Empty Nest

After a week of watching The Bird Channel, I'm an "empty nester" now.

I did get to witness the first flight of one of the chicks, while its sibling (who had left the nest just minutes earlier) flapped around on the ground below, trying to figure out how to get airborne again.

Originally, there was a third chick. Their sizes varied a lot, probably due to hatching order. I couldn't even see the smallest one until the day after I spotted the first two. A few days later, it disappeared. I don't know what happened, but it clearly didn't survive.

That knowledge made me panicky at first (Can't I DO something?), then sad and shocked, then surprised at my own shock. Did I really think that wild animals would be exempt from losing their babies, too? Of course not. I've just never seen it right on my own patio before.

Rest in peace, little Number Three. Have a good life, Numbers One and Two. Thanks for sharing your childhood with me!

Do I dare?

Backyard Babies

Although I didn't look forward to spring this year, it's been winning me over anyway. Seeing animal families with their little ones doesn't sadden me the way that seeing human babies can.

First came the lambs and ducklings. Then, driving through the forest one night, I rounded a bend a quarter-mile from home and saw two pairs of glowing eyes. One was much lower than the other. A red fox and her kit! The kit was very small, around the size of my cat. While Mom finished crossing the road and disappeared into the brush, the little one wandered toward my headlights in confusion. It was less than ten feet away and coming even closer! For a moment, I think we were both hypnotized. I wanted to sit there and watch, even to get out and touch … but, knowing better, I drove off before the fox could get too close to my wheels or another car could come.

The latest babies to show up are three robins in a nest on my patio.

the nest

They're chirping as I write this! I first saw them this week, and it's amazing how much they've grown in just a few days. Or maybe it's not so amazing when you consider all the feedings (about 5 an hour) they get. Their parents are constantly busy, hopping through the grass and plucking out worms.

Dad

Mom

At first, the adults were very suspicious of me. Getting the first photos took some patient, sweaty, mosquito-bitten waiting. Now the adults don't hesitate to come feed the chicks when I'm sitting right there outside. They're learning to read my body language, and I'm learning their language, too: the "peek-tut" call that signifies a possible low-grade threat ("That lady with the camera is out here AGAIN!"), versus the alarm call that means they will bunker down somewhere safe for a while.

Watching these little dramas close-up has really been a treat. Since they won't be here long (two weeks from hatching to fledging), I've rearranged my living room to get a better view. It reminds me of how, when I was working long hours in a cubicle a few years ago, I got briefly obsessed with birdcams. They were a glimpse of nature in an otherwise nature-less world.

Now there's a real-life nest literally ten feet from my back door. I can catch all the details that make up a good story: Mom scolding Dad for displacing her before she's done with a feeding, the little ones snapping their beaks at a bee that comes too close, the little ones testing their wings. If I'm very lucky, maybe I'll be here to witness their first flight. It won’t be long.

little ones

not-so-little ones

That Did Not Just Happen

The forget-me-not seeds that I planted last month in memory of my baby took a while to come up, but since then they've grown well.  Doting on them has become a nice part of my routine. Every day, I go outside to check their soil for moisture, pluck and fuss over them, and spend a few moments thinking of Baby P.

The other day, I noticed that they were looking a little waterlogged after a rain. They're in a small pot that's wedged tightly inside another (ornamental) pot. When I picked up the outer pot to pour out the water that had settled in the bottom, most of the dirt and plants suddenly spilled out too, dumping the whole mess onto the ground and flinging muddy splatters everywhere—onto my fence, my jeans, and into the cup of tea I'd brought outside to enjoy. It was a spectacular mess. I just stood there staring at it. Then I said, out loud, two times, "That did not just happen. THAT did NOT just happen!"

Because these plants had special meaning to me, it was hard not to attach way too much meaning to the accident, too. Of all the pots on my patio, I had to mess up this one? Was it a reflection of my mothering skills (or lack thereof)?? This wasn't a little wilting on a hot day, because I'd watered them late; this was SPLAT, good-bye, the whole lot dumped unceremoniously upside-down. What could I do? I scooped the seedlings back into their pot, tried to sew their tiny roots back into the soil, then gave them a blessing and a well-deserved apology.

The outcome? So far, I've been relieved to see that they seem to be recovering just fine. "It's OK," I can almost hear them saying when I come outside to dote and fuss over them now. "We're growing up. Maybe you can, you know, back off a little and just let us do our own thing!"

Genetic Screening

Creating a Family posted an excellent program today on the latest developments in the diagnosis and prevention of miscarriages. You can listen on iTunes or right on the linked page.

They'll apparently be doing an entire program on genetic screening of embryos next month. Meanwhile, the discussion around minutes 42-44 and 59-61 of this program really caught my ear.

Here's Dr. Richard Scott from the Reproductive Medicine Associates of New Jersey:

I think at the current time there are now a number of randomized trials which show benefit. In fact, a study which is not out yet ... actually shows that it reduces costs of treatment to screen embryos genetically, because you do so many fewer cycles. I think that patients look at these charges, and … it's a great deal of money, and that has to be respected, but the reality is your pregnancy rates per cycle go up dramatically, the number of embryos you put back goes down dramatically, your multiple pregnancy risk can be virtually negated … It makes a 42-year-old's risk of an ongoing Down Syndrome pregnancy less than when they were 21 … If you screen the embryo genetically, you can do as well with one as you do with two. And so now, all of the sudden, you can have pregnancy rates which, even in women in their 40s, can be in the 50-60% range or higher from a single embryo.

Later, he addresses what concerns me most:

When a patient goes through a clinical loss, by the time they go through a cycle, transfer those embryos without knowing if they're normal or not, go through a pregnancy, have the miscarriage occur, have their recovery interval (letting their hormones come down and their body reset), the time before they recycle on average in our clinic … is almost six months. It takes about five months, because there's an emotional healing. For a patient who's 39 or 40 ... those six months are not free. So now, instead of treating a 39-year-old, you're treating someone who's 40, and if they have two or three of those, they're 41 or 42 ... you are actually intervening to lower her cumulative long-term probability of delivery.

Yes, I'm leaning toward stimulated IVF with PGS (if we end up with enough embryos to make testing worthwhile), for exactly the reasons above: mainly a preference for single-embryo transfer and fear of another miscarriage with no time to waste. Next week, I have an appointment with my previous RE (the one who managed the IUI cycles before the natural-cycle IVF). It's time to start writing some questions down.

Wordless Wednesday

Two Years

As of this weekend, it's been two years since I've had any alcohol. Actually, I've gone longer than this in the past and don't want to make a fuss. But it's a big enough deal that the date has stayed in my memory, and seeing May 18 roll around again has me in a reflective mood.

Two years ago was a dark time. Nine months before, the bottom had dropped out, and I did what people instinctively do when they're falling: throw their arms wide to grab onto anything that might help them stay upright. One of the first things I did was give up all alcohol, because even in the chaos of those days a few things were clear:

• I had a history of using it as a tool to get through this or that difficult time. It was becoming more and more of a habit.
• If there was ever going to be a time when I could go back to drinking with happy, social moderation, this was not it.
• To drink—a depressant—on top of depression was clearly a Very Bad Idea.

Sobriety was just the start. I also volunteered, went to church, exercised, took classes, went to various support groups … threw myself into getting out, feeling better, learning and growing from the challenges…

Oh shut up.

Still, nine months out, I felt like shit. So one day I shrugged and bought a bottle of scotch. Why not? If staying sober wasn't helping, then maybe alcohol hadn't been hurting after all. Clever logic, right?

I have friends who can tell a similar story, and this is the part where they say, "Then I drank for ten more years." Apparently my level of pain tolerance (or addiction, or whatever) was nowhere near that high. I drank for two more months, and that was plenty. At least I hope it was enough, because I never want to go back there again. When I need a reminder, I tell myself, There's nothing in my life so bad that taking a drink now couldn't make it worse.

How bad was that time? Sorry, I have no exciting stories to tell about run-ins with the police. What it was instead was just the bleakest, emptiest monotony. I went to work, I did what needed to be done, but the best part of my day was the unconscious part. That's how it feels when you've given up.

The unconsciousness and numbness really were a relief. There was one evening when I wrote a letter to my ex. I'll never forget writing the word "heartbroken" … then pausing, and realizing that what I actually felt at that moment was … nothing at all. Perfectly numb. A miracle—I'll drink to that!

But the numbness didn't last. Getting and staying there meant passing through waves of raging bitterness—which were totally out of character, by the way. I'm the kind of person people describe with words like "gentle" and "so calm!" Still, two years ago, there I was sitting in a park on a lovely spring day, watching smiling families as they walked by hand in hand. And oh, how I hated them all. In my memory of that day, my vision was even shaded red by the miasma of hate.

That same weekend, I came across this paragraph in the book Alcoholics Anonymous: "It is plain that a life which includes deep resentment leads only to futility and unhappiness. To the precise extent that we permit these, do we squander the hours that might have been worth while..." To put it another way, holding resentments is like taking poison and waiting for someone else to die.

The word that stuck in my mind, and echoed there for weeks, was the single word "futility." This path that I was on? It was the definition of futility. Luckily, the unexpected fall had been so abrupt and steep that I could feel the drop and catch glimpses of what lay ahead. Long story short, I was able to throw my arms out and catch my balance again.

This time I did a few things differently. I tried to stop comparing my insides to other people's outsides (those "perfect" families in the park), and spent more time around others who'd been through really painful things and were willing to talk about it. Lo and behold, we've almost ALL been through really painful things. I could let the pain harden my heart with bitterness or try to let it soften my heart with compassion.

Finally, I let myself grieve. What with one thing and another, I had pretty much tried to skip that part. Ironically, I'd been afraid that grief (rather than "I'm over it" denial) was the force that might drive me to drink. In fact, as intense as the grief felt with all the band-aids finally ripped off, I was afraid that it would KILL me.

It didn't, of course. Two years later, I'm still here, dealing with circumstances that look pretty much the same. I can feel stuck and impatient, wanting to get somewhere better faster, wanting to turn away from the realities that are here. But turning away from the pain also means turning away from the love and longing at the source of the pain. Then I think of how things might look now if I'd continued down that bitter, escapist path, instead of facing the wave with my wits mostly intact.

Motherhood would be off the table completely—I would know better than to try taking care of someone else, and wouldn't have the mental focus to navigate all those steps and decisions anyway. My health would probably be damaged. Many good people would not be here in my life.

However down I still get now and then, the main thing I'm feeling today is grateful for the people who've been with me through this time, even the ones who are still strangers, who will never know how much they've helped just by offering a map for others to follow. Wherever it leads must be better than the dead-end path that I was on. Remembering the nihilism of those days, I picture the ancient maps that showed the sea full of serpents ("Danger! This way there be Monsters!") with the edge of the world beyond.

Back in my initial hurry-and-get-over-it phase, I kept a bulletin board in my bedroom. It was full of inspirational quotes, lists of things to do, and so on—all good stuff, just way too much of it. Today, there's a single piece of paper posted in the middle of that big, blank space:

Choices

They're two lines, which start out almost parallel and slowly diverge. They're a reminder to do the right thing in this moment, and to trust that those little actions add up, even if the big picture won't become clear until much later on.

I'll end with a quote from Parker Palmer on his own struggle with depression:

I had missed the deep meaning of a biblical teaching that I had always regarded as a no-brainer: "I set before you life or death, blessing or curse. Therefore, choose life" (Deuteronomy 30:19). Why, I wondered, would God waste precious breath on saying something so obvious? I had failed to understand the perverse comfort we sometimes get from choosing death in life, exempting ourselves from the challenge of using our gifts, or living our lives in authentic relationship with others.

I was finally able to say yes to life, a choice for which I am grateful beyond measure, though how I found that yes remains a mystery to me.

It remains mostly a mystery to me, too, with the path becoming clear only one step at a time. So I'd better keep walking.

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.

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.

I Survived

This morning I finally got around to taking that kickboxing class I wrote about two months ago.

In the past two months, the anger I felt right after the miscarriage got swallowed up by depression, as I was afraid it would. For those who haven't been there, I should explain that depression doesn't equal sadness. There's some sadness in the mix, but for me the main feeling is unrelenting exhaustion, plus mental fogginess.

I know what to do in this state: whatever I can to stay active and connected. But have you ever had one of those dreams where someone is chasing you and you have to run, except that you're running through mud or snow, and despite your best efforts you just keep slowing down? That's how it feels sometimes. Yesterday was about the worst it's ever been. I could feel my body and mind grinding down toward absolute zero.

Needless to say, I haven't exactly been getting much exercise. Not unless you count lifting big mugs of coffee. What possessed me to take a class so clearly beyond my comfort zone (735 calories burned in an hour, they say)? I knew it would kick my ass, and yes, it certainly did. But I knew I had to try, because sometimes an ass kicking is in order. Believe it or not, I mean that in the most compassionate way. Sometimes a grand (and foolish) gesture is exactly what I need to shake things up.

Not only was the class a challenge, but it was also out of character for me. I'm more a yoga-and-pilates type who likes to take walks in the woods. With each punch, I saw the red thread that's tied around my wrist, representing the Buddhist three refuges. The incongruity made me laugh. Then I thought of what I learned the other day: a red thread can also be an infertility symbol. With that thought, my taking the class no longer seemed funny or strange. I wanted to smash things.

So in that safe and imaginary context, I beat on infertility. I punched the OB who just sent a bill for our useless "follow-up" appointment: the equivalent of three hours' pay for me, for five minutes of his time. I threw a right hook at my ex, and a kick to everyone who ever asked when I was going to have kids, "since you’re not getting any younger!"

After unleashing all that stuff, I was exhausted, totally spent. "Alright!" the teacher yelled. "That finishes our warm-up!"

CAN we do it??

Haha, OMG, what have I gotten into here? I sucked down more water and somehow dredged up more energy. My goal was just to finish the class. It didn't matter if I had to modify some of the moves—the point was to keep moving.

That much I could manage to do. Will I do it again? We'll see. First I'd better make sure that I can still move tomorrow. Meanwhile, if the class blew a few cobwebs out of my body and mind today, I'll be very grateful for that.

ICLW

If you're here as part of ICLW, welcome! (If not, you're still welcome! And you might want to check out the ICLW list, since it includes a lot of great blogs.) I signed up for a second time because last time was so worthwhile.

You can read the basics of my infertility journey here, and my first post explains why I started writing about it.

What's new this month? I'm still sitting out the recovery time after a miscarriage, which means there will be more than a 5-month gap between my last cycle and next. I have mixed feelings about the next.

On one hand, I wanted to start trying right away, because last time (almost) worked and that was awesome—it felt like a miracle. Also, there's just no time to spare; I have severe DOR, and it's probably time to move on to the most aggressive options.

Which leads to the mixed feelings. Surely I'm not the only one feeling discouraged, afraid, and overwhelmed sometimes? When those feelings are at their worst, I want to curl up under the covers and avoid dealing with anything else that's painful (enough already!) ... even if there may be rewards beyond the pain.

So last weekend, in my best kind-but-firm "mom voice," I had a little talk with myself about the avoidance habit. It was an infertility intervention—a name I borrowed from this post at The 2 Week Wait, which says:

I know firsthand that it's easier to hope that things will work out somehow. That maybe next cycle, somehow, I'll get pregnant if I pray really hard or maybe I'll get pregnant while I'm in Disney World or maybe I don't have a problem and I just need to eat more chocolate.

No one wants to have an IVF. No one wants daily blood work or to be regularly intimately involved in vaginal sonograms. It sucks, it's not fun and it's not the way you expected it to be. The fact is though that if you're not getting pregnant, this is my personal urge to you to fight. Fight hard. See another doctor, get another opinion, be your own advocate and don't waste time avoiding what may be the very thing that can help.

That last sentence was just what I needed to hear. My own "intervention" involved several days of medical research and financial planning. (I've done all that stuff before, of course, but it's been a while.) It helped me separate feelings from facts. (Both are valid, but it's important to understand which is which.) It was unpleasant. It was also necessary. I now have a much better list of things to consider and to ask my REs.

So that's what's new. When I'm not obsessing about TTC options, I'm probably thinking about fostering options or just trying to maintain some sense of humor and perspective. Feel free to look around and comment on anything new or old. I'll pay you a visit in return. Sharing this journey with and learning from others has been one of the main forces helping me stay sane.

Happy ICLW!