When You Least Expect It

Other things happened lately, too. For one, I haven't written about my taxes yet.

In 2013, I was very organized until springtime and the miscarriage. Before that, each receipt got filed promptly in its own labelled folder. After that, any mail—any thing, really—that didn't need immediate attention got thrown into boxes and shoved in the corner. This spring I've felt like an archaeologist, uncovering all the receipts and reliving 12 months of huge ups and downs.

There were receipts for the two pregnancy ultrasounds where I saw and heard a strengthening heartbeat, followed by the devastating one. Then paperwork from all the tests the clinic asked me to repeat because another year had passed.

Mixed in with those memories was the detritus that I couldn't be bothered to care about, like junk mail from eight months ago. There were abandoned self-improvement projects and notes about events that I didn't attend, because time, energy, and/or money always seemed to be too short. In the bottom of the last box, I uncovered a spring sweater that I'd long ago given up for lost.

Once they were excavated, I could transfer all these memories to black-and-white spreadsheets. Then it was time to meet with the tax preparer. When I brought up medical expenses, she was dubious at first, warning that now (in the US) people can deduct only the amount that's more than 10% of adjusted gross income—a pretty high bar for most families to reach. Let's just say that I am waaaaaaay over that bar. It's mind-blowing. Panic-inducing. It can't continue, obviously.

We actually had two meetings, because this has been the most complicated, stressful tax year ever. On the plus side, yeah, huge refund. Of course, now the chances for an audit are also high. I'm making sure to get everything super organized. (Tax tips: All my doctors have been happy to provide itemized receipts for all 2013 expenses, which have been very helpful. Also, did you know that you can deduct for mileage driven to and from medical appointments?  It added up to 2,355 miles for me last year!)

Before getting into those details, I had to explain some things about my situation. I braced for possible judgment, because the tax preparer was gray-haired and (I'm embarrassed to say this) "looked conservative." Of course, everyone in a tax office looks conservative; it's the uniform.

No judgment, though. Instead, she leaned forward and asked softly, "Have you tried [name of my previous clinic]?" It turns out that her son and daughter-in-law went through 13 years of TTC, including many years with undiagnosed PCOS, and my previous clinic was the one that finally helped them to have "their miracle twins."

We commiserated about the healthcare system and about infertility. She lived through it, too, in a way. "The night before my daughter" (as she called her DIL) "had her amnio during the pregnancy, I stayed up all night worrying. I just couldn't help thinking how awful—and how possible—it would be for them to make it all the way to that point and then have something else go wrong." How possible, indeed. She knew exactly how it felt.

She was wonderful—going out of her way to be helpful and, more than that, kind at a very stressful time. When we said good-bye, after three hours of crunching numbers and trading stories, we held hands for a long moment as she wished me well. "I’ll pray for you," she promised. I thanked her through tears.

The Only Way Out is Through

Numbness

The day of the PGS news, my mother asked what I was going to do that night. I answered, "Take my car to the shop. The 'Check Engine' light is on." (Oh, the glamorous child-free life!)

"You're taking this well," she said, skeptically.

Since then, I've heard several times, "I'm worried about you." How's a person supposed to respond? Don't worry, I'm fine? That's not true. I'll get by? That's true but not effective. Blunt though I'm afraid it was, I finally just told the truth: "I'm sorry that you're worrying, but those are your feelings, and I don't have control over them."

Someone else said, "How sad that this happened after you'd gotten your hopes up so high." It made me realize that, no, my hopes had not been high at all. This result was always a real possibility, not a surprise. But it was still a shock. No amount of mental preparation can ward off something that feels like a physical blow. The shock is physical too, like the temporary deafness that follows an explosion.


Anger

The anger wasn't about anything specific. It was certainly not about blame, just a wounded desire to be left alone, plus rage at any perceived trespass.

And there were plenty. Like last year, after my miscarriage, the whole world had to burst into full fucking bloom right after my awful news. Oh sure, go ahead and rub it in. Even better, let's add Easter—a holiday focused on new life, symbolized by EGGS—followed by Mother's Day.

Pretty, happy flowers!

I hate you.
(source)

Is it weird that I'm developing a special aversion to tulips? They're just so obnoxiously big and waxy, so uniformly perfect, like something assembled at the Happiness Factory.

Anyway, moving on. The anger comes and goes. The worst was this Saturday, when I was calmly driving to the grocery store and another driver did something pointlessly, casually rude. These days—being acutely aware that there's plenty of random pain to go around—I cannot stand people who purposely inflict more, however small the offense. I wanted to KILL. I suddenly, vividly wanted to ram this driver's car into a wall, reach in, wrap my hands around his neck, and squeeze until his eyeballs…

Of course, instead of ramming the car, I pulled over and called a friend who reminded me of some things that work for her when she's at wit's end. There were no real surprises, no magic. I knew all these strategies already (work it off with exercise, get outside, be around people even if you don't talk to them, watch a silly movie…). In fact, the comfort was in the familiarity.

It felt like waking up after a nightmare as a child, going to my parents' room, and hearing the litany: "Do you need to use the bathroom? Do you want a glass of water?" It was grounding. By the time we hung up, I felt fully awake.


Sadness

One night I went to an AA meeting. The speaker told a long story about how she'd abused her son while she was drinking and using. He was born addicted to methadone, and things went downhill from there (though she remembers little of it) until she got clean when he was 12. After her, other people spoke about their own parenting regrets and, in some cases, how close they and their children have become since those days.

Sitting there and listening was hard. I came close to walking out. You know: They can have kids they don't even want?! I can't deal with this right now! But yes, dealing with my own resentments—the one part of all this that I could control—was exactly what needed to happen. So I stayed put. Slowly, surrounded by these people who were facing their own difficult truths, my focus drifted inward toward something I'd been avoiding.

Underneath the armor of numbness and rage came an image of a box inside my chest. It was sturdy, with thick sides, sharp defensive corners that literally made my chest hurt sometimes, and a lid that was clenched firmly in place. But tentacles of my darkest, slimiest feelings were starting to curl out experimentally.

The time has come, I thought. OK, right here and now. Release the Kraken! Mentally and very deliberately, I removed the lid.

Whatever is here, let me feel it fully. The only way out is through.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It took me two full days to cry any tears at all, and then I cried over someone else's story in a book. It was written by the woman whose husband killed five Amish girls and wounded five more, then killed himself, in a Pennsylvania schoolhouse in 2006.

She wrote about how a group of Amish people came to the funeral she and her children held for her husband—the shooter! For religious reasons, the Amish are opposed to having their photographs taken. Yet they not only came to console her for HER loss, but they quietly put themselves between her family and the hordes of reporters, giving her the gift of privacy by sacrificing their own. And they weren't just impartial neighbors. That line of people standing shoulder to shoulder included the parents of EVERY ONE of the girls her husband had killed.

It took my breath away. It still does. Although our situations have nothing in common, I know we share at least this one essential thing: like them, I still want love, not bitterness, to win.

A Blast to the Head

When the nurse called with the PGS results, I asked the questions I had written down beforehand, which were listed under two headings: "If any embryos are normal" and "If all are abnormal." Either way, I knew I'd probably be too stunned to remember my questions in the moment.

I scanned down to the second list. Deep breath. So … what were the exact abnormalities? (Combinations of fairly rare monosomies and trisomies, meaning that entire chromosomes were missing and/or duplicated.) What were the implications for the embryos? (Early first-trimester miscarriage, if they even implant at all.) What were the implications for future treatment? (My RE wasn't there to answer that last question, so we'll talk by phone on Monday.)

Future treatment. Is there any point? I don't want to make any grand pronouncements right now about being Done With TTC. But … am I done?? At some point, the relief of stopping must outweigh the pain of giving up.

I keep thinking of a song that talks about making peace with pain, because there's really no other choice. It mentions three levels of damage: a splinter in the hand, a thorn in the heart, and a shotgun to the head. My months of TI and IUIs were like splinters in the hand, constant but fairly minor aches. Miscarriage after IVF was a thorn in the heart. This latest news...

Sometimes a blast straight to the head can actually be a mercy, compared to death by a thousand splinters. You know? I'm thinking here of people I know online who've gotten such definitive diagnoses that all hope of conceiving their own genetic children was crushed in an instant.

But maybe they would still love to have even whatever small chance I still have.

It's just all so complicated.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

What's a person supposed to do after getting this kind of news?

I went outside and cleaned up the patio. It felt strangely similar to the last time I got awful news and reacted with, of all things, a crusade to pick up litter in the woods. What's going on here? Am I developing some sort of weird "grief cleaning" habit?

Then, while still cleaning, I started writing a journal / blog entry in my head, because words are how I try to process things. I watched myself doing it, trying to force meaning out of this mess, desperate to transform it into something good or at least something useful. Water and cleansing, renewal...

No. STOP. There's no meaning here, certainly not yet. There's just a person whose hands are continuing to operate automatically, while her head and heart are in fragments. Whatever may happen down the road, despite or because of the news that I just got, there is NO GOOD in the fact that these embryos will not survive.

And whatever may happen down the road, there are no shortcuts to get there, just cold water and dirt in this moment, then the next. So feel it, gritty between my fingers and splattering onto my toes. Feel it. It's a fucking mess. So feel it. That's the lesson for today.

PGS Results

Though I "don't believe" in magical thinking, you might notice how I kept that last, upbeat post as the final word during my wait for the PGS results. Coincidence? Nope.

It was a full two-week wait—my first one in many months. Thanks to a billing screw-up, it turns out that the lab has had my results for a while and was just waiting for payment. Good thing I called yesterday morning to make sure that everything was OK.

Several phone numbers and discussions later, the lab finally called this morning to collect $2,250 (thank you, MasterCard), and in return they finally released the report to my clinic. A nurse called 30 long minutes later.

Shakespeare it is.

Magical thinking didn't work. All three embryos are abnormal. Two have multiple problems, and none are compatible with life.

My Virtual Talismans

Have you ever bought baby items before being pregnant? Or set up a nursery before the third trimester? Does the idea of it feel more encouraging or terrifying, or both in equal parts? For the record, I don't believe there's any right or wrong answer; I'm just struck by all the layers of meaning behind these small decisions, which—for those who are effortlessly fertile—are barely conscious choices at all.

As Sadie from Invincible Spring says so beautifully in the first post linked above:

"For the longest time though, I never really allowed myself to imagine a a future where we would parent a living child, at least not actively or in too much detail. Items that so blatantly speak of babies used to hold a magical, dangerous allure for me, like mystical talismans the presence of which could somehow deter the very thing for which we longed. Like fire, I was almost afraid to touch."

And yet, fire brings light and heat, clarity and passion. I feel that allure, too. I feel the power in tangible symbols of "reckless, defiant hope," of determination and promise. Then I wonder, Isn't daring to believe that I'll use this object someday, somehow so presumptuous that I'm bound to be punished by fate?

No, it's not logical. We're waaaaay beyond that point. But I do have a logical compromise to this illogical dilemma: I collect virtual talismans.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I collect photos on my phone of child-related things I come across during the course of my days. And when I was briefly pregnant, I was even brave enough to go actively looking for child-related things to pin on a secret Pinterest board. I know. Living dangerously!

Of the snapshots on my phone, my favorite "happy snap" actually came from a friend, who sent it to me for good luck just before my first IUI. It stayed on my phone's background for a year:

This onesie, spotted in a store window on a walk after dinner, made me laugh:

You may recognize this picture from diaper-changing tables in a thousand public restrooms, but this one has special mojo because it came from the restroom near my RE's office:

This one requires a little background. A friend and I went on a one-day silent retreat held at a church that was connected to a school. We brought bag lunches and were told to find any corner on the grounds where we could take half an hour to eat. When it started raining, we ducked inside and stumbled into this cheerful classroom, where we silently, smilingly ate our lunch at the kid-sized table while flipping through picture books.

Here's one last example. It's a pop-up Mother's Day card from last year, showing Mama Fox and her family (right after I saw them in real life):

May the magical powers of my talismans bring us all good, fertile luck!

Out of Practice

Two happy posts in a row ... not a record here, but it's probably close! I hope that all the happy sharing didn't step on anyone's sore spots. I hope it didn't come across as crowing about my good fortune, because that would be obnoxious. When I say that I'm lucky, what I'm feeling is humbled, not proud; I deserved this good luck no more than earlier bad luck. More to the point, there are still no guarantees about the future. All I can do is try to take in the good when it's here.

I wish that I could savor it longer. One of the worst things about infertility, I think, is the relentless need to hurry. Already, we're moving ahead with the next step of PGS. The results will take up to two weeks, which reminds me: I'm really out of practice with the two-week wait! I've had cycles with nothing to transfer, and ones that were canceled due to weather and other issues. Now the stakes, and the anxiety, are rising.

After a winter frozen in this state of numb waiting, I'm out of practice with both positive and negative emotions. Not for long, though...