My Other Half

One of the tasks I've been putting off in recent weeks is picking another sperm donor (my "other half"). The one I've used most often, including last time, has been listed as "Temporarily Sold Out," which I've been hoping would change back to "Available" soon. But the status hasn't changed in weeks, and no expected release date has been added. Today I finally called to see what's going on.

And what an interesting call. As it turns out, they're going to pull him from the catalog due to ... wow, I'm still in shock here ... a higher-than-normal miscarriage rate—of which my miscarriage was one! There's no proof of any particular cause, but they've been investigating and have decided to err on the side of caution.

After this news, a bunch of thoughts crowded into my mind all at once:

• Maybe my bad eggs weren't the problem after all?
• Oh GREAT—maybe there's more hope for the next try!
• Oh NO—maybe there would have been hope for the last try, if only I'd made a different choice!
• How did they let this guy onto the catalog in the first place?
• Because there are always some unknowns. I picked this bank because they're reputable and keep track of data far beyond the initial BFP, and good thing they do.
• Good thing I reported my own pregnancy and loss.
• Now I'll have to pick someone else.

I'm afraid that some of the words above ("pick someone else") may sound flip, like I'm just changing a restaurant order when my favorite pizza toppings are sold out. Nothing could be farther from the truth. The words may be simple, but the process is intense, important, and deserving of a full post of its own ... some future day.

Intervention

The time has come: I'm staging an infertility intervention on myself.

No more blogging, reading, or other great but time-consuming activities for me until there's a plan in place for my next cycle, which may start as soon as May 6. That may sound like plenty of time, but it isn't at all. There's a lot to consider.

And, frankly, I'd rather not. I'd just SO MUCH rather do almost anything else ... fool around online, spend an afternoon at the dentist, alphabetize my grocery-store coupons. Or take a nap. Oh yes, naps are a favorite escape when I'm feeling overwhelmed.

The thing is, I know that this avoidance doesn't mean that it's time to stop trying. It's not a subconscious way of telling myself that I'm done; it's a subconscious way of stomping my feet in protest that "This sucks!" Of course, this mature response does nothing but contribute to the suckiness.

Yes, I'm weary of starting over again so soon after the miscarriage, and afraid that some things that matter most to me may stay forever out of reach. There's a real temptation to numb out, to insist that I'll think about the next steps tomorrow ... or maybe, what the heck, the day after that.

So let's be honest here. I'm doing nothing but hurting my own odds by pretending that I can have BOTH things I most want right now: a nice, dreamy reprieve from pain today, AND a child in my future.

What could I be doing instead of avoiding reality? Some highlights of my to-do list:

• Decide on another natural-cycle IVF vs. stimulated IVF.
  • If natural-cycle, order a few drugs, like the trigger shot and antibiotics.
  • If stimulated, decide which RE (two options, although maybe I should get one more opinion...) and protocol to use. Decide whether to pay (*gasp*) for two discounted cycles at once. Order a boatload of drugs. Check limits on all credit cards. 
• Decide whether to genetically screen the embryo(s).
• Order my "other half" from the sperm bank.
• Research the Affordable Healthcare Act, to see if anything in there may help.
• Research more natural ways to improve fertility, to see what special foods or vitamins may boost my odds by 0.00001%.

There's so much more I could and did start to say about that first bullet. Then I realized that it would more than double the size of this whole post. There are so many issues hidden in there, and they overlap and intersect in ways that make my head hurt. 

So, for now, I'll just leave you with the simplified, diagram form:

A Small World

I wasn't around this past week because I've been out of town for work.

That phrase doesn't sound quite right. It makes me picture the impersonal glass and chrome of airports, rental cars, and conference rooms. In this case, though, it meant something much different: a seven-hour drive across familiar countryside, bitter cups of gas-station coffee in my lap. At the end was a place where I had lived for many years, which I hadn't seen since the spring of 2010. I've always had some strong and mixed feelings about this town.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. The part I want to tell now is the simple part, the part about meeting with my boss, who still lives in the town I left. I didn't think our meeting would be simple. I wanted to explain why I had been missing work, to reassure her that I wasn't just losing interest or, conversely, battling some deadly disease. I wasn't sure how much to say or how to say it. I just knew that this conversation was one that would be best to have in person.

She didn't know the whole story about my years of infertility treatments, three months of pregnancy, or two weeks of miscarriage. She DID know about my breakup and, therefore, had probably assumed that parenthood was now the last thing on my mind. How to bring the subject up?

I didn't have to worry. As soon as we sat down at the restaurant for lunch, we fell right into talking about the subject that was foremost on her mind: the recent loss of someone dear to her. It had been painful and awful for everyone involved. Two months later, she was still in shock. I knew the feeling: desperately wanting not to think about something so painful, but knowing that for now it is the ONLY thing, so needing to think and talk about it anyway.

My boss (I’ll call her E.) asked about the time I spent volunteering with hospice. It was something I did briefly years ago, partly as a way to honor my grandfather (the one in my last post), who had done the same thing himself. I had no great insights to share. I hadn't changed the course of anyone's life or death. I just showed up when I could to change the sheets, hold cups of drinking water to dry lips, and sit with families in the kitchen, keeping watch. That's all I could do with E. We just sat together at our little table as the snow drifted past outside.

We talked about grief, of all things. She seemed grateful to be able to talk about it, and frankly, so was I. It felt real. Then slowly and without any false cheer, the conversation turned toward a baby who had just been born into her family. This was the time; it was clearly my turn.

I told her that the main focus of my personal life lately has been on having a child. No puzzlement from her, just a nod. Then she told a story that blew me away. She mentioned another one of her long-time employees, a woman I had met a few times over the years, and said, "I don't think I'm speaking out of turn here, because she has always been open about it. Around the time when she first started working for me, she was single. Circumstances in her life had just worked out that way, but she really wanted to be a mother and was running out of time. So she had her son with the help of a sperm donor. That was 18 years ago. She met and married her husband later on."

I was dumbstruck. Not only was E already familiar with the concept of single mothers by choice, but she had already hired one, ANOTHER one, back when almost no-one had heard of such a thing! Even in a company as small as mine, I would not have to be the first after all. I would not have to be the odd one out.

I had teared up a little before, when we talked about grief, and now I felt it happening again. I told her a few more details, but not a lot; there was no need to say much. She got it. She just got it.

Again I thanked her for allowing me to work flexible hours recently. It's one of my few perks. As I said, it's a very small company, so we've never had paid health care or even paid days off. But I wouldn't want to work anywhere else, and this meeting—this reminder that we are people to each other first, and business roles second—was a lovely reminder of why.

Stick It

A while back, a single friend and I had a funny (and healing) talk about the stick-figure family trend. We both felt rubbed the wrong way by the stickers, then a little embarrassed by our own apparent envy, but then still annoyed. They present such a small and conformist slice of life. Can we get more creative here?

How about stickers of a woman surrounded by doctors and syringes (a picture of our own infertility treatments at the time)? It could work for other medical problems, too! What about the unhappy couple, backs to each other, both on their phones to someone else? Or the happy but long-distance couple, stuck on opposite sides of the car?

Don't get me wrong; I truly don't wish troubles on anyone or expect anyone to wear them with pride. But we all have some. The people I respect and envy most tend to be the ones who acknowledge it and keep moving forward all the same.