pretty hard to bear right now. Especially when, you know, the world doesn't stop while you need to comprehend and process your own little corner of it, does it? (This post is taking me ages to write because I am working, rescheduling, emailing, pretending to be ok.)

21 days of 8 mg of estrogen daily and what do I have to show for it? An endometrium that is a measly 4.7 mm. Entirely too thin for, for anything. Possible reasons? Microscopic scarring. As my RE explained, a pregnant uterus is incredibly sensitive. To remove living tissue from it in that state could easily result in permanent damage.

Pregnant.
Living Tissue.
Permanent Damage.

And just as I thought that clouds had lifted, that we were getting on with our lives, actually quite well lately, it all comes flooding back. Fuck me, I was pregnant. There were babies inside of my belly. Beautiful ones. I had two daughters. And I may never have the opportunity to try again.

The fact that my RE even felt a need for this follow up ultrasound after a second hysteroscopy should have made me wary. And it did. But maybe I was just so pleased that the first hysteroscopy didn't reveal massive scarring, I let myself get hopeful again. To start thinking about new ob/gyns, unearthing maternity clothes, to contemplate how I would be if I were able to get pregnant again.

Fool.

My RE is great. She really is. And at this point, I am pretty sure I am a research paper waiting to be written, or at least a pet project for her. She must have said ten times yesterday, "I don't give up this easily. There is more we can do." Well, great. In the meantime, I am desolate. Sick of the hypocrisy of organic foods and green living while meanwhile super-sizing my hormone levels and forcing my body to deal with all kinds of artificial junk. Inserted. Ingested. Forced. I am sick of being angry and hurt and hating everybody. I am weary of heavy sleeps and strange dreams filled with distorted bodies and fucked up story lines that leave me unsettled for the rest of the day. Really, really tired of it. My misanthropy is just a few layers below skin on a good day. And today is not a good day.

The only things that kept me from throwing myself on the train tracks yesterday were texts from M and, oddly enough, one of my old posts that I reread as I sniffled to myself on the same seat, in the same station, for almost the same reason, almost a year ago.

I wrote this just a week before our (successful) FET, when after weeks of everything you are supposed to do and nothing you are not supposed to do landed me an endometrium measuring 6.0. Not as sucky as 4.7, but not far off. Last time, this strategy worked. I am hoping it will again.

So I spend this week ingesting, and now inserting, estrogen into my body and go back next week for a wand redux and pray that there is a notable improvement. From there, I will probably add progesterone to the mix, just as if I was gearing up for a transfer. After a few days, RE will take a swab of my uterus to see if I am "in phase" (if my body and my RE are on the same page as far as where they think I should be in a cycle.)

If I am, then I do believe we aim for a transfer ASAP.

If I am not, well, that's a conversation I don't want to have with myself right now.

M. is my strength. It seems he has already inflicted this self-torture on himself and has landed on the other side. Not easily, not peacefully, but he is definitely at a place right now where I am not. He says we have more than we ever thought possible, meaning, two daughters. I think that and immediately think, yes, two dead daughters and more heartache, self-doubt and questioning of my sanity than I ever, ever, ever thought possible. Yes, this is true.

I have to keep living. I have to hope for the best. I have to get dressed now and put on a face that completely conceals what we have just been talking about right now. Because the world doesn't stop while you need to comprehend and process your own little corner of it. And what's more, for the most part, I think the rest of the world could really give a shit about it.

I've Been "Retired."

Not me, but two of the blogs that I write for a certain online media company. D*mn.

I'm telling you because one of them was Fertility Notes, a little project that I was pretty proud of. And while I didn't have the highest number of readers on the channel, my readers were the best. I really don't think that (with a few exceptions) the other blogs had the kind of personal and, sorry advertisers, sometimes painful points of view FN had. We laughed, we cried. We shared free stuff.

But apparently, our wombs and what's (not) in them don't translate to big online ad money.

Which is a little shocking to me. I thought us infertiles were cash cows.

Part of me is a little relieved. While I turn here to cleanse my soul. To rant, to rave, to find you, FN was feeling more and more like a job, and that's really not what I had wanted. Not having that added responsibility gives me a lot more time and mental energy to dedicate to some other things abrewin' right now....

There are still a few more days of limping along. August 11th will be the official last day.

After that, I'm sorry, I think I'm going to have to bug you all here with stuff I would usually post over there (along with the usually b*tching and moaning, of course). I've got it in my system.

Maybe I'll add a special page or something. Can you do that in Blogger?

Empty

Oh hey, what's there? Oh, I see. It's NOTHING.

Yes friends, it is a BFN which, frankly, took hubby and I a bit by surprise this time. I've been cramping all week which I felt was a sure sign of something, right? Nope. It's nothing.

Angry. Sad. Angry. Resigned. Angry (at whom?). Confused. Relieved? (at what? Finally knowing?) A little Lost. Maybe a lot Lost. What am I going to do with myself today?

While I sift through these thoughts amidst more soul searching which I fear might be coming on, I need you, my friends, to do me a favor.

I need you to tell me the worst joke your know. I mean, the one that makes your friends groan and your husband furrow his brow whenever you try to tell it because it's so bad.

Here's mine:


What's red and invisible??


No tomatoes.


I love that joke. Instead of sympathies, please send me your crappiest, worst joke. God can't be the only one with a f*cked up sense of humor, right?

Wish I Had Better News

But I don't. It's a negative. A BFN.

And actually, telling folks is the hardest part. Harder than anything. Sharing the grief is so much worse than keeping it between us. Esp. when our circle of support has been so supportive. But there's not too many to tell, and hopefully, we're known for dealing with adversity ok.

Different people deal with grief differently. What I need, what helps me the most, is a lot of four letter words in creative combinations. Somehow, I would rather hear "FUCK! That fucking blows donkey balls!" than, "I'm really sorry." Even though the sentiment is more or less the same. So, if you have any favorite four-lettered combos, or hubby's favorite (leftover from life as a substitute teacher) words that are so close to expletives but not enough to get you suspended, I would LOVE to hear them.

Next steps: So many of you unfortunately know this routine. All meds stop. Wait for a bleed. Go back on birth control. Reassess for next cycle. Which, yes, I think we are going to try. But the one question we have is, how will next time be different than this time?

A Confession

Warning: Sensitive info here about miscarriage and loss. Please don't read if you think it will upset you. It might.

I got a text Friday morning from one of our dearest friends. "Call me. Its important."

And so I did. And that's when I learned that he and his partner (who also happens to be hubby's cousin) would most likely be meeting at the emergency room in a few hours. They feared she had a miscarriage the night before. They were right.

This has consumed our weekend. Long talks with our friend, who at 40, was shocked, then thrilled, then absolutely thrilled at the prospect of becoming a father for the first time. The pregnancy was not planned, but not unwanted. The pregnancy and miscarriage has left them both reeling, uncertain of their next steps or of their future together. I am just sad. So sad.

While some of this is not really my story to tell, hubby and I are inextricably linked to it. He is one of our very best friends; she is a blood relative. We introduced them. We watched him as he pined for her from afar. We made it a point to include them both in group outings to give her more confidence in him. One day, they went out without us. For months, we heard little from them, which we interpreted as a good sign. And it was. They were falling in love and making plans to be together in a permanent kind of way.

Then, the bomb dropped. "We are expecting!" I cried. Happy tears, I think. I was so moved by the idea that two people in love really could create another. What a fucking concept, hey?

We helped them move into their new place together, I looked through baby books with her. But I think both hubby and I could sense that things seemed to be moving way too fast for these people who are both notoriously independent and self-reliant. While we had our doubts about their future together together, there were no doubts that the baby was wanted.

But things happen. She began to spot, then bleed, then cramp, then....

And before you know it, our friend is calling at midnight, after hours at the ER with a simple message: "We lost the baby." He cried. I cried. In fact, I have had a hard time not crying all weekend.

Why am I feeling this loss - which is not my loss - so acutely? Because I love my friends? Yes, of course, that's some of it. But it doesn't explain it all, I think.

He called me yesterday to apologize profusely about the midnight call. Hubby filled him in on our situation when he told us theirs. He woke up thinking that he had upset me terribly talking about the miscarriage. God love him. His world is falling apart and he is worried about hurting my feelings. I reassured him that he had done nothing of the sort.

But still, my heart is breaking.

I think because a miscarriage is my greatest fear. When I think of "worse case scenario" in this adventure - that is it. Not a bad retrieval. Not no embryos to freeze. Not a failed transfer. Not even a BFN (big fat negative). I fear a successful transfer that results in a miscarriage. Because then the loss is real.

Please understand. Up until the point where my womb is occupied, pregnancy, motherhood, all of it, remain theoretical concepts to me. Never in my adult life had I ever thought these were possible. Never. Even now after thousands of dollars have been charged, hormones injected, donors chosen, none of this is real for me. Because right now, I have nothing to lose. I am no worse off than when we started. We are no more childless than last year or the year before of the year before. Some of it is cognitive dissonance and a desire to stay sane, stay functional, not get too excited about the possibility. But this is all a pre-pregnancy state of mind.

When hubby and I first discussed donor eggs, I was so wary. And this was the reason: what if it works and then it doesn't? Then, I think, I will be worse off than when we started.

I know so many of you have already experienced this loss, have mourned like my friends are mourning. I hope I haven't offended anyone with my post. I just want you to know that in this moment, I am just a little bit scared of the future.

Update

Cycle Cancelled.

8 follicles for our donor but only 2 seem to be maturing. Estradiol level below normal. Doctors recommend we stop all meds, consider this cycle a no go, regroup and reassess. So we will.

On the bright side.....

Now we know. that nasty little what if that lingered after the first failed cycle is gone. It is now an ain't gonna happen.

My nurse can be counted on to be punctual, particularly if there is bad news involved, which I appreciate.

I now have a reason to look into airfare to Argentina. A place that I love and would gladly return, even if I couldn't drink the wine or espresso. Recall that Rae from Broken Eggs (site down for some maintenance) mentioned this as a much more affordable donor egg option.

I am still in sync with our my dearest friend who is also trying to have a baby (the traditional way - they're like, doing it and stuff). Now that this month is a no go for both of us, we can go back to dreaming about having babies at the same time that will grow up together and go on to conquer the world (insert maniacal laugh and hand wringing here. mwah ha ha ha har). Shhh. Don't tell anyone.

I have a full week of vacation scheduled for mid-September. I snuck it on the calendar in preparation for a transfer. But I could just keep it on there.....

Our next donor's response will be higher than this one - it can only get better, right? What are the odds?

And most importantly, I am SO FRIGGING GLAD we did NOT tell my parents that we were doing this back in June. Because they would be bugging the living sh*t out of me right about now. Phew. Good call on that one.

I do feel bad for our donor, who I know feels bad for us, who are feeling bad for her. We're all feeling bad for each other. But at the end of the day, I feel good knowing that someone like her exists and is willing to share herself with couples who cannot conceive on their own. I feel even better knowing there are more women like her out there.

So dear donor, whoever you are, thank you. Thank you for being willing to try not once, but twice, to try to help. I am so sorry we probably ruined your Labor Day weekend with pin sticks and appointments, none of which led to good news. Please don't think we are mad or angry or anything like that. Just a little sad that we couldn't carry a little bit of you in me.