MIA

I feel like shit - worse than I've ever felt in my life.

I have developed severe acid reflux. I know what you're thinking - a little indigestion, heartburn, burping? Nope.

My reflux presents as an almost-constant tightness in my chest and throat (think heart attack without the pain in my case). I can swallow fine and my only breathing difficulty is that the meds are causing a huge amount of air in my stomach so it's hard to get a good deep breath, but it is BEYOND disconcerting to live with this 24-hours-a-day.

My heart is fine, thankfully, but it looks like I probably have a hiatal hernia which is causing the reflux. (That would also contribute to me having to sometimes strain to get a good deep breath.) I have an appointment with a gastroenterologist on Monday to get to the bottom of things and devise a plan of action.

I've been on reflux meds for a week but unfortunately they often take 4-8 weeks to work so I haven't seen much improvement. All I HAVE seen are the side effects of the medication which include nausea, stomach pain, and unbelievable anxiety.

Put simply, I have never been more unhappy or more miserable.

I have a mortal fear of surgery but at this point, it the doctor thinks I need surgery to resolve this, bring it on! This is an awful way to live.

On the IF-front, AF showed up right on time after my most recent round of prometrium but I didn't even make a CD2 appointment for an ultrasound. There is no way I want to pursue IF treatments with this going on.

As I told some friends via e-mail earlier today, I tend to go MIA when I don't feel good or am scared about something, so don't be surprised if I'm not around much. I'll be back soon, though, hopefully with good news.

Till then . . .

Today We're All Hokies

God Bless

Chicago Cubs Attitude

The approach of yet another holiday seems to be shining a bright light on our childless condition once again. It’s difficult enough as an infertile woman to navigate a world filled with daily “baby bombs” (shower invitations, adorable toddlers at the grocery store, birth announcements, pregnant women everywhere), but for me the most difficult times are when holidays roll around. I guess it’s because I am like a little kid myself about holidays. Love ‘em! Love everything about them. Love to decorate, love to have people over, love to cook seasonal foods, love to watch holiday movies.

Tomorrow is, of course, Easter. We’re having our parents and some dear friends over for lunch. I’ve had a great time devising a menu and tastefully decorating our home. (Some might say that it looks like the Easter Bunny threw up all over our den. I disagree.) It will be a lovely day, I’m sure. But do you know what I really wish was happening here tomorrow?

O and I would wake up early, complaining about how darned COLD it is as we put on our coats and rushed out to hide eggs before our child woke up. We have acres and acres to work with, so we’d spread eggs far and wide, tucking them under bushes and in the crevices of trees.

Our child would stumble into the kitchen rubbing her eyes and stop dead in her tracks as she saw the basket the Easter Bunny left for her. After a quick breakfast, we’d scamper to get ready for church, and I’d put her in one of those deliciously frilly little dresses that made me feel ever so fancy when I was a little girl. And though I vowed never to do it to my child, I’d probably throw in one of those pairs of white gloves that my mom used to torture me with on Easter.

Off to church we’d go and when we got home, our families would be arriving to watch the big Easter egg hunt. I would take a million pictures. O would hold our child’s hand as she wandered around the yard gathering up her treasures (because when you’re a kid, bright plastic eggs are TREASURES!). Afterwards, we’d all sit down to eat, talking and laughing about Easters past, unable to imagine what we did before our child came along.

I know that reality would probably instead involve freezing to death, tossing a few eggs around the backyard because we were running late, unfortunate stains on frilly little dresses, resounding screams as we tried to put on and keep on the white gloves, and boredom after finding the first three eggs. But isn’t it a NICE daydream?

Oh well. I guess I’ll take a Chicago Cubs attitude about the whole thing . . . maybe next year. Until then, I’m going to have a wonderful Easter with the people I love most in the world and I wish the same for you.

And that little daydream of mine? I wish that for you too.

Surprise! (No, it's not what you're thinking!)

It seems as if I may have received a belated birthday gift this morning.

My long-awaited yet sorry excuse for a period arrived on Friday. It was nothing to write home about, pretty much three days of spotting. I waited to see if things would “pick up” but they never did so I reluctantly called my RE yesterday and left a message explaining the situation. I told them about the steroid shot that I suspect screwed up my cycle blah-dee-blah-blah-and-I’m-hoping-we-can-do-another-round-of-pro*metrium-and-give-it-a-chance-to-work. I didn’t want them to start singing the D&C song.

I was hoping they’d simply call in a prescription for more pro*metrium and I’d be on my way with the next cycle but noooooo, they wanted to see me for an ultrasound and perhaps an SIS (saline infusion sono*hysterograph) to see what was going on.

So maybe, just maybe I got my panties in a bit of a twist about it. I spent much of last night in imaginary conversations with my RE that went a little something like this:

ME: Ummm, Dr. VA, I haven’t had an actual period since my Valentine’s Day ultrasound where y’all pronounced my uterine lining “too thick to procreate”. To the best of my calculations, no period = no improvement. So what you really want is for me to drive 3 hours round-trip so your nurse practitioner can take one look and say, “Yep, lining’s still too thick and that will be $147 please”.
Dr.: Well . . .
ME: Seriously, do you really need money that badly?

Dr. VA: Of course not. It’s just that . . .
 ME: . . . and another thing! I had a great period the first time I took the pro*metrium. It didn’t work this time because of the steroid shot I had. Why do I suddenly now need more testing when we haven’t given this medication a fair shot at working?
Dr. VA: Well I . . .

 ME: . . . and what about the fact that I had hyperplasia several years ago and my gynecologist was able to resolve it with medication rather than expensive testing and surgery? Is she just smarter than you? Hmmmmm?
Dr. VA: (offended squawky noise)

 ME: . . . and if you think that the second time I lay eyes on you is going to be in an operating room, you have another think coming!
Dr. VA: I don’t think . . .
 ME: That does it! I’m switching RE’s! I’m going to find someone who actually LISTENS to their patients and isn’t completely money-hungry! DAMMIT!
Dr. VA: (calling for security)

See, just a tee-tiny bit upset.

Of course, I never actually said any of those things to my RE or anyone else but instead put on my big girl panties (which I had to untwist) and marched in this morning for my ultrasound.

And you know what? My lining is significantly improved.

Last time it was 1.6mm in one spot and 2mm in another. Today it was .98mm.

I have absolutely no idea how that happened.

I’m still not where they want me to be but I’m making progress and I’m happy with that. I start another round of pro*metrium tonight. No SIS needed at this point.

So I guess that maybe, just maybe the doctor does, on occasion know best and that sometimes your unbelievably uncooperative body can actually surprise you. Not quite the birthday surprise I was expecting, but I’ll take it.

Taking Stock

I’ve spent some time taking stock of my life recently. Perhaps it’s the approach of my 39th birthday that has me thinking. Perhaps it’s the flood of emotion that was finally released when we were forced to give away one of our cats last weekend. Perhaps it’s simply waiting for my ever-elusive period in hopes of finally starting an injectables cycle.

I don’t really know.

What I do know is that I can’t keep living my life the way I have been the past few months.

I’d just turned 35 when my husband and I went on our first date. By that time, I was pretty well convinced that I would never marry – that I simply wasn’t meant to find someone to spend my life with. That wasn’t necessarily a devastating prospect. I’d fought hard to build a rich and full life with a career and wonderful friendships, and I’d grown to actually enjoy my own company and like who I was.

But I have to tell you, deep down my heart ached at the thought of never having someone to love and to be loved by. There were reminders everywhere of what I didn’t have. Silly little things got to me the most:

Christmas cards signed with an “and”. “Becky AND Larry” “Mary AND Alex.” I so desperately wanted to be a part of an “and”.

Valentine’s Day when all the world was in loving, committed, passionate relationships – except for me

watching a woman search through the racks of men’s clothes looking for the perfect shirt for her husband

glancing at the rows of “husband” cards at Hallmark wishing I had someone to buy them for

listening to couples bickering at the nursery about how to landscape their yards and wondering if they realized how lucky they were to actually have someone to bicker WITH

walking up the steps of my apartment night after night wishing there was someone on the other side of the door who’d been waiting to hear the sound of my key in the lock

Although my head was resigned to being alone, my heart refused to give up the dream of my husband. After all, I’d “known” him for a long time – as long as I’d cared about such things as love and marriage.

He would be a big ol’ teddy bear with a Southern accent that would make my toes curl.

He would be sweet and gentle and kind.

He would make me throw back my head and laugh every day.

My heart would flip-flop just looking at him across a room.

In his arms I would feel safe and protected from the world.

He would respect my father and get a kick out of my mother. They’d love him like a son.

Time spent together wouldn’t have to be a big production. We would be happy simply being with each other.

He’d listen – really listen to me and value what I had to say, even if he didn’t agree.

He’d teach me things he knew and want to learn from me the things I knew.

He’d think I was beautiful, even when I was wandering around the house in his old sweatshirt with scary hair and no makeup.

And then on April 26, 2003, there he was. When he walked into my apartment for the first time, it was like looking at the sun. I could only glance at him for a moment and then I had to look away. I’ve never experienced anything like it.

Four months later we were engaged and just over seven months later we were married.

I truly don’t have the words to tell you how much I love my husband except to say that he is the living breathing embodiment of all those things my heart knew he would be. He is not a perfect man but he is perfect for me. He is the answer to my most heartfelt prayer.

So in looking back at the past few months as I’ve stepped further into the world of infertility, I can see that I have once again allowed my focus to shift to what I DON’T have. I don’t have a baby. How can anything be okay in my world?

Yes, it’s only human to feel scared, sad, frustrated, and upset about being infertile. I don’t fault myself for that. The problem is that I gave myself to it. I allowed it to rule my life, to dictate how each day would go, to define me.

In doing that, I missed out on so much beauty, happiness, and love. There were family events when all I would think of was “Get me away from these children.” There were beautiful spring days when all I would do was sit inside and stare out the window. There were moments when my husband playfully reached out to tease me and I pulled further into myself and resented that he wasn’t paralyzed with sadness too.

I believe that one day I will look back on these years as the sweetest of our lives. We are both healthy. We still have each of our parents and they are healthy. We are ridiculously in love. We have built a beautiful home that is often filled with our wonderful friends and family. I refuse – I REFUSE to miss a moment of it because of infertility.

Yes, I want to have a baby. I want to see my husband hold our child in his arms. I think he would be a pretty spectacular daddy. But that’s either going to happen or it isn’t. Either medical science will help us create a life or it won’t. There is very little I can do about that - get the best medical care I can find, do what the doctors tell me to do, take care of myself, and pray. That’s it. The rest is up to God.

From there I have two choices.

I can continue to live my life from a place of resenting what I don’t have and letting it cloud and taint and define everything else or . . .

In the face of infertility, I can try really hard to remember that the struggle to have a baby is only one part of what is a really blessed and sweet life - a life that I don’t want to miss a moment of, whether we become parents or not.

Because after all, my most heartfelt prayer has already been answered.