Letting Go of What I Can

A few weeks ago, I spent a weekend camping at a quiet spot along the river. Nature is my favorite anesthetic. This trip would be like a mini-retreat—unbroken time to make peace with some painful things, while sedated by sunlight, woodsmoke, and the sound of chirping birds.

It was lovely. BUT … how does a person make peace with letting go of such a deep desire?? Not in one weekend.

Anyway, it had to start with looking closely at the situation, meaning my finances and options for parenthood (which are closely related, of course).  Lots of hours and anxiety spent there. Then I sat by the river, just listening for any guidance that would come.

I didn't reach a decision about whether to keep trying or not. What I DID do is let go of acting now on two options, using donor eggs or pursuing private adoption. Those options aren't as time-sensitive as TTC with my own eggs, but I know that choosing not to act on them now makes it less likely that I'll have the resources to do so later. And it feels relatively OK.

Why? Long story short, when I think about those options, I feel myself contract. I sense my focus shift inward from the child to my own anxiety about making this happen.

There are two points I want to make here. One is that others' experiences may be different; those options may feel like the most natural ones for them, and of course I wish them well.

Also, no, I'm not signing on to the belief that "If things are meant to be, then they will be." My beliefs are more along the lines of "It is what it is." Can't argue with that, right?

Sometimes a fight is required. When it has to stop is when I feel momentum tempt me into drifting past limits I set years ago, or when I feel myself shutting down, diverting all energy into struggling even harder to swim upstream.

(source)

The Loop

About that last post: it was something I stumbled across, which totally caught and held my eyes. I don't know the story behind it. The mystery was what drew me in.

There's no big personal symbolism there—not for me, anyway, although clearly there must be for someone. (Personally, I'm neither a burned-out wreck like that house nor hopeful like that sign on the door.) It just seemed worth sharing, especially at a time when words have been failing me for weeks.

Actually, it's paragraphs that are my problem. Lots of words have been coming up, one or two at a time, in a loop:

How can this be? (…that the happy ending is really not going to come, that time is passing so fast, that excitement about future growth has contracted into fear of further loss)

Who cares? (…about all the mundane daily things I need to do, which don't relate to Finding A New Purpose; I try to weed out these thoughts before they take root too deeply, though)

Ouch. (…when unexpected reminders come up, like the maternity pants in the back of the closet)

Later. (…when I think about just donating the pants somewhere and being done with it)

No. (...when I think about officially ending the TTC effort, and also when I think about starting it again)

How can this be? (…that I'm feeling so very stuck)

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...

The Daughter of My Dreams

This week I've been reading Hyperbole and a Half: Unfortunate Situations, Flawed Coping Mechanisms, Mayhem, and Other Things that Happened.

Isn't that an awesome title? The part about "flawed coping mechanisms" can't help reminding me, though, of my last post about habits of avoidance.

I've been taking it for granted that my desire to be a parent was obvious. Otherwise, why be here at all, right? But I'm feeling the need to clarify: the avoidance that I battle sometimes is NOT a sign of losing interest in motherhood, or of feeling that the path there won't be worthwhile. It's just my own type of "flawed coping mechanism." After all, it gets hard to stay focused on things that hurt.

Years ago, I did do all the "right" TTC things: kept up a positive attitude, did fertility yoga, exercised... but not too much. I ate a low-sugar, low-dairy diet … but not dairy-free, because that one study suggested that some whole-fat dairy might be a good thing. I took all the CCRM-recommended supplements (still do). And I carefully visualized things I hoped were happening each cycle: healthy eggs growing, embryos implanting.

I always struggled, though, when it came to picturing a baby. Was that allowed? I wanted to daydream about it, of course, but hesitated to get attached to any one image of gender, age, or race. I knew from the start that odds were bad, so I needed to stay open to fostering and adoption. Who knew what my child would really look like? It wasn't as simple as picturing my eyes and my husband's chin combined.

So I stopped picturing anything. Eventually, I stopped bothering with the myriad of diet and lifestyle rules, too, and just did the best I could, which is pretty good on most days. But sometimes I need the motivation that comes from actually picturing my dreams.

The image came when I was talking with a counselor two years ago. She was saying something about welcoming the child who was meant to be when the time was right ... and although I don't believe in "meant to be," the part about welcoming that child opened something in my heart.

In an instant, there it was: an image of me standing on the sidelines of a soccer game with a little girl right in front of me. Maybe ten years old, mousy brown hair, lean body tense with concentration. My hands resting on her shoulders.

Maybe it wasn't a soccer game but field hockey or some other sport instead. It doesn't matter; I know nothing about sports. And that's kind of the point. I was there for my daughter.

Even today, two years later, I can't picture this scene without crying. (There's not much that makes me cry anymore.) It's not the image of the girl that touches me, because it's not really about this particular dream-child. It's the way my hands rest lightly on her shoulders.

Is she tense because something happened and she ran back to the sidelines for comfort and support? Is she tense because her whole focus is on getting back into the game? Either way, I'm there right behind her, hands ready both to welcome and, when needed, to let go.

I don't know why I haven't let myself picture even this one vision lately. (OK, yes, I do: fear of more disappointment.) But I need to let it back in, to allow myself—in the midst of worrying about the what, when, and where of treatments—this one lovely reminder of why.

Breaks

Spring is coming, which means that my commute to the far-away clinic will soon be safe again. In fact, it may be safe now. The worst of the snowy weather should be over, so I thought about going back this month. But there were some financial ... uh, to put it mildly, issues. Anyway, between the snow, finances, and family crisis, I will have missed three months by the time I get started again.

This winter hibernation is one of several breaks I've had since starting TTC. They've been both required (after the miscarriage) and semi-optional (after the breakup with my ex). I've missed a few months for abnormal cycles. There were also months that passed by when I was moving, researching protocols and clinics, doing the paperwork and tests required to change docs…

I know that lots of women find it refreshing and healing to take breaks. For me, what they've mainly been is distracting. And distraction can be either good or bad. It's a short-term relief when I'm feeling overwhelmed, and there's nothing wrong with that. But distraction is no substitute for doing something meaningful, even if—like TTC—it becomes very hard.

When things aren't working out, I have to guard against letting discouragement turn into doubt (Do I even want to be a parent, if thinking about it just fills me with pain now?), apathy (Why bother, when this will just fail, too?), and short-sighted indulgences (So why not take another month off from the clinic?). I've even had to stage an intervention or two to make myself face reality, to get out of that comfy but unproductive habit of distraction and denial.

Being stuck in limbo isn't really comfortable, not deep down. There's the sense of unease, vague but always present. There's the hesitation to make any plans, and the frustration of waiting. There's tension and guilt when short-term pleasures (eating junk food today while promising to make the tough decisions tomorrow, or maybe the day after that...) threaten deeply held long-term goals.

What I'm avoiding, even more than the daily work of TTC, is the ending. The ending is what scares me.

In an online forum this week, another woman put my thoughts about it into words. She wrote that leaving IVF in her arsenal, unused, gave her emotional protection. I feel the same way about my upcoming final cycle(s) and PGS. It's comforting to have these final options, but now that the time has come to USE them, use them NOW when every month counts ... there's a part of me that still hesitates. And there's another part that has to (lovingly) stand behind her and push.

What's your attitude toward breaks from TTC? How have you managed to make them refreshing, or at least not too disruptive?

More Not-Awful News!

After the fertilization report, five more days dragged by. The nurse had told me that no news was good news, and each day I sighed with relief when 5 PM passed with no phone call.

I'd expected to feel excited and cautiously optimistic, as I did the one other time I've made it this far. That time, having a fertilized egg—the first ever—felt momentous. I felt responsible for it. Didn't like the thought of it being so far away. I imagined bringing tiny booties to the lab, fussing and brooding over it like a huge mother hen.

Seriously, though, I was desperately curious about this embryo, not just in terms of whether the cycle would succeed, but in terms of its identity. Who might it become? What wonderful tapestry was its genetic code weaving right now? The medical staff and I had set things in motion, but now came the most miraculous part, the part for which we hadn't and couldn't have written a script.

I remember that feeling of awe. During the last five-day wait, I had the excitement of a fresh transfer to come right afterwards, and the innocence of never having had a pregnancy loss. This time a longer road lies ahead, and I'm more aware of each step. This time what I mostly felt was tired and numb—preemptively depressed, as if feeling bad now could keep me from feeling totally wretched if the embryo did not survive.

I KNOW that this is pointless. There's a magnet on my fridge that says, "Worry is like a rocking chair. It will give you something to do, but it won't get you anywhere." I'm not even sure how much of what I felt this week was worry. It had even less clarity. It was more like defensive withdrawal.

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On Day 5 I knew that, whatever the outcome, someone from the clinic would call. It was hard to focus on anything else as hour after hour ticked by. I considered writing a post about the wait, then thought, If you write about it, you'll jinx it. I heard a song with sad lyrics and changed it, thinking, If you listen to sad songs, you'll end up sad. I thought of taking a break and calling the clinic myself. If you call them, it will be bad news.

Although I'm grown up, sane, and mostly logical, no, apparently I'm not above magical thinking now and then. I just try not to give into it, since it leads to nothing but more of the same fantasies of control in situations where, clearly, there is none. So I went ahead and called the clinic anyway. And eventually they called back.

Turns out there was more good news. The embryo made it to Day 5, and they were able to do the biopsy and freeze.

I'm in shock. I'm incredibly lucky.

It was Thursday evening when they called. I said a prayer of thanks but still felt mostly numb for hours. Then the tears came and, with them, the thaw. Slowly, the fog of preemptive depression has lifted. Now I'm able again to connect with the wonder that has been here underneath it all along.

Believe me, I know how far this stage is from a birth or even a pregnancy. A five-day blastocyst has, what, about 200 cells? I can't use the word "baby" to describe it, but all the same, these lines from the old nursery rhyme have been echoing in my mind and heart, putting words to the wonder that's there:

Where did you come from, baby dear?
Out of the everywhere into the here...

Into the here.

Moving On

Lately I can't seem to make decisions. Like, about anything. Maybe it started with burnout over medical choices, but now this indecision is filtering down to the smallest details.

In a store tonight, I was trying to decide which type of mouse toy to buy for my cat. There were only two choices, but the first style was kind of ugly, and the second style might be too small. It might get lost under furniture and doors. And who knew if my cat would think the first style was ugly just because I did? Also, BOTH types had small parts; could they come off and be a hazard?? No, probably not. But I still could not decide. I mean, what if I wasted $1.99 ON THE WRONG MOUSE?

Well ... what if I did? With that thought came laughter and instant release. I really don't have to obsess over every single thing, after all. I really can just toss the closest toy into my cart and move on, secure in the knowledge that my cat will be happy tonight and I won't have to waste any more brain cells on this choice. How refreshing.

After agonizing over last month's huge decision for a while, I'm finally moving on medically, too. I'm trying no-stim IVF with my other clinic again. They're the place that got me pregnant last winter. It was a scary choice, because this type of IVF goes against most conventional wisdom, but I think it's the right choice for me.

I've never responded well to stimulation, and the increased expense of full IVF just isn't worth the increased number of eggs produced (if any). More importantly, I'm afraid that the meds may harm what's left of my egg quality. Far better to have one good-quality egg than two bad ones at three times the price. Also, unlike IUI, IVF ensures that the sperm and egg meet. It bypasses problems with the egg entering the fallopian tube or the sperm penetrating the egg. Finally, I'd like to do genetic screening on the embryos, to help make sure that they're healthy before transfer.

This is going to be a long process. I'll do several cycles, do the testing, then—I'm hoping with all my heart—do an FET. Strangely, the fact that it will be a long process is making it feel less stressful, not more so.

The most stressful part is the commute. This clinic is in another state, and the drive there is at least a three-hour round trip (more if there are accidents) through two metro areas. Normally, I like driving. I've driven cross-country (2,000+ miles) several times, but this ... this just sucks. So I leave home at 5 AM to avoid the worst of the traffic. Thank God for audiobooks. They pass the time and calm me down. When I made this trek last winter, I was listening to The Worst Hard Time, a great book about the Dust Bowl and Depression. That sure put my stress into historical perspective!

five lanes going nowhere
(Yes, officer, I came to a complete stop before taking photos.)

Grief Isn't Pretty

No, it's not. It's a wild, scary, messy, and personal ride, especially that first day after bad news. And I'd hesitate to write about the details of it here, except that I'm so afraid of the faucet drying up. So why not? Here's a play-by-play report of my Sunday:

10:30   I'm waiting for a call from the RE, but turn off my phone while at a church service. It's a small service in someone's home. I'm able to focus on it only because I don't have much hope about what the RE will say. Mostly, I'm numb. I've been through this before.

11:30   Checking voicemail. Now I'm shaking so hard that I can barely punch the keys. Wanting so badly to hear joy in the RE's voice, but instead hearing the expected, "I'm afraid I don't have good news." He asks me to call back. Why bother? I think. There's nothing more to say now, is there?

12:00   After playing phone tag, we finally talk. It's another discussion about how donor eggs are probably my only hope, followed by another discussion about how at least I don't have cancer, just infertility. He's not insensitive. He's a caring guy and he tried his best. But when the only comfort someone can offer is to remind you that at least you're not dying … well, no, there really is nothing more to say.

12:30   I sit in a rocking chair in the host's living room, frozen except for the rocking, rocking, rocking back and forth. I can't think of one single thing that I want to do, that I'm actually capable of doing. I feel like a rat who's reached a dead end in a maze and just sits down, staring blankly at the wall. One wall is as good as any other.

12:35   Everyone is in the kitchen sharing lunch, so the room is empty except for me and one friend who wants to help but can't, so just sits there staring at me in a most awkward way. It makes me feel even more like a trapped rat. "I don't want to leave you alone." Please, leave me alone, I think, but I can't work up the energy to say it in a tone of voice that I won't regret later on. Even with you staring at me, the fact is that I AM alone with this.

12:40   Since there's nothing I want to do, I just do the next logical thing: join the people in the kitchen. I'm not capable yet of putting on a mask, so when they ask what's wrong, I explain that I've gotten some bad news. They ask with alarm, "Are you alright?" I answer truthfully, "No, but I will be eventually. Thank you for asking."

12:45   I listen to their conversation and eventually join in. At my little table alone, two women are discussing the different treatments they've had for breast cancer, and a third describes an awful genetic disease that is threatening her nephew's life. I am NOT alone, I realize. Not in this moment, anyway. Pain is not what makes me unique; it's the one thing that I share with absolutely everyone.

1:30   I go to the nearest park. I want to throw rocks and beat my fists against the ground, but the part of the park that's normally quiet is now full of parents pushing strollers. And beaming grandparents. I call my parents to give them the bad news. I am so sick of having nothing but bad news to share with the people I love.

1:45   As I watch the happy families strolling by, spending a Sunday afternoon in this most ordinary way, it feels like I'm standing at a pastry counter. I'm gazing through glass at a bounty of exotic, fabulous desserts, which I can admire but never actually touch. It occurs to me that the rest of my life may be like this: the world reflecting my failures back to me, every day, everywhere. It's the worst kind of self-pity. These are just thoughts, and I know better than to believe everything I think. But in this moment, I can't help it. I'm afraid that this feeling will never end.

2:00   I have to go someplace where I can have my impending breakdown / freakout in privacy. So I find some deeper woods and let it fly: pick up the biggest rocks I can lift and hurl them with all my strength. Pick up branches from the ground and smash them against trees, raining arrows of wood down on the forest. I rip the red thread off my wrist. (Long story short, it's symbolized healthy ways for me to seek refuge and maintain hope, and I've worn it since New Year’s Day.) Now I fling the bright thread into the dirt, grind it gleefully down with my heel, even jump up and down on it in a frenzy of destruction. I think of Stephen Crane's poem "In the Desert": "It is bitter, bitter … But I like it, because it is bitter, and because it is my heart."

2:30   It's a full-on, self-indulgent, two-year-old-style temper tantrum. Once it blows over, I sit down, panting and sweaty, on a swing. Yes, there is a deserted playground in the middle of these woods. Everything is mocking me, I'm telling you. For a while, I just swing mindlessly back and forth, and cry.

2:45   Then I start to look around. I notice how TRASHY these woods are, with litter poking through the weeds everywhere. What a bunch of pigs! Incensed, I start gathering the junk. Normally, I wouldn't pick it up with bare hands, or go charging off into brier thickets wearing sandals and white slacks. But what the hell. It's not a day to be rational. It's not a day to question anything that manages to rouse my energy, only to act wherever action is still possible. So I snatch up handfuls of discarded Coke cans, water bottles, candy wrappers. I leave behind the condom but pick up the paper that I realize, with a stab of pain through my chest, is a child's school homework. These PIGS can have children, I complain under my breath. These PIGS can have families, I rant. And me? I guess I'll just be the old busybody who devotes herself to cleaning up THEIR mess!

3:00   I am being ridiculous. I feel maniacal laughter starting to bubble up from a place so deep it hurts, from some well I'd thought was finally, totally dry. WTF, I think. Who else would turn a temper tantrum / pity party into Litter Cleanup Day? But OK. I'm not questioning why right now. I crash out of the woods, arms overflowing with trash, march up to a dumpster, and throw it all in with one final CLANG of disgust. Then I wipe my filthy hands on my pants triumphantly. Because it is bitter, and because it is my heart. Then I walk slowly back into the woods to retrieve my red thread. It's frayed and faded now, caked with dirt. Carefully, I fold it into the pocket of my ruined pants.

4:00   Back home, I still have some anger to burn off. I want to give the anger as much free rein as is safe, because I fear it less than the depression that's sure to follow. So I put on my iPod and run at top speed for three miles, with my angry playlist at top volume. Yes, I actually have an angry playlist ready to go for occasions just like this. It starts off with Hole's song "Violet," which is perfect for today. The chorus, if you can call it that, is Courtney Love screaming, "Go on, take everything! Take everything! Take everything! Take everything!"

4:30   Ouch. I am not used to running at top speed. I've been sedentary, especially just two days after egg retrieval. Now I feel like throwing up. I think about filling the Vicodin prescription I got on Friday, not so much because of physical pain but because I'd prefer not to be fully conscious now. I've never abused painkillers, but I've taken them before (during my miscarriage, most recently) and know that feeling when the buzz hits. I want it now—want it to hit me right between the eyes like a cattle prod. That's why I need to throw the prescription in the trash.

5:00   Instead of taking pills, I take a nap. I love naps.

6:00   Email the church leader to thank her for her message this morning, which was basically about keeping our hearts open despite our fear. Even with all of today's drama, her words have been percolating through my mind all day.

7:00   Dinner. This time it does not involve salmon, kale, avocado, pineapple, or other "fertility foods." It involves sugar. Sugar and a lot of chemicals I can't pronounce. Also caffeine. After weeks without my beloved coffee, I brew my third cup of the day and raise it high in a middle-fingered salute to the universe.

8:00   Start writing about today's news.

To be continued. I'm still careening from fury to despair, from the most embarrassingly immature self-pity to moments of totally unexpected grace.

You know that saying about how what doesn't kill you makes you stronger? That saying makes me gag. Here's what I believe: what doesn't kill you … doesn't kill you ... and some days that has to be enough.

Unsubscribe Me, You Heartless Androids

On various blogs, I've seen women write about being flooded with baby-related coupons soon after a miscarriage or stillbirth, and I've cheered when some of those women sent a cathartic reply. No-one has added insult to my injury in that way yet … although who knows? It could still happen. There are a few days left until what would have been my due date.

No, I get a different type of "you've got to be kidding me" mail. They're glossy ads from a certain hospital—the hospital where I went after my HIV exposure three years ago. Yes, the anniversary is this week. This is a month with a lot of memories.

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Three years ago, my partner and I had just learned about his positive HIV test from our RE, and I was—to put it mildly—EXTREMELY UPSET. But I was still practical enough to sit down, get online, and (frantically) research what to do next. What a relief to find out that there WAS something I could do!

If someone who's been exposed to HIV seeks treatment with 72 hours, he/she can start a course of antiretroviral drugs known as post-exposure prophylaxis (PEP). They're typically given to medical workers who've had a single incident, like an accidental jab from a used needle. This treatment isn't fast or easy; it takes four weeks, and the side effects can be brutal. Also, there's no guarantee. Infection can still occur, although the rate of infection after PEP drops by close to 80%.

However, there's some controversy about using PEP for exposures that occur outside the workplace. There are concerns about encouraging "unsafe behavior." In other words, if people get the wrong impression that they can just pop a morning-after pill for HIV, they may tend to be less careful.

OK, that MAY be a valid concern, but it's not really relevant here. Mine likely was a single (sort of) and relatively serious exposure, since we spent the whole weekend trying to make babies. We'd timed the visit carefully to coincide with ovulation. It was also the first time we'd seen each other in a month or two. (We were in the process of moving and lived in different states at the time.)

After a year of visiting infertility docs, I was used to unpleasant medical treatments. And now I was informed about PEP, pros and cons. So YES, bring it on! I was still within that precious 72-hour window. But doctors weren't returning my phone calls, so I ended up in the ER.

Where they totally dismissed me. I explained the situation. I argued (with all the civility and logic I could manage). I BEGGED. But no, it was "hospital policy" to reserve PEP for workplace exposures, they said robotically. I couldn't believe it. This was MY body and MY money (I was paying cash) that we were talking about, and I could hear the clock ticking closer to the deadline with each second that passed.

Not only would they not consider letting me make this decision for myself, but they were totally callous about it. They wouldn't refer me to another facility that might help. To top it all off, Dr. Robot told me something untrue that managed to freak me out even worse. He stressed that I'd have to wait a full year to learn my HIV status for sure. Wrong. In fact, I got definitive results—negative—from a viral-load test two weeks later. On Friday the 13th, by the way. It is now my lucky day. I really should play the lottery on Friday the 13th.

Anyway, there was one member of the ER staff who was human. One nurse took a moment to remind me that Magic Johnson has been HIV positive for 20 years now without progressing to AIDS, that it's not the death sentence it used to be. It was a 60-second interaction. It was also the lifeline that helped me to leave there that night with my sanity intact.

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A few months later, when the dust had settled, when it was time to get my mind off my own problems and feel useful in some way (since all of my other goals had just collapsed), I filled out a volunteer application at that same hospital. I offered to help shepherd patients through the ER, a function their website said was needed. And hadn't I seen for myself just exactly how much it was needed? Going back there wouldn't be easy. But neither was shutting myself off at home with traumatic memories. Might as well try to replace them with something better.

Nobody contacted me. I'm sure it was nothing personal. In the context of a hospital ER, whatever scene I made that night was nowhere near enough to make my name live in infamy for months afterward. I figured the volunteer coordinators were just busy, or had lost my form, so I gave them a call to follow up. They never did bother to call back.

But boy did they sure manage to add my contact info to their marketing list! Now every few months, just when that awful memory starts to fade a bit, the mailman drops off a helpful reminder about their world-class standards for patient care, blah blah blah. At first I just threw these ads in the trash with a snort of disgust, but since they have the nerve to keep on coming, it may be time to contemplate some kind of reply…

The Law of Attraction (Part 2)

Last year, after a dismal RE meeting and five hours in traffic, I came home to find that my whole garden was dying. It was a big patio garden, and everything (all but two or three plants in the corners) had caught some kind of awful, fast-spreading disease. I still don't know quite what it was. I just call it The Plague.

Hearing this story, a woman I knew suggested I might be putting out negative vibes that were attracting these problems into my life, a la The Secret. Maybe my identity was getting wrapped around this idea that "bad things happen to me."

Let's back up a little. This garden was really special to me. I didn't know much about plants, since I'd always lived in apartments where gardens weren't allowed, or where (if they were possible) it seemed silly to make that investment when my time there would be short. But last year I'd had enough of waiting. Tending the garden was tending the part of myself that needed to keep believing in the possibility of growth. And the garden wasn't modest; it was BIG, lush, beautiful. The woman's suggestion that I killed it with my low expectations, negative thoughts, bad-luck cooties, or whatever, really shocked and pissed me off.

But she was right about one thing: my identity WAS getting wrapped around the idea that bad things happen to me. And it was making me more depressed. What if I hadn't been quite so depressed? If my powers of observation had been better, if I'd had more energy, might I have been more concerned about the one plant that looked sick before the others? Then maybe followed an instinct to research what was wrong, and taken action before the infection suddenly took off and spread? I think so. I think what killed my garden was 90% disease, combined with 10% ignorance and inaction.

God grant me the
Serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

Courage to change the things I can,

And wisdom to know the difference.

When I think about what I can and can't control, the garden comes to mind, along with a story from a few years earlier. I was trying mountain biking for the first time. "Focus on where you want to go," my boyfriend at the time suggested. "Don’t focus on the rocks and ruts in the trail, or you'll think Oh no, a rock, and you'll freeze up and stare at that rock, and sure enough you'll hit it." He was exactly right. Not that I never wiped out when focusing on the route I wanted to take, but focusing on the obstacles usually made my fear, and therefore my clumsiness, worse.

To sum it up, I don't think special "Laws" are required to explain what's going on. I just function best when focusing outward on the situation itself, when my mind isn't clouded by fear, despair, or other internal reactions. OK, so how do we get to that state? I'll let you know when I figure it all out. (Don't hold your breath.) What I've learned so far is the importance of trying to find balance—not grasping after overly specific outcomes (I'd like that BMW in blue, please.), while still allowing enough healthy desire and will to keep moving ahead.

Insomnia

It's back. To be honest, I'm not sure how much is really inability to sleep, and how much is fear of the thoughts that will go through my head before sleep can take over.

Today was a hard day. July 4 is for parties, picnics, parades ... families. Somehow I have a harder time being childless on this holiday than on Christmas, when I can always get together with extended family, and when there's so much commercial hype and buildup that I'm over it by late November.

At least tonight's insomnia led to something sort of productive. I now haz some Pinterest boards. (I was on there already, and spend most of my time in the Humor section to help stay sane, but wanted a separate place for this stuff.) Enjoy!

Facing the Wave

On a summer evening in 1958, three fishing boats anchored in southeastern Alaska's remote Lituya Bay. All was quiet ... except for a cloud of birds that suddenly left around 9 PM, in such a hurry that some of them crashed into one trawler's rigging and fell to its deck dead. The couple on board watched nervously. An hour later, as they and the other families were settling in for the night on their boats, the earthquake hit.

It was a huge quake, with a magnitude over 8.0. It caused mayhem for a hundred miles up and down the coast. To the north, an island dropped 25 feet into the water. Nearby, a mountain rose 50 feet into the air. Geysers erupted. But the strangest scene took place in Lituya Bay, where landslides poured down from the steep glacial peaks that surrounded the water. In the twilight, the families on their boats could see the mountains "twisting" at the head of the bay. And they could see what came next: the largest wave ever recorded on earth.

It was basically a giant splash, which sucked trees and dirt—everything down to bare bedrock—off the closest hillsides to a height above 1,720 feet. A wall of water hundreds of feet high filled the bay from side to side. By the time it reached the mouth, seven miles later, the wave was still almost 100 feet high.

Wave Damage
(source)

The truly amazing part is that two of the three families in the bay that night survived. They were the ones who turned their boats into the wave and faced it head on, as did another fisherman who rode out a similar ("only" 490-foot) wave there in 1936. Not a trace was ever found of the other couple, who had turned toward the mouth of the bay. Not one splinter from their boat remained.

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

Why tell this story here? It's haunted my nightmares since I first heard it several years ago. But in the last few weeks, when I've been feeling especially overwhelmed, it's been stuck in my waking mind a lot too, and it's left behind this bit of guidance that seems strangely relevant: whatever happens, face into the wave.

Don't try to escape; the only thing worse than having something dreadful in front of you is having it gaining on you from behind, in your blind spot. Don't sit there in denial; pull up your anchor chain and deal with it head on.

Melodramatic? Yeah, I know. I'm sorry. I wish I could list all the concrete, practical things I've been doing instead to achieve my motherhood goals (and there have been some things), but the fact is that what feels like the hardest work lately has been mostly psychological. I know that this next try will most likely be my last. On one hand, I just need it to be over, one way or another. On the other hand, the finality is what makes me want to keep delaying and turning away.

Because I'm leaning toward the full "throw the book at it" approach with this next cycle, it will take a full commitment. So I'm trying to swing the boat around and brace myself: working twice as many hours to help slow the financial leaks, keeping up some exercise (as much for courage and energy as to get "in shape"), etc. So I haven't been around here as much. But please know that I'm still reading your comments and blogs and cheering you on, and appreciating your company.

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:

ICLW Thanks

As my first ICLW comes to an end, I'm already looking forward to the next. It's been enlightening, healing, busy, and fun. I found some wonderful blogs to follow and got so much food for thought. In fact, there are ideas for many more posts swirling around in my head now, along with topics to research, questions I should remember to ask my doctors, etc.

I even managed to, you know, keep up with the commenting part. It shouldn't be a surprise, but secretly I wondered how this week would go, since it turned out to be busier than expected when I signed up. And, as always, the regularly scheduled depression was there to interfere.

I tried to comment on every blog that I read and to go down the list randomly, not just picking situations that seemed to have the most in common with mine. And I'm so glad. Before, I might have turned away from those who wrote a lot about their supportive spouse, pregnancy, or existing children. (Sorry—it's just a self-protective thing.) I might have resented women whose TTC odds seemed better than mine. And I would have missed out.

Because here's what I learned: we're ALL struggling with pain and fear, just in different forms. Yeah, we know this. But it's one thing to know intellectually and another to read about it in depth, day after day. Those people who "have it better" than me in one way or another? They also spent everything they had on multiple IVF cycles / have a husband who's away from home on military deployments / have a child with a serious birth defect / have a high-risk pregnancy / fought infertility for a decade / need major surgery to correct a uterine problem / lost babies to miscarriage and stillbirth / just lost someone else they loved / and many more situations than I can list here.

So I bow to those people—to all of you—for living through what you have and for sharing your example. Thanks for getting me out of my own head (see link above!) and making me feel at home.

Empathy

This beautiful video (courtesy of On Being) reminds me of the Ian Maclaren quote:
"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle."

May I never be so consumed by my own battle that I forget.

One Month Out

It's been a month since that awful, silent ultrasound.

No, I'm not "over it" yet. In fact, you don't want to know how many times I snooze the alarm before dragging myself out of bed each day.

AND—I'm learning to say "and" instead of "but," which brushes off the truth of everything that came before—tonight I took a shower (the one I had no time for in the morning) and made a big glass of green juice. It has kale, broccoli, cucumber, celery, and apple in it, and it really is THAT green. It actually tastes pretty good (light and refreshing) for something that looks like it came out of a swamp. I made juice all the time when I was TTC and pregnant. Since then, I haven't done that or really any other healthy stuff.

The thing is, making these commitments to health again feels like I'm also committing to TTC again … which, of course, is true. The clock is still ticking and there's absolutely no time to waste. The idea of trying again, so soon, is what really feels overwhelming right now.

AND … all the same … here are the commitments I've made tonight:

• Cut out the physically unhealthy habits. That means all junk food of any kind, including the tasteless chips with only five ingredients.
• Add back as many healthy habits as I can without feeling too resentful. I'll get back on the prenatal vitamins, and I'm still looking forward to that kickboxing class. But no, the hippie deodorant can wait until CD1.
• Put together a list of follow-up questions about maternal testing for my OB. Our appointment today got rescheduled due to the snowstorm of the year half an inch of slush outside.
• Put together a list of TTC options and questions for my RE. 
• Take a close look at my finances, which will determine which of the TTC options are even possible now.

Oh, that last one is a killer. I've been avoiding it because (especially on top of the pregnancy loss) it's so depressing and scary. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go throw up that glass of juice now…

Taking in the Good

Lately I've heard several people talk about the importance of gratitude. I wish that counting my own blessings made me feel good in the way that these people described. When I think of the best things in my life, what I feel instead is FEAR: Oh please, don't let me lose this, too! I couldn't stand it! The fear is paralyzing. It makes me feel like there's nothing to look forward to.

How to let the good stuff sink in, to feel gratitude in my heart as well as think it in my head? I'm trying to do what Rick Hanson and Richard Mendius suggest in their book Buddha's Brain: savor the good and even neutral moments as they come up, in a vivid and physical way, to balance out the negative bias of memory.

Buddha's Brain: The Practical Neuroscience of Happiness, Love & Wisdom
by Rick Hanson, Ph.D. with Richard Mendius, MD

They explain how our brains evolved to pay more attention to negative experiences than to positive ones, because the negative ones usually had more impact on survival. As a result, our baseline state is one of vigilantly scanning for threats. Also, our brains tend to detect negative information faster than positive information, then emphasize it more in memory. Hanson and Mendius explain how these changes happen neurologically. Then they summarize:

Your brain preferentially scans for, registers, stores, recalls, and reacts to unpleasant experiences; as we've said, it's like Velcro for negative experiences and Teflon for positive ones. Consequently, even when positive experiences outnumber negative ones, the pile of negative implicit memories naturally grows faster. Then the background feeling of what it feels like to be you can become undeservedly glum and pessimistic. 

Sure, negative experiences do have benefits: loss opens the heart, remorse provides a moral compass, anxiety alerts you to threats, and anger spotlights wrongs that should be righted. But do you really think you're not having enough negative experiences?! Emotional pain with no benefit to yourself or others is pointless suffering. And pain today breeds more pain tomorrow. For instance, even a single episode of major depression can reshape circuits in the brain to make future episodes more likely (Maletic et al. 2007).

Oh great, another thing to fear. But they do have a suggestion. Instead of "thinking positive"—sweeping negative realities under the rug while reading a mental list of all the reasons we should feel happier—here's what they suggest:

The remedy is not to suppress negative experiences; when they happen, they happen. Rather, it is to foster positive experiences—and in particular, to take them in so that they become a permanent part of you… 

Turn positive facts into positive experiences. Good things keep happening all around us, but much of the time we don’t notice them; even when we do, we often hardly feel them…Whatever positive facts you find, bring a mindful awareness to them—open to them and let them affect you. It’s like sitting down to a banquet: don’t just look at it—dig in! 

Savor the experience. It’s delicious! Make it last by staying with it for 5, 10, even 20 seconds; don’t let your attention skitter off to something else. The longer that something is held in awareness and the more emotionally stimulating it is, the more neurons that fire and thus wire together, and the stronger the trace in memory (Lewis 2005). Focus on your emotions and body sensations, since these are the essence of implicit memory. Let the experience fill your body and be as intense as possible...

Finally, there's this:

Positive experiences can also be used to soothe, balance, and even replace negative ones. When two things are held in mind at the same time, they start to connect with each other. That’s one reason why talking about hard things with someone who’s supportive can be so healing: painful feelings and memories get infused with the comfort, encouragement, and closeness you experience with the other person.