Wednesday, March 11, 2009


First of all, sorry for not keeping up with commenting/reading on your blogs. Life/work has been a little bit crazy. So begins my saga...

Often silence from me signifies bad things (or possibly laziness). That's how this initial silence began. Last Tuesday night, I began cramping and spotting. Fearing the worst and yet still hoping for the best, I was finally met with one gush of bright red blood and immediately I knew it was all over. The wait for my beta or peeing on a stick would be unnecessary. I was in tears by the time I left the bathroom and I spent the night holding Mr. S in the midst of yet another bone crushing failure. I couldn't possibly begin to tell anyone at that point in time. I was too saddened to form words.

That was the last of the bright red blood. What followed was more cramping and spotting that began to subside and eventually, disappeared. Still, amidst my confusion I resumed my normal caffeine habit, prepared myself for plan B and awaited AF.

Fast forward to Friday night. One of my best friends was to arrive in town. Her sole purpose: to help me drink so much I would be floating by the end of the night and not even remember what IVF stands for, but then her flight was delayed by three hours. By then, all cramping and spotting had disappeared. I hadn't POAS and the beta was scheduled for the following morning, so I decided with the extra wait time to buy a few pee sticks and finally put this wait to rest. This would allow me to start drowning myself in Mr. Margarita a day early and also to see my negative right there in the flesh without audience participation. So, before Mr. S arrived home, I peed on that god forsaken stick to mark my final farewell to IVF #1 and within 30 seconds I saw:


Yeah, right. Surely the 'not' must've gotten clouded by the excess of my super beta-free urine. So, I chugged several glasses of lemonade and by the time Mr. S got back home, it appeared again:


Still, a girl with a history such as mine is not prone to wild, fanciful thoughts of onesies and nursery patterns at this point. I've seen it before and have no baby to show for it, and surely the cramping and blood couldn't have been a sign of good things to come, right? Saturday morning came and my doctor called with shocking news. The beta was 190 and the progesterone was 56.4. Shocking because I was not expecting those numbers. At all. Apparently my estrogen was so high she instructed me to discontinue the E.strace altogether. Now, these sound like great numbers, but it's even more significant to me when you consider what my numbers looked like almost a year prior during a pregnancy that struggled for weeks to stick. My beta at that time was below 20 (they never gave me the exact number but indicated I 'might' be pregnant), with a progesterone level of 9.4. While everything eventually doubled and the progesterone slowly rose to 'low normal' levels, it was ominous to begin with. This is not to say that numbers dictate everything. People with the lowest of betas can still see their way to a healthy baby and alternatively, people with seemingly great numbers can be met with loss. Nevertheless, my latest results were heartening.

And the little bleeding/spotting/cramping? The doctor said that she secretly likes when people call with those complaints before the beta as it is often a sign that things are going right rather than wrong. I did cramp quite a lot with my last pregnancy during 'implantation' (and had actually believed that AF was on her way then, too), but no matter how brief, I wasn't expecting the gush of red blood. I swear, just when I thought I was an IF master, I keep learning something new.

So the follow-up beta was 573. Tripled. Doc cautioned me that it could be a single or twins, but obviously you can't jump to conclusions based on numbers alone. Hey, I'll take what I can get. So here I sit, pregnant again, now silent from trying to process everything and trying to throw caution to the wind and just be happy in this moment. But the truth is, I'm terrified. I must exist these next few weeks on faith alone. I want this so, so badly and can't imagine the possibility of life after yet another loss. But as my doctor said, at least I'm in the game and for that, I am grateful.

Monday, March 2, 2009


Welcome to post #100! There was a point in time when I first started blogging last July that I was having to restrain myself from posting multiple times a day. I mean, it was getting ridiculous, folks. I actually began thinking in 'blog' speak. Part of the reason for gratuitous posting was that I had the summer off to dilly and dally as I pleased (yes, now I envy myself for it) and the other part was that I had a lot to get off my chest. Now, 100 posts, a fantastic on-line IF community and an amazing group of real-life IF friends later, and I no longer feel as compelled.

This is not to say that I don't need and value my blog, but that I have processed so much emotion related to IF since then that while I still have more to say, the words don't come as urgently, or rather, the need comes in waves and is no longer the unending stream it once was. Nevertheless, I still need you, my beautiful blog and I still need you, my beautiful on-line buddies. Days like today remind me of this.

I've also been quiet lately because this has effectively been the most trying, mind-f%$*ing 2 week wait I have ever experienced. Every day that has pushed on since my transfer has made me feel more and more like I am completely losing my grip on hope. Not just hope for this cycle, but for all future cycles. Obviously this is not a new concept for me. Since the beginning of getting out 'the big guns', I've felt increasingly hopeless and I long to move on from that feeling, in one way or another.

I know what has made me feel this way: infertility. I am infertile. Even after almost 5 years, after 1,000 conversations discussing it, that statement still has the power to jar something deep in my chest. And my infertility has taught me to always expect the fall...too well. And there is nothing like day-after-day of prodding and sticking and pills and measuring and lab coats and bruises to make you feel so...ill. And to make you feel as if there is no cure. And then, at the end, all of the blood, sweat and tears, all of your hopes and dreams rest on one little blood test and no matter how much you try to will those beautiful embryos to grow and to stay, and no matter how much you've set the stage, they do what they will. I am powerless.

When I did my first IUI, I was pretty damn convinced that it was going to work. How I long for that initial naivete. Even if it makes the fall harder at the end, it will at least soften some of the edges of my steely jaded exterior. I sit, bracing myself, expecting the worst and no longer hoping for the best. I hate that. While I always intellectually grasped the very real and likely outcome of my first IVF failing, I never realized how terrifying that would be to face until I stood at the door, waiting for it to approach.