48 Hours

For 48 hours, I was living a miracle. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. All my previous struggles somehow seemed insignificant. My mantra became, "It was worth the wait." And it was. It really was. For 48 hours, I was living the happy ending I had envisioned so many times. All those times I had tried to make it happen through sheer will. Closing my eyes tight and thinking that if I visualized myself holding a baby, it would soon become a reality. But my miracle was short-lived. With one phone call, it morphed into a nightmare.

Miracles had happened to me before. About 9 years ago, I suffered a stroke and went on to recover pretty much 100%. The miracle wasn't necessarily in the recovery itself, but rather in the details of what was going on at the time of the stroke: I was in a big city (Las Vegas) with top-rate hospitals, I was with friends who had the foresight to call 911, I accepted treatment with IV meds that had a 10% chance of killing me but ended up saving me, and the clot was situated in the right side of my brain (leaving my right-dominant hand unaffected, my speech intact, and my cognition as flawless as ever). Six weeks later, I was back at work as a third-grade teacher. Nine years later, you would never know I was a stroke survivor unless you saw me do side plank pose in yoga. Trust me. It really isn't pretty.

What I'm trying to say is that I've experienced the glory of success before. Unfortunately, when you're going through a tough time in your life, it's easy to forget the miracles that have long passed. Or even the miracle that is staring you right in the face. After 2 years of failed IVF attempts and lost pregnancies, I'm just beginning to realize how profoundly miraculous my child is. Daniel is happy, healthy, smart, and beautiful. When you've lived through tragedies as I have these past 2 years, you don't take those things for granted. But I'd be lying if I said that my miraculous child makes this current tragedy any less painful. Loss is loss.

Don't feel sorry for me; feel empathy for what I'm going through. Reach out and tell me you care. There's nothing you could possibly say that would upset or offend me. Saying something stupid is better than saying nothing at all. Let's acknowledge together that this really sucks for me. There's nothing else you need to say. Just tell me that you understand what it must feel like to be in my shoes. To live a 48-hour miracle and have it all snatched away in a moment. To mourn the loss of a pregnancy while you're still mourning the loss of the previous two. If this weren't my life, I wouldn't believe it was real. But I'm still here. And today I laughed. So I know that I'm going to be okay.

An Open Letter to my Higher Power

Tomorrow is a big day for me and my family. It marks the culmination of a journey that started almost 2 years ago. Two lost pregnancies and one failed IVF cycle later, and this is it. What's at stake is whether or not I'll ever give Daniel a biological sibling. I'm ready to move on with my life. Living in this state of suspended reality has taken its toll on my emotional and physical health, as well as the overall well-being of my family. I am not unaware of what these test results mean to them. They have suffered with me for 2 years, feeling my pain and heartache. My amazing son, Daniel, has seen his Mommy in various stages of grief far too many times. I've been the bearer of bad news FAR too many times. I want SO BADLY to have good news to share with my Mom and Dad, who have repeatedly rushed to my side in times of great sadness. They deserve good news. My husband deserves good news, for enduring this painful journey with me. So whether or not I deserve it, I'm praying tonight that tomorrow brings good news FOR THEM. That we can gather as a family to celebrate, rather than to hold one another up.

That being said, whatever happens I know that I will stay strong for my son, my husband, and my family. I will move on and figure things out one day at a time. I know how lucky I am to have my health, a beautiful child, a lovely home, an amazing support system. I will never take any of that for granted. I accept tomorrow's outcome, whatever it may be. I am or I'm not. Either way, the world will keep spinning. Everyone's lives will continue. There will be more good times and more bad.

Right now, I sit here and feel a sense of calmness wash over me. Peace, love, light, and gratitude. I'm going to be okay.

Hostess with the Mostest

So, I'm laying in the procedure room today, looking up at the ceiling, clutching two photographs to my chest. One picture is Daniel, smiling like the miraculous angel that he is, while the other picture represents my hope for the future. Two embryos, thawed earlier this morning, ready for implantation. In the photo, they are two grayish-brown blobs that look exactly like what you would see in a biology textbook. The embryologist tells me they are high-quality blastocysts, numbers 5 and 6, and that one has already started to hatch. It is 2:15 in the afternoon, Dr. Sobel (or "George Clooney look-alike" as I like to call him) is inserting a catheter into my unmentionable parts, my bladder is filled to the brim, harp music is being piped in through the sound system, and all I can think of is, "Haven't I been here before?"

We did this same IVF tango last October, with no success. So I vowed to do everything differently this time: Starting with announcing to the world that I was going through IVF. I've done 5 months of acupuncture, eaten my fruits and veggies, cut out all alcohol and caffeine, and spent the week leading up to the transfer trying to reduce stress to a minimum. Will it work? Who knows. I still have about a 50-50 shot at becoming pregnant. But whatever happens, at least I'll know that I did everything in my power to achieve a positive outcome. And now, it's in God's hands.

So, what now? I'm playing human incubator to two potential human beings. They have to decide if my womb is an hospitable enough environment. Whether or not they want to stick around. I won't know their final decision for 2 weeks. Until then, I wait. I rest and relax, catch up on my reading, watch some movies On Demand, and pray. For a positive phone call on December 15th. For the strength to move on with my life if that phone call is negative. For the ability to appreciate my blessings no matter what the outcome. It has been a long, difficult journey. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.

The Right to Complain

I've been hyper-sensitive lately to people's complaints about life's daily injustices. Especially those involving pregnancy or newborns. You see, when I hear (or read on Facebook, as the case may be) a new mom complain about yet another sleepless night, it makes me want to scream. Or when a pregnant woman complains about ill-fitting clothes or swollen ankles. My immediate reaction (in my head) is to ask, "Do you want to trade places?" Because I'd pretty much give anything right now for a sleepless night with a perfectly healthy newborn. And I'd gladly suffer the nausea and discomfort of a healthy pregnancy. So seriously, do you want to trade places?

At 33 years old, I finally can accept the fact that bitching and moaning is all relative. One person's pain is another's pleasure. I'm sure that my complaints about Daniel's disappearing naps are pissing someone off. That person must think I'm whiny and ungrateful. Who am I to complain about the phenomenally amazing child I've been blessed with? Should I, in turn, feel guilty that I complain about something so insignificant in the grand scheme of things?

I'm going to say no to the guilt, simply because I believe that I have the right to complain about whatever is affecting MY life. Just as the new mom has the right to complain about her perfectly healthy newborn keeping her up all night. It may piss me off to hear it, but I certainly can't expect everyone to be sensitive to my needs at all times. It's like the beautiful, thin girl who complains all the time about being fat. You may want to punch her in the face, but that doesn't mean her feelings are invalid.

If I am eventually blessed with another baby, either through IVF or adoption, I'm sure there will come a time when I will be at my wits end and will complain about one of the many inconveniences or hardships of parenthood. Maybe I'll be so overwhelmed with gratitude that I'll let every little annoyance slip off my shoulders. But if you know me at all, that probably is an unrealistic expectation. The more likely scenario is that I'll whine about being exhausted, moan and groan about whatever insane phase the child is going through, and generally act like any normal human being would in similar circumstances. If I happen to piss you off someday with my ungrateful complaining, I apologize. But after having to endure almost two years of hearing the constant bitching and moaning from others about how hard it is to be a new mom, I think I've earned a little selfishness. And if, in a couple years time, you are going through a rough patch in your life and you hear me complaining about potty training or naps or anything else that I should be so blessed to deal with, feel free to slap me in the face and ask, "Do you want to trade places?"

More Than Just a Crib

Daniel has slept in the crib pictured above since he was about 6 months old and we moved him out of the Pack-n-Play in our bedroom. He never really outgrew it, never tried to climb out, never scaled the side of it (despite the fact that he could scale pretty much every other piece of furniture in the house). So I kept him in the crib, even as his peers were transitioning into "big-kid" beds. I didn't have any good reason to rush him into a bed. No safety issues, no sleep resistance, no baby siblings on the way. Which is why I'm having such a hard time right now finding the motivation to banish the crib, once and for all.

At one month shy of 3 and a half years old, Daniel is now showing signs that he is ready for a big-boy bed. He has climbed out twice during naptime, once coming downstairs to surprise me while I was on the treadmill and once finding himself perched in his top dresser drawer, peeling off band-aids and sticking them all over his body (see above photo). He has so many toys and stuffed animals in his crib that there is barely enough room for him to sleep. Furthermore, he is not napping as consistently as he was even 3 months ago. The bottom line is that it's time to make the transition. To either convert the crib into a bed, or to purchase a regular bed with bedrails. So why am I having such an existential crisis over this seemingly benign coming-of-age ritual?

How I longed to use that crib for a new baby. To give Daniel a "big brother" bedroom as we welcomed a new bundle of joy. But November 2009 came and went with no baby. And then July 2010 came and went with no baby. Moving Daniel into a bed became less about forcing him out of his crib and more about forcing me to move on and accept the fact that the crib was not needed -- for now. Part of me wants to convert the crib into a bed for Daniel so I don't have to look at an empty crib. The thought of that empty crib hurts more than you could possibly imagine. Just as I'm saving Daniel's baby clothes and baby toys for the future child that I pray for every day, I believe in my heart that the crib has not served its full purpose. Up until now, it has simply been easier for me to maintain the status quo. But I'm beginning to realize that it might not be in Daniel's best interest. Especially in light of this week's "drawer-sitting" incident. So as I plan to start transitioning Daniel into his big-boy bed this weekend, I say a fond farewell to his baby years, shed some tears over what I've lost, and continue to hope for a happy ending.

It's Party Time, Excellent!

Take my word for it: You haven't truly lived until you've seen the inside of your uterus on a 50-inch HD monitor. Now, to be completely honest, I've seen it before. Last IVF cycle. Same story, different year. I've even seen my vagina in a mirror as my son's head crowned in the delivery room. Very cool and very bizarre. But this was different. This was like one of those cartoons where the fish gets swallowed by the whale and disappears down the whale's throat. The camera entered my uterus. In real time. As I watched on the monitor. My uterus. Coming directly at me. My first thought was of the Wayne's World gag where Wayne and Garth scream, "Extreme close-up!" and the camera zooms in on their terrified faces. I almost laughed. What else was I supposed to do?

Today was hysteroscopy day. For those of you blessed to have never gone through such a procedure, a hysteroscopy basically entails an examination of my uterus and a biopsy of the uterine lining. The whole thing takes a total of 5 minutes. But between the cold water and the "snip-snip" of the surgical blade, it's anything but pleasant. Perhaps that has something to do with the receptionist asking me, "Do you have a living will?" as part of her pre-operative questionnaire. If this had been my first time in a surgical setting, I would've shit a brick. Nice bedside manner, lady. Bitch probably has four kids at home.

The surgical center was like Grand Central Station for reproductive endocrinology. The women were literally lined up, side by side, in the curtained stalls waiting for Dr. Barmat to sneak a peek. It was sad and oddly comforting at the same time. Solidarity. All of us women, united in the same desire: to have a baby. All of us willing to endure such invasive prodding and poking, clinging to the hope that we would have our prayers answered. That someday we would look back on October 13th as just another step in the journey to contentment.

But, of course, I was not like these other women. I defined myself not as a woman trying to have a baby, but as a mother trying to add to her family. One oblivious nurse, upon hearing that I already had a 3-year-old son, remarked, "So you're trying for a sister?" No, genius, I'm trying for a healthy child. It can be any gender it wants to be. As I told one of the nurses about Daniel, I felt self-conscious. The other patients were within earshot. How would I feel if I were childless, going through this process? My heart broke for them. I wanted to burst through the curtain and give someone a hug. I thought of Daniel's beautiful face and smiled. My delicious little boy will be waiting for me when I get home today. Guilt. But all the guilt in the world won't make my grief go away. The sadness and loss I've endured on my journey is valid, whether I have a child or not.

After the procedure, I was given a color photograph of the inside of my uterus. Two shots of the openings to my fallopian tubes, and one of the area that was biopsied. A souvenir of this day on which all of my blessings and all of my grief seemed rolled up in a neat little package. I'm going to hold onto that photo. Maybe someday it will be in a baby book.

Full Disclosure

Whomever designed the Price Medical Building at Abington Hospital is a cruel S.O.B. The offices of Abington Reproductive Medicine are on the 4th floor, and somewhere below that is an obstetrics practice. Which means that anytime I have an appointment to see the reproductive endocrinologist or the IVF nurses, I inevitably encounter at least 2 or 3 HUGELY pregnant women. This is a particular kind of torture for anyone who has ever struggled to have a baby. Which brings me back to the reason why I'm writing about this in the first place.

The last year and a half of my life has been a series of losses. Many of you know what I've been through, but some of you do not. My desire to add another child to my family has brought me to this point. I'm about to start an IVF cycle with 2 cryogenically frozen embryos that were retrieved last fall. These 2 blastocysts were put on ice following an unsuccessful IVF cycle almost exactly one year ago. A month after I received the phone call informing me that my pregnancy test was negative, I became pregnant on my own. Fast forward to March 2010. If you don't know how that pregnancy ended, remind me to tell you sometime. I don't think I want that story floating around in cyberspace.

Throughout this journey, I have openly shared my experiences with others. It has been an amazing catharsis for me. So many people came forward with their own stories of miscarriage, infertility, and loss. I began to realize that I wasn't alone (even though sadness is the most isolating emotion on the planet). Which is why I feel compelled to document this experience. Whether you are a family member who has comforted me while I cried, a friend who has supported me in my grief, or an acquaintance who simply wants to decipher all those vague Facebook status updates, I want you to know what this is like for me. Not to gain your sympathy, but your understanding. I need you to understand why it's hard for me to be around pregnant women. Why I feel a knot in the pit of my stomach every time I see a newborn. Why I may congratulate you on your good news but still feel sadness over what I've lost. I hope to convey this story with honesty and humor. I don't know how it will end. But I hope you will stick with me until the final chapter is written.

Today was my appointment for a baseline ultrasound and blood work. This basically involves me, an IVF nurse, and what I once heard described as the "dildo cam." The purpose is to measure my uterus and ovaries on day 2 of my cycle, so they can monitor everything as my cycle progresses and transfer day approaches. Take my word for it -- there's not much you want to do on day 2 of your cycle, but having a date with the dildo cam is pretty much at the VERY bottom of your list. Nevertheless, everything was normal and I was given a basic outline of how this "cryo-cycle" will unfold. On day 21, I will return to Abington for another blood test to determine whether or not I've ovulated. If so, I will start on Lupron injections and Estradiol supplements. More ultrasound monitoring will follow, and the embryo transfer is tentatively scheduled for December 2nd. Happy Hanukkah to me!

I feel cautiously optimistic, which is all I can be right now. I look into the eyes of my amazing, perfect 3-year-old, and I find comfort knowing that I made him. He is healthy. He is wonderful. And he grew inside of ME. Daniel is a shining example of the GOOD in my life. He is my constant reminder that things haven't always ended badly for me.

Thank you for reading this. Now let's get this show on the road.