Silent Night

There's not much to say. What I've been doing this fall has been very distracting (on purpose) but not meaningful (also on purpose). I can't do meaningful now, not quite yet. After the years of TTC, I can't keep forcing myself to focus on things that hurt. So there have been distractions...

And then there are nights like tonight: snow falling, making the city quiet and still. Christmas lights. Memories of a night like this two years ago.

You know how, when someone writes a brokenhearted post, and there's nothing to say because they've just said it all, people sometimes simply write "Abiding with you" or words to that effect? I've felt your presence, abiding with me these past two years, and I'm thankful.

Tonight I'll try to give myself that same gift: turn down the volume on all the junk I've been using to fill up my mind, and just abide with what's left.

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.

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...

Always Somewhere Left to Go

I just heard this lovely song for the first time a few days ago, and it's been in my head since I got the good news yesterday:

Don't let the shadows bend you low

because somebody tells you so.

Believe in what you know you know:

there's always somewhere left to go...

"Always Somewhere"
by Krista Detor with Joe Crookston

IVF Scorecard

The nurse just returned my call. This is the afternoon of Day 5 post retrieval, and I wanted an update before the weekend came. All week I've felt frozen, just waiting in suspended animation for these results.

The nurse's voice did not have that smiley sound that I always strain to hear when someone from the clinic calls. If anything, her voice was on the reserved side of neutral. My right hand, already over my heart as if to calm it down, moved up around my throat. I couldn't breathe.

"Well, it looks like they were able to biopsy one embryo," she began, then brightened. "Oh! That's right, THE embryo—you were expecting just the one."

"Right!" I said, vastly relieved. One AT BEST, I thought.

And now the best-case scenario has happened once again. The nurse couldn't tell me the grade of this embryo, but if it was healthy enough to make it this far...

Now came the wave of gratitude. A whole ocean of it. It knocked me off my feet, rolled over me, and is still (an hour later) leaking from my eyes.

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

Friends, do you know how lucky I am? Do you know how many embryos don't make it to Day 5, how many eggs don't fertilize at all, how many cycles (especially no-stim cycles) don't produce even one egg? Especially in women with DOR and my awful numbers. Yet somehow I'm 4 for 4. It's astounding. I am astounded.

Type of IVF	No. of Cycles	Results
Stimulated, antagonist protocol	1	2 unfertilized eggs
No stimulation	4	4 embryos, blastocyst stage on Day 5 (1 miscarried, 3 frozen and awaiting PGS)

Thank you all for the good wishes this past week!. It looks like they've helped. :)