Hello ICLWers!
It's been awhile since I've participated, but I'm glad to have enough time this week to join in. Here's the skinny (or not-so-skinny nowadays) on my journey thus far:
I'm a 31-year-old chica from the Bay Area who had been trying to conceive baby #1 with my hubby of 9 years for almost 5 years. After 1 round of clomid/timed intercourse, 7 IUIs, 1 miscarriage, and I IVF/ICSI, we are now 23 weeks pregnant with our little guy, Baby G. Not surprisingly, I want nothing more in the world than to bring him home safe and sound in November and much of my current blog surrounds this.
My hubby, Mr. S, (also known as my 'hot piece of ass') also blogs. You can find his male perspective musings here. In the mean time, sit back, relax and read up, if you so wish!
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
Dodging Bullets at 3 AM
This post mentions: PG
At 23 weeks, I shouldn't know what the inside of a labor and delivery room looks like at 3 AM, but after this morning, I do. After awakening with overwhelming chills and lower back/abdominal cramping and discomfort, the best way to describe what was happening was that something was very wrong. I have long heard this same description when talking about labor. Being the type of person who generally has to be doubled over before calling any advice line, I knew that I was in trouble when I immediately contacted the on-call OB without a second thought. It was a frustrating call at best as I could barely hear him over the muffled connection, but when he finally said 'labor and delivery', his words could not have been more crystal clear.
The 20 minute drive over to the hospital was punctuated by intense 'what if' scenarios running through my brain and for much of those early moments, I wondered how I could possibly go on if the worst were to occur. It's thoughts like these that I still have often, but being in a car speeding towards this place made it starkly real. We got there and were immediately led into a room and as soon as I spotted the baby warmer, I prayed that our much too young little guy would get a chance to wait many, many weeks before meeting it. They strapped a belt across my belly and immediately found his strong heartbeat, but on top of that, they discovered that I had an 'irritable uterus' and at one point in time, used the big 'c' word to describe it (contractions).
Although the nurses did not give the appearance of being alarmed at all, I broke out into a cold sweat at the mere mention of contractions at just 23 weeks. So why was this happening? As is the most frustrating of medical circumstances, they had few possible theories.
To calm my 'irritable uterus' they injected me with a smooth muscle relaxant, which helped calm it, and explained that while I was cramping, it was not officially contractions. On top of that, Baby G (as he will now be called), being the ultimate night owl I've learned him to be, was kicking and moving so much they couldn't keep track of him, easing my mind that all was well with him. But these weren't the best peaces of mind handed to me that night. That arrived when we finally got an explanation, something that often does not come this easily in medicine. The nurse walked in with a big smile on her face, declaring triumphantly,
"You have a raging bladder infection."
I have heard these words many times before in my life but I would have never guessed the delight I would feel in one day hearing them. A bladder infection! That, my friends, can be solved. Other things, like preterm labor, not so much. The funny thing is, other than ongoing frequent urination, which is common not just in pregnancy but in the girl with the world's tiniest bladder (that would be me), I had no other preceding symptoms before that night. But I was more than happy to take the diagnosis and run with it.
After the nurse checked my cervix, which was thankfully long and closed, we were out the door with a prescription in hand. While I'm having some minor cramps, it's nothing like what I felt last night (and may be GI related). Never before have I felt as if I truly dodged a bullet. In fact, I come to feel that way every day of my pregnancy. I recently read Murgdan's blog post at Fertility Authority about being grateful for the miracle of life and more than ever, I am. Every second that passes, eventful and uneventful alike, is a gift I will never take for granted. I'm just hoping that we have many more seconds to come.
At 23 weeks, I shouldn't know what the inside of a labor and delivery room looks like at 3 AM, but after this morning, I do. After awakening with overwhelming chills and lower back/abdominal cramping and discomfort, the best way to describe what was happening was that something was very wrong. I have long heard this same description when talking about labor. Being the type of person who generally has to be doubled over before calling any advice line, I knew that I was in trouble when I immediately contacted the on-call OB without a second thought. It was a frustrating call at best as I could barely hear him over the muffled connection, but when he finally said 'labor and delivery', his words could not have been more crystal clear.
The 20 minute drive over to the hospital was punctuated by intense 'what if' scenarios running through my brain and for much of those early moments, I wondered how I could possibly go on if the worst were to occur. It's thoughts like these that I still have often, but being in a car speeding towards this place made it starkly real. We got there and were immediately led into a room and as soon as I spotted the baby warmer, I prayed that our much too young little guy would get a chance to wait many, many weeks before meeting it. They strapped a belt across my belly and immediately found his strong heartbeat, but on top of that, they discovered that I had an 'irritable uterus' and at one point in time, used the big 'c' word to describe it (contractions).
Although the nurses did not give the appearance of being alarmed at all, I broke out into a cold sweat at the mere mention of contractions at just 23 weeks. So why was this happening? As is the most frustrating of medical circumstances, they had few possible theories.
To calm my 'irritable uterus' they injected me with a smooth muscle relaxant, which helped calm it, and explained that while I was cramping, it was not officially contractions. On top of that, Baby G (as he will now be called), being the ultimate night owl I've learned him to be, was kicking and moving so much they couldn't keep track of him, easing my mind that all was well with him. But these weren't the best peaces of mind handed to me that night. That arrived when we finally got an explanation, something that often does not come this easily in medicine. The nurse walked in with a big smile on her face, declaring triumphantly,
"You have a raging bladder infection."
I have heard these words many times before in my life but I would have never guessed the delight I would feel in one day hearing them. A bladder infection! That, my friends, can be solved. Other things, like preterm labor, not so much. The funny thing is, other than ongoing frequent urination, which is common not just in pregnancy but in the girl with the world's tiniest bladder (that would be me), I had no other preceding symptoms before that night. But I was more than happy to take the diagnosis and run with it.
After the nurse checked my cervix, which was thankfully long and closed, we were out the door with a prescription in hand. While I'm having some minor cramps, it's nothing like what I felt last night (and may be GI related). Never before have I felt as if I truly dodged a bullet. In fact, I come to feel that way every day of my pregnancy. I recently read Murgdan's blog post at Fertility Authority about being grateful for the miracle of life and more than ever, I am. Every second that passes, eventful and uneventful alike, is a gift I will never take for granted. I'm just hoping that we have many more seconds to come.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Project Purge
It's time to help a sister out.
No, I have not reverted back to morning sickness, as the title might suggest, but I have taken to getting rid of my crap. My mounds and mounds of lovingly collected crap. I am a certified pat rack, which doesn't bode well for someone who moves often. I come about it naturally. My Dad (who is 74, good natured, but has always been a notch beyond quirky) collects random stuff, wraps it in plastic, and stores it in the garage, never to be seen again. Stuff like figurines and styrofoam containers. Ok, did I say a notch beyond? Let's add a few notches to that belt, shall we? While I don't go quite as far as he does, in many respects, you can still say that I am truly my Father's daughter.
So here I sit, FINALLY with a good reason to convert that guest room/junk collection room into something else and yet I'm faced with these questions:
Where will I put every single card I've received over the last 25 years?
Where will my electric bills from 1999 go now?
Where will the multiple instruments (including a banjo and a fiddle) go that we were so compelled to have but never learned to play?
And most notably, where will the last 4 sizes of clothes I've steadily passed by in these last few years go?
So much for parking in the garage.
I have never been naturally organized and I admire, no, I look adoringly up at those who manage to pull it off. How do you do it? Perhaps you possess the ability to let go of things tangible, something I sorely lack? My first echoing thought is always, 'what if I need it one day?' How do you possibly get that out of your head? Don't get me wrong. My walls are not lined with stacks of paper or knick knacks. A quick walk through my house would not reveal my compulsion, but for the love of God, do not, I repeat, DO NOT open the closet doors.
So I stand here today, asking for guidance. I am a girl who keeps movie tickets from 1998 and a paper shredder that just isn't up for that type of challenge. Where do I begin and will you help me get there? Tell me about your clutter free life so I can drool in envy and perhaps learn a lesson or two.
No, I have not reverted back to morning sickness, as the title might suggest, but I have taken to getting rid of my crap. My mounds and mounds of lovingly collected crap. I am a certified pat rack, which doesn't bode well for someone who moves often. I come about it naturally. My Dad (who is 74, good natured, but has always been a notch beyond quirky) collects random stuff, wraps it in plastic, and stores it in the garage, never to be seen again. Stuff like figurines and styrofoam containers. Ok, did I say a notch beyond? Let's add a few notches to that belt, shall we? While I don't go quite as far as he does, in many respects, you can still say that I am truly my Father's daughter.
So here I sit, FINALLY with a good reason to convert that guest room/junk collection room into something else and yet I'm faced with these questions:
Where will I put every single card I've received over the last 25 years?
Where will my electric bills from 1999 go now?
Where will the multiple instruments (including a banjo and a fiddle) go that we were so compelled to have but never learned to play?
And most notably, where will the last 4 sizes of clothes I've steadily passed by in these last few years go?
So much for parking in the garage.
I have never been naturally organized and I admire, no, I look adoringly up at those who manage to pull it off. How do you do it? Perhaps you possess the ability to let go of things tangible, something I sorely lack? My first echoing thought is always, 'what if I need it one day?' How do you possibly get that out of your head? Don't get me wrong. My walls are not lined with stacks of paper or knick knacks. A quick walk through my house would not reveal my compulsion, but for the love of God, do not, I repeat, DO NOT open the closet doors.
So I stand here today, asking for guidance. I am a girl who keeps movie tickets from 1998 and a paper shredder that just isn't up for that type of challenge. Where do I begin and will you help me get there? Tell me about your clutter free life so I can drool in envy and perhaps learn a lesson or two.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Transition Post
Ooops, I went on and on about how fantastic stirrup queen's post on blogging through life transitions was and never provided a link to the specific post, so here it is!
Friday, July 3, 2009
Baby Showers: A Possibly Skewed Pregnant Infertile's Perspective
This post mentions: baby showers, infertility, and of course, pregnancy
Thanks so much to all of you who voted in the poll. Although I realize my posts may not always be everyone's cup of tea, such is life. But at least now I'll make a concerted effort to let you know beforehand when the tea might taste a little bitter. M from Hello, my name is M...and I'm an Infertile provided a valuable link to an article written in June by Lollipop from Stirrup Queens about this very topic. It was so helpful in clarifying for me where I wanted to go. In simply describing myself as a keeper of an online diary (or a diarist, which I avoid using as I'm not sure I'm pronouncing it correctly) rather than solely an IF blogger, this helps give me free range in not placing a restriction on what I say. Putting boundaries on thoughts has always led to the demise of my past blogs and given my absolute fondness for this one, I wanted to avoid such an ending.
In other news, last weekend I survived my first baby shower since beginning my IF treatment over three years ago and I have to say, if I weren't pregnant, ripping my eyeballs out of their sockets might've been a more enjoyable experience. It's not that anyone did anything too heinous, it's that perhaps in growing my tough outer IF shell, I may have inadvertently grown a little extra cynicism along with that. The cooing over and measuring of pregnant bellies, the lining up of said bellies in every other picture (yes, begrudgingly, mine was part of the 4 person line up), and the casual way in which people talked about the whole thing felt so...trivial and almost tasteless. I sat there knowing that my lens was likely different from most others at that party and trying hard to feel light hearted about the whole thing. But after 5 years of desperation, clawing my way up to that belly of mine, I wasn't about to stand sandwiched between 3 other 'preggos' and act as if I was one of them.
I guess the real question is, where is this coming from? I'll be honest. I still very much resent people who get pregnant easily. Lest I get any fire bombs aimed at my house as of this very moment, let me clarify. I completely understand that this is not a logical or fair conclusion. While I've said before, I will never, ever begrudge anyone their happiness, fertile or infertile alike. I wouldn't wish the past 5 years of my experience with infertility on anyone and I believe that no matter how easily you came about that baby, you deserve a chance to get that belly of yours oohed and awed over. Everyone should get a chance to feel what that's like. But I resent that not everyone will. In fact, I am infuriated that not everyone will. And in turn, I find myself inadvertently resenting the people who mindlessly float through such an experience.
It's not their fault that life sucks, but as I watch them standing there, talking about nursery patterns when my IF friends and I talk about failed cycles and lost babies, this becomes my natural reaction. And it's not even that I myself don't talk about nursery patterns, but part of me is like, 'they get all of this and all they had to do was have sex a couple times? That's bullshit!' Ok, I'm just being honest, people. Part of my reaction is that my innocence has been taken and I long for all of us in ALI to have what they have. In plain language, I'm still jealous. And yet, I wouldn't take back what I've been through for the world. What a strange dichotomy, huh?
I wonder to myself, how is this going to play out at my own baby showers? I don't want IF to rob anymore of my happiness, so will I find a way to be completely and mindlessly joyful as I celebrate the upcoming birth of my long awaited baby? I hope. I'd love to capture their innocence, even for just a moment during my own events, but then my prize might not seem nearly as sweet.
Thanks so much to all of you who voted in the poll. Although I realize my posts may not always be everyone's cup of tea, such is life. But at least now I'll make a concerted effort to let you know beforehand when the tea might taste a little bitter. M from Hello, my name is M...and I'm an Infertile provided a valuable link to an article written in June by Lollipop from Stirrup Queens about this very topic. It was so helpful in clarifying for me where I wanted to go. In simply describing myself as a keeper of an online diary (or a diarist, which I avoid using as I'm not sure I'm pronouncing it correctly) rather than solely an IF blogger, this helps give me free range in not placing a restriction on what I say. Putting boundaries on thoughts has always led to the demise of my past blogs and given my absolute fondness for this one, I wanted to avoid such an ending.
In other news, last weekend I survived my first baby shower since beginning my IF treatment over three years ago and I have to say, if I weren't pregnant, ripping my eyeballs out of their sockets might've been a more enjoyable experience. It's not that anyone did anything too heinous, it's that perhaps in growing my tough outer IF shell, I may have inadvertently grown a little extra cynicism along with that. The cooing over and measuring of pregnant bellies, the lining up of said bellies in every other picture (yes, begrudgingly, mine was part of the 4 person line up), and the casual way in which people talked about the whole thing felt so...trivial and almost tasteless. I sat there knowing that my lens was likely different from most others at that party and trying hard to feel light hearted about the whole thing. But after 5 years of desperation, clawing my way up to that belly of mine, I wasn't about to stand sandwiched between 3 other 'preggos' and act as if I was one of them.
I guess the real question is, where is this coming from? I'll be honest. I still very much resent people who get pregnant easily. Lest I get any fire bombs aimed at my house as of this very moment, let me clarify. I completely understand that this is not a logical or fair conclusion. While I've said before, I will never, ever begrudge anyone their happiness, fertile or infertile alike. I wouldn't wish the past 5 years of my experience with infertility on anyone and I believe that no matter how easily you came about that baby, you deserve a chance to get that belly of yours oohed and awed over. Everyone should get a chance to feel what that's like. But I resent that not everyone will. In fact, I am infuriated that not everyone will. And in turn, I find myself inadvertently resenting the people who mindlessly float through such an experience.
It's not their fault that life sucks, but as I watch them standing there, talking about nursery patterns when my IF friends and I talk about failed cycles and lost babies, this becomes my natural reaction. And it's not even that I myself don't talk about nursery patterns, but part of me is like, 'they get all of this and all they had to do was have sex a couple times? That's bullshit!' Ok, I'm just being honest, people. Part of my reaction is that my innocence has been taken and I long for all of us in ALI to have what they have. In plain language, I'm still jealous. And yet, I wouldn't take back what I've been through for the world. What a strange dichotomy, huh?
I wonder to myself, how is this going to play out at my own baby showers? I don't want IF to rob anymore of my happiness, so will I find a way to be completely and mindlessly joyful as I celebrate the upcoming birth of my long awaited baby? I hope. I'd love to capture their innocence, even for just a moment during my own events, but then my prize might not seem nearly as sweet.
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