First, Last, and Only

One and done.

That’s us.

It took us almost 7 years to have this child, and we’re old.  Not old in the real world, of course…but definitely old in the fertility world.  My pregnancy was classified as “geriatric”, which is hilarious, yet strangely fitting.

We struggled for years with infertility and suffered multiple pregnancy losses before finally having our daughter.  Had life given us more time, our story (and family tree) might have looked a lot different.  But it didn’t, and we’re trying to be ok with that.

It’s a bittersweet decision, of course…but deep down, I think we both know that we can’t afford another journey like the one that just ended – the emotional stakes (as well as the time it took) are just too high.   We’re still feeling the effects of it.  Still healing.

Knowing for sure that this will be our only child has made me realize that every one of her firsts, is also a last.  We will not live these through other children.  Her first word will be the last time we’ll ever get to hear a first word the first time it’s uttered, and her first step is the last time we’ll get to see this momentous event.  I will never again hold a tiny newborn and gaze in awe at every perfect feature, knowing that my body created such a miracle.

I don’t even know how to describe how that feels.  All at once, my heart holds melancholy, nostalgia, joy, grief, sorrow, longing, hope, gratitude, and wonder.   Above all, I think it motivates me to fully experience all that I can.  To be present, and “in the moment”.  To understand deeply just how special all of these little things in life are, and to not take a minute for granted.

Of course, there will be days where I fall short.  When I’m not as present, when I’m distracted, or angry, or busy.  When life gets in the way a bit, and clouds what’s most important.  I’m only human after all.  But that, I think, is the gift that an only child gives you.  When you know you won’t have another, it forces you to appreciate what you have.  And, in true only child fashion, demands that you pay attention.

Purposely having an only child can feel a little daunting.  People (sigh, people) will inevitably make comments – they will say that my daughter will miss out if she doesn’t have siblings…that she won’t be socialized properly, she’ll be selfish, or spoiled, or left alone in the world when we die.  Lovely thought, that last one.

Those same people will soon start asking when we’re going to have another, and telling me that I’ll regret not trying for more.  (If they only knew what it took for us to get one child…would they still say this?  Probably.)  And I will politely listen to their cliched “advice”, even though it hurts my heart to hear it – smile, nod, and just hope they go away…because you see, I’m actually really happy that we have one child.  I’m happy with what we have.  I’m not supposed to be, I know.  I’m supposed to want more.

During our darkest days, we never thought she’d come.  But somehow she is here, and she’s amazing, and beautiful, and perfect.  Honestly, how could we ever want anything else?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Birth Story – AKA Everything goes wrong, but still somehow turns out OK.

I didn’t prepare for a c-section.  Me.  The planner.  I was going to have a vaginal birth.  I worried excessively about tearing.  I made padsicles.  I put together an entire vaginal birth recovery kit for myself.  I didn’t even consider the alternative, which was pretty stupid, looking back.

I mean, I knew it was a possibility….I even did a pre-op consult “just in case” (my brilliant, and extremely thorough doctor was a genius ordering this, by the way) things went sideways during labour.

Well, sideways they did.

Contractions started about a day before I gave birth.  Everyone, including me, thought I’d go much earlier than this….so I was surprised when the calendar showed I was approaching my due date with no real signs of labour leading up to it.

I had a routine prenatal appointment on Thursday (Jan 5th), and the doctor offered a cervical check (and a sweep of my membranes, if she could get up in there at all).  The last cervical check she did the week prior showed no dilation and was fairly painful – but I agreed to another one because I wanted to see if I had made any “progress”.

I don’t recommend these, by the way.  They hurt, and if you haven’t dilated, you leave feeling frustrated and impatient.  Even if you are told you have dilated….it really means nothing in the grand scheme of things – the baby will come when the baby comes.  There’s really not much you can do to force the issue…and all the red raspberry leaf tea, spicy food, and sex in the world most likely won’t help you.

Anyway, she did the check and I was “fingertip dilated” and soft.  This means that there had been minimal progress since the previous week, so I guess that’s good – but I left feeling like I’d be pregnant forever.  I was 39 and a half weeks pregnant at that point.  Also, she wasn’t able to do a sweep because I wasn’t dilated enough for her to get in there.

The following evening (Friday, Jan 6th), I had some contractions and lost my mucous plug.  Don’t look this up on Google images if you don’t know what it is.  Read about it in a pregnancy book instead, or ask a friend.  I already knew what to expect….but it’s different when you experience it yourself.  It’s gross, and there was way way more *stuff* than I thought there would be.   After the bulk of the plug came free, my contractions slowed considerably and I was able to rest a bit.

On Saturday (Jan 7th) , I had contractions on and off all day but nothing close together, and they weren’t too bad so I shrugged it off and tried not to get too excited.  Later that evening they picked up in intensity but were still pretty far apart.  I started timing them with an app on my phone, and tried to sleep through them but was only able to snag a few hours of sleep.

From about midnight to 6am, the contractions came regularly but were still too far apart to go in to the hospital. (I had been told the 5-1-1 rule:  5 minutes apart, lasting 1 minute each, for an hour) I couldn’t sleep through them…so I stayed awake in bed, breathed through them, listened to a hypnobabies program to “relax” (which had been working for me each evening prior to this….but not working so well this night), and lied there timing them every few minutes for hours.  My husband slept through this, until about 6 am when I finally woke him up to tell him to start the vehicle and get ready to go to the hospital.  I told him that I thought I had some time, as my contractions were currently about 7 minutes apart.

By about 6:30 am, my contractions suddenly jumped from 7 minutes apart to about 3-4 minutes apart.  Apparently my body somehow missed the memo that it was supposed to give me a long one hour window of time where my contractions were 5 minutes apart.

We went to the hospital then, and I was hooked up to a non-stress test to measure the contractions and keep track of the baby’s heart rate.  Sure enough, my contractions were about 4 mins apart, and though they weren’t yet lasting a full minute, the nurse (Judy) determined I was in labour and after a while of being monitored, admitted me.

After being admitted, I was left to progress in my labour.  I continued to try and listen to the hypnobabies recordings I had on my phone, but ended up getting really frustrated at the condescending woman in my ear buds telling me to enjoy the contractions I was feeling.  Fuck you, I thought.  And then I stopped listening.  Instead, I bounced on the ball, paced around, and tried to distract myself.

The pain was bad, but I wanted to try and progress as much as possible without medical intervention just to see if I could.  I’m not anti-meds, and wasn’t set on a natural birth – I just wanted to wait it out.  I didn’t know what to expect, but wanted to be open to whatever came my way.  My husband was amazing – helping with counter pressure, and reminding me to breathe (but so not in an annoying way).

I don’t remember when I first asked for drugs.  It was after lunch, but I’m not sure how long after.  I wasn’t really aware of the hours slipping by.  Just the minutes between contractions.  I was checked for dilation (about 4cm), and given morphine.

I love morphine.

Seriously.  I didn’t feel foggy or drugged – but my pain was well managed.  I would ask (and did) for morphine again and again if I could have it….but you can only have it early in the labour, which is unfortunate.  I only got it once.  It was heavenly.  I was able to walk the halls on morphine.  My husband and I even went to the cafeteria.  I still felt the contractions, but the edge was gone.

Another few hours passed, and I was checked again for dilation.  I think I was maybe 5cms, and the morphine was wearing off so I asked about other pain management options.  I didn’t want an epidural because I wanted to be mobile, so I had two choices:  fentanyl, or nitrous oxide.  Having a mask on my face freaks me out, so I chose fentanyl.

I do not love fentanyl.  It made me feel foggy.  It made me feel sick.  And it barely touched the pain.  Thankfully, it wears off pretty quickly.

Around 6cm dilated, the effects of the fentanyl were gone and I was in agony again.  I have not felt pain like this in my life.  Well, that’s a lie – it was similar to the pain I felt when I had my first miscarriage….just on a way bigger scale.

I asked for an epidural finally.  I don’t know what time it was.  After dinner time, most likely; meaning I had been in labour for at least 17 hrs at that point.  I was exhausted.  I was in pain.  And I wanted that pain to end.  I was so done.

The epidural was amazing.  Why I refused myself that treat for so long, I have no idea.  I was also hooked up to some pitocin when I had the epidural, because the epidural has a tendency to slow down your labour a bit and they didn’t want me slowing down.  Pitocin sucks.  It makes your contractions more intense.

Around 7/8 cms, the doctor broke my water.  I remember asking if I should remove my socks because I envisioned a huge gush of water coming out of me and didn’t want wet socks.  She laughed.  What a strange thing to worry about.  There was no gush.  Or, if there was, they caught it all in a basin so I didn’t notice.

Not long after that, and most unfortunately, the epidural stopped working for me.  The pain management techniques that had been working (counter pressure, breathing) all day leading up to this also stopped working.  I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.  I felt like an animal.  This pain was all consuming.  I’m pretty sure I was screaming, though I don’t think I was coherent.  At least I wasn’t swearing at people.  Or maybe I was.  I don’t know.

I was checked again for dilation, and was at 10cm finally….but the nurse thought she felt “something” in the cervical opening that wasn’t the baby’s head.  She didn’t say more than that because I’m sure she didn’t want to freak me out…being a nurse myself, I knew instantly that she was worried that the umbilical cord had begun to prolapse.  This is an emergency.  This can be fatal (for the baby).

The doctor was called in ASAP, and I was checked again.

Right away, my doctor began explaining some of the issues we were having.  She was talking to me in a very calm manor (which is so not her style), and that scared me immensely.  I know the risks.  I know what can go wrong.  I didn’t want to talk about it.  I just wanted her to act – this felt like the longest conversation of my life, not to mention it was almost impossible to listen to given the fact that I was contracting every few seconds.  I interrupted her before she was able to say much, and said: “c-section?”

She stated very clearly and slowly that it was important I understand the risks before we discuss that option, and she wanted to tell me what was happening right now because I need to know.  I’m pretty sure I said something like:  “Yeah yeah, I could die.  Just do it.”  Or maybe I thought that.  I don’t know.  Truth is, I didn’t care about myself.  I just wanted the baby to be ok, and I knew we were going the surgery route.  That’s the only way to get the baby out safely if there’s a prolapse.

In a haze, I recall being told something about the baby being in a bad position and not progressing. (turns out she was “sunny side up”, and jammed into my pelvis)  And another something about decelerations (baby’s heart rate dropping), and then eventually that they’d have to call in an entire team for the OR.  I was reminded to be patient, as it was after midnight.  People were sleeping.  They would get here soon.

I signed something.  I don’t know what it was.  I wonder if it’s legible.  I just wanted the pain to end.

I waited for the surgical team, and a nurse asked me if I had had any drugs today.  I said  yes – “all the drugs”.  She looked at me funny, and then another nurse explained to her that I had been given an epidural earlier.  They gave me more drugs.  The anesthesiologist is my most favourite person, ever by the way – and I’m pretty sure I told her this.  She was the one who made the pain stop.  At this point, I was passing out after each contraction, and my husband was still with me – still applying counter pressure (how tired he must have been) and trying to talk me through.

During the surgery, I couldn’t see anything except the blue curtain in front of me.  I also couldn’t feel anything…..except cold.  I was so cold.  I was shivering uncontrollably, and I wondered if I was having seizures.  At some point, I also began feeling sick to my stomach, and remember shouting out that I thought I would be sick.  I was strapped to the table, so I couldn’t look around to see anyone who could help me, which is why I shouted.  Turns out the anesthesiologist was seated right behind me, and she gave me an injection of gravol right away.  I feel a little bad for shouting like that….but I’m sure they understand.

When they pulled the baby out of me, they lifted her to the curtain to show her to me and my husband.  All I could see was her hair sticking up above the curtain which was weird and slightly off-putting because I didn’t know what they were showing me.  I remember asking what the baby was.  We were told she was a girl, and then I heard her cry.  I began crying in relief.

I don’t remember much after this, except for my husband bringing the baby over to show me.  She was the most beautiful, and surreal thing I’ve ever seen.

Apparently after this, my husband left and I was stitched up.  There were some complications with that, so apparently it took much longer than expected.  I have no recollection or concept of the time that passed.  I just remember being cold.  My husband told me that he was so scared, waiting for me – sitting alone with the baby.  It took so long.

In the recovery room, the nurse assisted me in breastfeeding the baby, which I didn’t expect – but am grateful for.  I was still strapped down, so she held the baby and positioned my breast for her first feed.

Somehow, amazingly, there were photos taken of all of this.  I was surprised when I scrolled back through my phone days later.  We had hired a birth photographer to capture the birth, but she was not allowed into the OR so we only had shots of the labour.  I was so disappointed that I wouldn’t have memory of the birth.  As hard as it is to look back on this experience (it was fairly traumatic for me), I’m really glad I have them.

In the end, my little girl came into the world exactly on her due date, at 1:17am.  She is perfect, and beautiful, and the hell I went through getting her here (including the 6+ years of infertility and losses), as cliche as it sounds, really was worth it.

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Viability

This could quite possibly be one of the most beautiful words in the entire world to a mom who has endured pregnancy loss – or in my case, multiple losses.

Viability.

I’m completely overwhelmed at the thought of what this word means to me now.

See, I never thought I’d get here.  I don’t know how I got here, to be honest.  It’s still a shock.  As of exactly 8 minutes ago, I am 24 weeks pregnant.  Most sources state that this is the week where doctors will actually try to save my baby should I go into labour early.  This is the week that my sweet baby has a half-way decent shot at surviving outside of my body (albeit with lots of help) if it needed to.

At my last scan (around 22 weeks), baby looked good.  He/She was measuring in at about 1lb 2oz, which is right on track with the other measurements we have had.  There was consistent growth from the last scan, and the doctor was able to see *almost* everything she needed to. (Apparently my child is stubborn and uncooperative.  I wonder where that comes from?)

Every week after this, the odds for survival increase.  And while I know that there is never a guarantee (trust me – this lesson has been learned the hard and painful way) that things will work out, it’s a really great feeling to know that the odds are starting to stack up in our favour.

Finally.

It’s now about 12 minutes after midnight, and everyone but me is asleep in this house. This is a quiet time.  A time when I have no tasks or responsibilities.  A time to get lost in thought.

This is the time each day when I fully allow myself to think of nothing but baby.  I try to imagine what he or she will look like.  Will it be a girl or a boy?  I dream about its eyes….the colour of its hair. (I think we might get a redhead like hubby)  Whose nose will it get. (we’re hoping mine, lol)  What it will feel like to hold my baby, after wanting this for sooooooooo long.

I think about parenthood, and hope that I’m up to the task of being a mother – but not just any mother.  I want to be a really good mother.

I worry about not knowing anything.   Or worse, being bad at this.

And above all, I fear losing this baby too.

As I write these things, the baby is kicking my insides gently – perhaps as a reminder that everything will be ok.  Maybe it’s telling me not worry so much.  Or simply just letting me know that he/she is still in there; still alive.  As a loss mom, I need these reminders – probably more than most.

I guess I’m not the only one awake afterall.   Looks like we’re both up, celebrating this milestone together.  ❤

 

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Milestones

Today, I am 16 weeks (4 months) pregnant.  This is officially the longest any pregnancy of mine has ever lasted, which is milestone #1 – and a pretty huge one to us.  I think I’ll celebrate by cleaning my house.  I finally have some energy, and my house (and husband!) has been suffering from a severe lack of attention lately. (edit  – I totally didn’t do this.  I fell asleep in the basement where it was nice and cool for about 2 hours today.  Oops.)

Milestone #2:  First “baby” purchase (from a garage sale yesterday):

I’ll be holding off on larger purchases (or pretty much anything else, unless it’s a great deal) until at least 20 weeks, because I can’t stomach the thought of having an entire nursery of stuff to deal with should anything happen.  The 20 week mark just feels a bit safer because we have an anatomy scan/ultrasound then, and should have a better idea if things look good in there.  Even better is what I like to call V-Week, aka 24 weeks (that’s when a baby is finally considered “viable” should it be delivered early, and chances of survival go up considerably each week after that).

That said, I am in the actual planning stages for all of this now…which is pretty cool.  I’ve even started a baby registry on Amazon (they have everything!), and really want to get started on organizing and cleaning the house in preparation for creating a nursery.

Speaking of the nursery – my husband wants to do a Harry Potter themed nursery, which I am totally on board with!  It will work for a girl witch or boy wizard….and I’ve been busy pinning ideas.  I’ll be sure to do a post about this as we get closer.

Milestone #3:  First belly rub by a stranger.  This happened yesterday evening at a large seafood dinner event that my husband put together for members, friends, and family of his Lodge.

Let’s talk about this for a minute.  Now, don’t get me wrong – I don’t actually mind my stomach being touched by people.  I’m not overly private, and in fact, I’m completely thrilled that I’m showing enough that people can tell I’m pregnant (another milestone! hooray!)….I also think it’s amazing that people get so excited about this, and want to share that with you.

But….if you really think about it, it’s a little weird isn’t it?  I mean, I was standing in line at the buffet for my third (yes, third) round of lobster tails, have a bit of a belly (which, let’s face it, was only there because I had gorged myself on food like it was my last meal or something), and a woman I don’t even know put her hands on my stomach and rubbed it, asking when I was due.  In truth, I thought it was sweet and only a touch creepy….but I couldn’t help but think afterwards: “what if I wasn’t pregnant?”  What if I was just some fat girl wanting to get her lobster on in peace.  Is that so wrong?

Here’s a shot of the “bump” from a few days ago. It’s a bit bigger now, due to the gluttonous consumption of lobster that occurred last night…

Hope is a 4 letter word.

Today I wanted to write a little bit about my complicated relationship with hope.

Hope doesn’t come easy to me anymore….but surprisingly (really surprisingly actually), it does still come.

Tomorrow, I will be 14 weeks pregnant.  I am in the second trimester. As far as I know, baby is still in there, still alive, and doing well.

As far as I know.

We had an ultrasound at our 12 week appointment.  I wasn’t prepared for that, or expecting it – but it was a nice surprise.

What we saw on the screen was shocking.  It wasn’t some random alien-looking blob like all of our other ultrasounds….this actually looked like a baby.  There was a head, body, and visible arms and legs.  And it was moving.  Really moving.

Our doctor let us watch for a while, which I’m thankful for – because I couldn’t tear my eyes away.  It was mesmerizing.

I’ve never before seen a wriggly, baby-looking thing inside me before.  The way it was moving, it looked like it was doing a backstroke (swimming) inside me.  It moved from the top of the sac to the bottom, and then back again…..seemingly happy, healthy, safe and totally alive.

That ultrasound changed something in me.  It opened the door for hope a little wider than it had been previously.  A lot wider, if I’m being honest.

Yet, with hope comes fear.  (another 4 letter word)

Being pregnant after loss is all about balance.  Learning to balance hope and fear.  Negative and Positive.  Optimism and Pessimism.  Learning to balance yourself, most of all….and I’m grateful for the practice.

Surely, this will come in handy when I finally get to raise my child.

Here’s a quick video my husband took at the ultrasound. ❤

 

 

 

Pregnancy after Loss(es)

Well….it ain’t for sissies, that’s for sure.  (So, yeah – I sort of butchered the late great Bette Davis’s oh so wise words about aging to fit this post…and I would apologize, but it totally works, so I’m sticking by it. :P)

I thought that experiencing infertility (and recurrent losses) would be the hardest thing I would ever have to live through.

And it was.

Until now, that is.

Being pregnant again, after having gone through all of that, is a new kind of scary that I don’t even know how to begin to describe.  Each day lasts so much longer than it did before – minutes feel like hours, and that’s because I have a very important finish line to not only make it to, but to cross.  Every day that passes, is a day closer to that end….but man, is time dragging.

It’s been over 3 years since our last loss.  All of our losses were difficult, of course – but that last one hit my husband and I hard.  We had seen a heartbeat.  We were filled with hope because the odds seemed to finally be in our favour.  When that leaves you, it’s absolutely devastating.

During the years that followed, we began to lose faith that this would happen for us.   I think that’s only natural.  We told ourselves we were still “trying”, but not TRYING trying.  If it happens, it happens, and we’ll deal with it then – but we weren’t actively working at it.   I don’t think we could bear the vulnerability that comes with admitting that you really want something, and working hard to get it (only to be let down again), so we kept our hearts safe by not really trying.

I can’t speak for my husband, but I know a big part of me did NOT want to get pregnant again, even though I’ve never wanted anything more in my life. (explain that!)  I was am terrified to go through all of this again, because I honestly don’t know if the shattered pieces of me will come together one more time if this falls apart.  I am already so patched together as it is – if I fall apart again, will that just be it for me?  Will I forever be in pieces?  Those thoughts scare me, so ontop of not really trying…I think I unconsciously began to sabotage our efforts by avoiding intimacy, picking fights, and not addressing the health concerns I have.

I know it doesn’t make sense to fight against something that you desperately want….but it also doesn’t make sense to willingly walk into what feels like a hungry den of lions wearing only a dress made of meat (a la Lady Gaga).  This was the rock and the hard place I found myself between.

The odds are, and have seemingly always been, against us.  We fit into some pretty ugly statistical boxes – too old, too fat, too many losses, no full term pregnancies, years of infertility, health issues, etc. etc……our track record for trying is 0 for 5.  If  I was a professional athlete, my team would have dropped me years ago.

When I took the pregnancy test, I wasn’t expecting to see anything.  It’s not safe to want that. It hurts too much.

When there was a second (faint) line, I convinced myself that it wasn’t actually a pregnancy test.  It was an ovulation test!  That’s why there’s a line.  I really believed it, too, and that felt like a relief….though I knew I needed to check again, just in case.

The positive test is only the beginning.

Eventually, once I realized that it was a true positive (I ran out and got two more tests, to be sure)- I instantly decided “fear be damned! I want to celebrate this!”.   I announced my pregnancy for the first time ever, to my husband.  I thought of something cute to do.  I wrote him a letter from baby, and put the two tests with the letter.  And then fear set in.

Why am I making such a big deal of this?  What if it doesn’t work.  What if I’m getting his hopes up for nothing?  I pushed the thoughts aside, and moved forward anyway.

We announced to family and friends.  My sister in law got excited, and had our niece and nephew facetime us for the “good news”!   I  instantly felt uneasy.   I couldn’t tell the kids.  I made my husband do it, while I held the ipad.  The what ifs began swirling again….and I pushed them down, because we need move forward.  We need to be positive.

We let ourselves talk about the future.  What do you think baby will look like?  Boy or Girl?  Names? …..and then just as quickly, we shut it down.  That line of conversation is too scary.  Too hopeful.  We don’t want to get carried away.

Our first ultrasound:  There’s baby on the screen – and oh look.  A heartbeat.  We were elated, thrilled, hopeful.  And then we remembered that we’ve been here before.  That tree looks familiar.

My first maternity purchase:  I had to buy some maternity pants (you know, the ones with the big stretchy elastic panel) to accommodate my ever-expanding waistline, which is a first for me.  A tab sat open on my computer for weeks, with three lonely pairs of pants sitting in an online shopping cart.  I couldn’t even think about buying them.  When my pants finally stopped fitting, and I hit “confirm” on the purchase, my loss brain piped up:  “What a waste of money – those will be a sad reminder, sitting on your shelf after you lose the baby”.    It’s like having a bully inside your head 24 hours a day.

Every trip to the bathroom (which is a lot, these days), my heart stops while I hold my breath and force myself to look at the toilet paper.  I am checking for blood.  I am waiting for it, honestly.  Every time it’s not there, I am so overcome with gratitude that I actually tear up and cast my eyes skyward for a moment to thank the universe for granting me one more day with my baby.

Every day is like this.

This is what being pregnant after a loss is like.  It tries to steal your joy.  It puts doubt into your head.  It robs that naive, blissful, completely innocent: “I’m pregnant and everything will work out” mindset from you, because unfortunately you know all too well what can go wrong.  It makes you want to separate yourself from the experience to protect yourself from the potential pain.  And it alienates you from other expectant moms – the ones who don’t understand what it’s like for you.  It leaves you feeling caught between loss and pregnancy, with one foot on each side.

It is a constant battle between wanting to be happy, and wanting to protect yourself. If you want joy (and you will want it) – you will have to fight for it. Over and over again.  And it’s exhausting.

No, being pregnant after a loss is definitely not easy….but what other choice do I have but to go forward?  Staying here isn’t an option.

 

 

 

Silver Linings

I’m a firm believer in things happening for a reason.  I also (quite naively at times) believe that if you’re a good person, good things will come to you.  These types of core beliefs can be severely called into question however, when (bad) things keep happening, and there is absolutely no reason that you can see.

That’s sort of how it is with infertility.  At least, how it is with our infertility.

I’ve heard the term “unexplained infertility” a number of times from medical professionals, in reference to myself.  I’ve had conversations with doctors and nurses who have said to me:  “I don’t see any reason why you can’t stay pregnant.”

While it’s comforting to know that we can get pregnant, of course, that fact means nothing really – seeing as how we can’t *stay* pregnant.  That’s the key here.  Staying pregnant is where it’s at.  Staying pregnant has eluded us so far.

Early on, I was *sort of* diagnosed with PCOS as a “best-guess” as to what my problem might be, if I had one.  It’s a common diagnosis, and the most common cause of infertility in women. I even had some of the symptoms.  No one has ever really confirmed it, but everyone agreed that’s probably what’s going on here….so we started treating it with Metformin (a diabetes drug).

Metformin was a nightmare for me – even the low dose I was on caused major issues with my guts.  I felt nauseous 24/7, and usually had terrible diarrhea within an hour of each dose (which was 3 times a day).   I tried taking Metformin on two separate occasions in the last 6 years….both times, the side effects made me go off them within 3-6 months.  I couldn’t handle feeling so rotten all day, and for such a long time.

Over the course of 6 years, my hormones were tested repeatedly, and were sometimes out of whack….but not always.  My most recent hormone panel about 4 months ago, showed that my levels (especially my testosterone) were pretty much”normal”.  All along, I’ve been wondering and asking about my thyroid, as well.  It’s also been tested repeatedly, and continues to come back in the normal range.

I’ve been told to try losing weight – which is standard advice for both PCOS and for thyroid issues….but this has proven to be fairly challenging for me.  My motivation is not at all what it should be, and I’m tired.  So tired.  All the time.   Infertility, multiple losses, grief, stress, and a touch of situational depression can drain a person.

I also really struggle with caring for myself, because I feel so let down by my body.  I’m angry at it.  It’s a vicious cycle, I know.  And I’m not proud of it, nor am I making excuses….I’m just explaining, I suppose.

But back to the title of this post.  Silver linings.  In even the darkest, and most painful of situations….I believe there is some light, if you’re willing to look for it.  Sometimes it’s extremely hard to see.  But it’s there.  I know it.  I’ve seen it.

One of my silver linings, are the lessons I’ve learned throughout this journey with infertility.  These lessons (I think) have made me a better person.  Or at least, a calmer person.  They are:

1. There are no guarantees in life – be grateful for everything you have, and every day you get (even the bad ones).  It’s much harder to appreciate the challenges that come your way, but if you can learn to do this, you will be much happier.  I promise.
2. Some things are totally out of your control. Peace can be found when you finally accept that and let go.  Accepting it was the hard part for me.  Letting go was easy, but can only happen when there is acceptance.
3. You don’t have to suffer in silence. If talking to people about your struggles makes them uncomfortable, find people who can handle it.  There will always be someone else who has felt what you’re feeling.  Sharing pain lessens it.
4. If you want something bad enough, don’t let fear stop you from trying for it….or from celebrating it when you actually get it. (even if you don’t know if you’ll have it forever)

With our last loss, we had seen a heartbeat on the ultrasound.  A perfect, little flickering light on a dark screen, in a dark room.  It was blurry, but that was because of the tears in my eyes.  My husband and I watched it in silence and awe for what felt like forever.

We lost the baby a week later.  That wasn’t supposed to happen.  We had made it farther than we ever had to date – the chance for miscarriage after seeing the heartbeat was less than 2%, we had been told.

But there are no guarantees.

And despite the intense pain of that loss, I will always be grateful to have experienced that – to have bonded with my little one, to have seen it’s heart beating inside me.

A little light, in the darkness.

 

I have a confession to make….

I have completely stopped making my new year’s resolution soaps each week.  😦

I have some really great excuses reasons though – so hear me out!

First, I threw my back out.  Then I got strep throat.  When the strep throat (finally) healed, I got a nasty ear-infection.  And when the ear-infection cleared up, I got pregnant.

Yup.  You read that right.  (I was surprised too)

As I mentioned briefly in my previous post, my husband and I struggle with infertility.

What you may not know (unless you know me), is that we have been trying to start a family for over 6 years; subjecting ourselves to countless medical tests and painful procedures, working with naturopaths, doctors, nurses, and specialists…and enduring immeasurable pain and heartbreak with each loss we have experienced.

I don’t really know how to begin to describe what we’ve been through.  It’s hard to talk about, for obvious reasons….but more than that – it’s still one of those “taboo” topics that people get squirmy about when you bring it up.

Speaking of squirmy  – it’s always felt weird to me that complete strangers have no issues asking others: “do you have children?”.  It’s almost always the second question I’m asked when I’m away at a work conference.

1. “What’s your name?”

2. “Do you have children?”

If I’m wearing a name tag, which I often am at work conferences, “do you have children” shoots right up to number 1.

Sometimes, simply saying no is enough to deter them.  But only sometimes.

More often, saying no to this question seems to open the conversation to further questions about how old you are, how long you’ve been with your partner, whether or not you want children, and comments like: “clock’s ticking!”  Yes, really.  I’ve even received sex tips from strangers, thinking they were being helpful (and not at all inappropriate).

Sometimes, to save myself the onslaught of other questions, I’ll say: “none living” in response to the dreaded question.  That’s a guaranteed conversation stopper, let me tell you.   People get weird when you answer like that.  It makes them uncomfortable.  You can hear crickets, and the rustle of table linens blowing in the breeze created when they couldn’t get away from your table quickly enough.

But here’s the thing…..asking me if I have children makes me uncomfortable too.  Because I can’t give you the answer you want.

Whenever I’m asked a question like that, I have to decide in an instant whether you are someone who can “handle the truth” (we have lost many babies, we are trying, and it’s difficult for us) without abandoning me in the vulnerability that comes with sharing something like this….or are you someone that I have to smile and fake it with; someone that I have to make a stupid joke about “having fun trying!” so that you feel better?  Are you someone who won’t sense my pain and discomfort when I say no, and push on, asking  me more and more questions about my situation?

In addition to trying to choose what response to give (I wish so very much that I could just say yes!)……there’s also a huge internal struggle against my desire to acknowledge that I have children who aren’t with me (because just saying no feels like a lie)…..and knowing that being honest makes people feel weird.  And I wouldn’t want people to feel weird.  I already feel weird enough for both of us, pretty much all the time.

Statistics say that 1 in 4 women experiences miscarriage.  That’s a big percentage of us.

Why then, is it so weird to talk about?  Chances are, you or someone you know has experienced this.  This needs to be ok to talk about.  So, I’m talking about it.

As I’m sure you could imagine – the thought of telling everyone that we are pregnant again, without knowing for sure that this pregnancy will result in a baby, as so many before it did not, is completely terrifying.  (We have told our families, but have not announced this publicly yet….although I suppose some may argue that this is an announcement of sorts, I feel fairly confident that not many people actually read this, LOL)

What makes this sort of thing even scarier is a commonly held belief in our society that you should NEVER announce your pregnancy in the first trimester.  (again, following that whole taboo “don’t talk about it” theme which I’m a big fan of. *sarcasm*)

While this may seem like good advice…this type of secrecy actually means that women who do miscarry  in the first trimester often don’t get the support they need, because no one knew about it.

Do you know how hard it is to go through this type of loss without support?  It’s almost impossible.  This type of loss shakes people to their core.  Most women blame themselves….some feel sure that it happened because deep down, they wouldn’t be a good mother, or that there’s something fundamentally wrong with them and this is nature’s way of weeding that out.  They struggle with thoughts of what could have been done to prevent it, and pour over every detail leading up to the loss to find the reason it happened.

I was once convinced I lost a child because I ate a pkg. of ramen noodles, which are full of sodium and msg.  It’s not rational.  It’s traumatic, and terrifying, and rips your confidence, and who you thought you were to shreds.  Not to mention what it does to your relationships.  This type of thing breaks people.

No one should have to go through something like that alone.

That all considered, we have decided that this baby, however long  they are with us, deserves to be recognized and celebrated, and loved by others as much as we already love him/her.  Should the unthinkable happen, we’ll draw on the support of those around us who know so that we don’t have to weather this storm alone.

As we pass previous milestones, and if we learn that baby is healthy, our joy will be much less cautious.   Until then….. Please keep us in your thoughts (and/or prayers if you do that sort of thing); and join us in celebration of this present moment, with lots of hope for the future.