Are You There Heloise? It's Me, Alice

I love giving blood. I think it's so fantastic. I have to give blood tomorrow! How lucky am I! There's nothing I love more than having people (I use that term lightly) unable to get blood from a vein, try rooting around, switching arms, and then, as is par for the course, still unable to get but the tiniest trickle. I also enjoy watching the green, yellow and slight purple shades spread over the inside of my arms - in that, "Yes, I do a little horse now and then, what of it?" way. It's a great way to start your morning. Blood, coffee, more blood, bruising, more blood, fainting, etc.

Obviously the Clomid is scrambling the old noggin'.

I have to have a scan as well. I can feel things rumbling around in there - a little mittelschmertz here and there if you will. I think I may have been a touch more irritable than normal, and I was blasted hot the first night and afflicted with a rager of a headache, but since then, nothing really out of the ordinary.

The husband and I went on an exciting quest for a fertility monitor (I hate the damn sticks, I can never read them) which cost a fortune. And yes, I should have gotten one from the eversopopularauctionsite but didn't, because I can't get it together. We also went a searching for the magical, uhem, in anticipation of problems that may occur for those of us lucky enough to be on the Clomid. Of course, the easiest place for us to find said magical, uhem, was one of those stores where you know, people go, for you know, stuff, that has to do with, you know, (whisper) s-e-x. I do so hope that there's no need . . .

She lost her innocence there that day, people.

Not really.

Anyway, so I have the fertility monitor and again, because I can't get it together (see above) I neglected to set it on a proper day. Therefore I lied (i.e., it wasn't cycle day 5 when I said it was cycle day 5). So, this is going to be a problem. Luckily I have consulted with the internets and they tell me that I can reset it next month.

But on to really, the most important question of the day. How the hell do you get icky mold out of your grout in the tiles in your shower? I'm having little success and have become slightly obsessed. My landlord had a shindig over the weekend and I used his loo (to floss, actually) and the white grout between the white, white, white tiles in his bathroom was spotless. SPOTLESS. SPOTLESS!

My husband did point out that it's possible that our landlord has cleaned his bathroom tiles more than once in the last five years, but let's just let that slide (I was in law school, people! Then I had a heinous commute!) Seriously, who has time to get out an old toothbrush to clean grout?

Welcome to the Funhouse

For those of you who aren't in the know, part of the whole "CLOMID ODYSSEY" involves a postcoital test. Apparently once you and your partner are done having "relations", your doc (your male doc in this case - because really, isn't it more fun that way?) will pop up from amidst your bed sheets, straighten his hard hat, adjust his safety light, lick his pencil in preparation for his amazing note-taking skills and dive in to analyze your cervical mucus to see whether sperm are present and moving normally. He also may give you a few pointers as well, while he's down there.

"Within 2 to 8 hours after you have sex, your doctor collects and looks at a cervical mucus sample."

ARE YOU FRICKIN' KIDDING ME? How did I get on this ride anyway? I'm self-conscious enough as it is (really, forget the whole airport incident) and I have to contact my PHYSICIAN and say, "Right, so, we've just had sex, can I come on over?"

These funhouse mirrors sure are pretty. But I have to say, the whole sideshow thing is a bit dated.

Ah, Med Students

"Do you mind if a medical student observes your appointment?" Oh, um, well, um, hmmm, let's see. Do I mind? "Well, I don't particularly enjoy these appointments, nor do I relish the idea of having my va-ja-ja out there for all to see but considering the fact that I at one time contemplated medical school (very briefly, very, very briefly) and did a job shadow wherein I followed people around the ER and also observed a vaginal exam, I figure I'm due. " And she was a very young, innocent seeming thing, too. Which made me ask about my FSH level. I have not had the Clomid test for ovarian reserve but the one test that I did have on Day 3 of my cycle resulted in a FSH level of 9.2. Although he indicated that he doesn't become concerned unless it's over 10 and a more accurate reading would involve more than one test and Clomid, it still makes me freak out, slightly (but, what doesn't make me freak out these days?). I am thirty-five, people. And I started all this at age 32. So young and wistful. I remember reading about women who had tried for several years and several different avenues and I thought (in that completely smug way that one does when they haven't a clue what they are talking about) how crazy that seemed. I told the husband, "You know, I'm not going to crawl through the desert on my elbows in order to have a child, I'm just not. That's completely crazy! Lunacy!"

And, well, here I am.

Clomid starts Thursday.

Cycle Day 3

I have the "BIG SCAN" on Tuesday for Cycle Day 3. I imagine that shortly thereafter I will be marching down to the pharmacy to start taking THE CLOMID. What does all this mean? I am sans clue. Just following orders. Any idea why the heck I have to do a scan on Tuesday, on Cycle Day 3? What are they looking for? Little goblins? A sale on shoes? An umbrella? I can't imagine there is anything all that exciting going on in there right now . . .

Labor Day

I spent Labor Day weekend at the in-laws. I fought tooth and nail to avoid going because a) my sister-in-law has a new baby and b) I would have to be around said baby and c) I was asked to be the godparent of said baby and attend the (Christening? Baptism? The sister-in-law is a fly-by-night Lutheran -- so whichever) and d) I'd just miscarried - again.

Needless to say, I finally relented, due in part to a conversation with my mother who pointed out that it was an "honor" to be asked to be a godparent and this was probably placing a tremendous strain on my husband.

When the idea, however, was brought up prior to our excursion that I would BABY-SIT said baby while husband and sister-in-law cooked for a party, I began hyperventilating. Completely panicked, I cried, "I WILL NOT BABY-SIT THE BABY. I WILL NOT. "

However.

Saturday found me changing diapers. And seeing my husband with said baby in a Bjorn. And trying to soothe said baby while he screamed and wailed (that boy has some lungs). I handed baby to the husband and made a quick exit to go to the grocery store, promptly got lost, and cried for about four hours. Yes, we are not completely in that "moving-on" head space, no we are not.

It felt ridiculous and weird trying to avoid the baby. I don't want people to have to tiptoe around me. All the same, I would really rather have stayed home.

As of late (read: the last two years), the Husband and I have had frequent moments where we don't see eye to eye. He doesn't understand why I find attending a baby shower or christening heartbreaking. He doesn't understand how I absolutely want to stay as far away from his new nephew as humanly possible. He doesn't understand the fear of trying again. He doesn't understand my frustration with the doctors and medical staff. He's completely optimistic about our future. I am, well . . .

He has, very kindly, agreed to read several books on the subject. And although right now I find little solace in them myself as they outline so precisely my own feelings that I tend to relive moments that I'd rather suppress, they are helpful in bringing my husband to, if not a perfect understanding, some understanding. These are the books that I have read (or am reading) and that I have shared with the Husband:

About What Was Lost: Twenty Writers on Miscarriage, Healing, and Hope by Jessica Berger Gross.
I attended a reading at a local bookstore where several of the authors read from their essays. It was a very moving and very sad evening. I am grateful to them.

To Full Term: A Mother's Triumph Over Miscarriage by Darci Klein.
Klein insisted on cervical measurements, heparin and close monitoring (and spent almost the entire pregnancy on bed rest) during her fifth and final pregnancy. She had two early miscarriages and gave birth to still born twins at twenty weeks. She now has two children.

Coming to Term: Uncovering the Truth About Miscarriage by Jon Cohen.
I am finding some of the research that he weaves together fascinating. It is a good counterpart to Klein's book as they disagree fundamentally on many points. It is always disheartening, however, to read of all the possible causes, when you have none of them.

Clomid will likely start in about a week. I'd like to say that I am optimistic - as "70% of women who miscarry four times will go on to carry to term in their next pregnancy" but I'm generally just puzzled. Is Clomid just thrown at every woman who has fertility problems, regardless of the cause? Is Clomid really the best route? Is this just the hurdle I have to get through to get the white flag for IVF with PGD? My doc seems to believe it is helpful for those who recurrently miscarry-but I won't be ready for pom poms and streamers until we see some results . . . if you know what I mean.

Well the Fun Never Ends!

I recently met a very kind, patient woman who has six year old fraternal triplets. Two boys and one girl. One of the boys recently became obsessed with conjoined twins. He was quite panicky about the idea that he and his brother could have been conjoined. This despite the fact that his mother explained on several occasions that this was an utter impossibility--seeing as the boys came from two different eggs. Later she overheard him talking to his brother about the whole conjoined business. He ended the conversation with, "Wow, we really dodged a bullet!"

In the spirit of young Tad, "We really dodged a bullet."

Back in January, during a consult visit with Dr. Whoseitwhastit (aka "Dr. Wonderful") there was some mention that I was postive for antibodies against Rh-positive blood. Most people have the Rh (Rhesus) factor, a protein on the surface of the red blood cells. I don't. This would be fine and dandy if I wanted to procreate with an Rh-negative bloke, but as it happens, the Husband is positive. He is Mr. Everything's-Normal-Over-Here-Thank-You-Very-Much. Again, I am not. Everytime I come in contact with Rh-positive blood, by say, a miscarriage, I also must come in contact with a big jabbing needle of RhoGam. The great neutralizer. If I do not, my immune system will start to produce antibodies against the Rh-positive blood and I will become "Rh-sensitized." If I become "Rh-sensitized" the next time I am pregnant with an Rh-positive baby (I have a 70% of carrying an Rh-positive baby), those antibodies may (read: likely) attack my baby's blood. If this should happen, my child will develop Rh disease (hemolytic disease). My antibodies would cross the placenta and attack the Rh factor in my baby's Rh-positive blood as if it's a foreign substance, destroying his/her red blood cells and causing anemia. The disease can cause problems ranging from severe newborn jaundice to brain damage or, in extreme cases, even miscarriage or stillbirth. Treatments include inducing the baby early and blood transfusions in utero. It's a scary business.

During my last consult, I asked about the antibodies and Dr. Whoseitwhatsit said that he couldn't find anything in my chart that would indicate that I'm positive for the antibodies. But I was SURE he had said something about it at that initial consult. When I got back to my office in the city, I reviewed my chart from my OB/GYN. I forwarded it to Dr. Whoseitwhatsit for his review. He left me a voice mail and indicated that I was in fact positive, but it was "too weak to titrate," meaning that the amount is very small. It could be a false positive or a lab error. Or I could be positive. He also indicated that I don't need the RhoGam now because the last pregnancy ended so early that there were no red blood cells to cross contaminate - something we'd already discussed in his office.

I also called my OB/GYN (last seen in September 2006). He happens to be out of town. However, the other doctor in the office, Dr. Cranky Pants, called and we discussed it. He said that the test was more than likely picking up the antibodies from the RhoGam shot I had had in July. Apparently it lasts for 12 weeks. He suggested that I go in and get a blood test that evening. Which I did.

Dr. New (recently joined the practice) called me back - the result was negative. I am (we are) so relieved.

The use of RhoGam has only existed since 1968. In 1967 or so, my aunt, who is Rh-negative, gave birth to her son, stillborn. Just a few days prior to her due date he died. She had to wait to go into labor and give birth to him knowing this. My mother tells me that her sister, my aunt, has never been the same. My mother was terrified when she was pregnant with me, several years later. Luckily, both my sister and I are Rh-negative, just like her. My mother and I argue over his name, she thinks it was Scott, I think it was Brent. My mother should know - but we don't ask my aunt. She never got to hold him, there was no funeral. The cause of death? Likely hemolytic disease. But we'll never know for sure.

We really dodged a bullet.

Also . . .

I have been obsessing lately on the whole heparin/lovenox thing. I previously made appointments with two different REs - both only take one insurance, an insurance my employer happens to provide. My current RE is located quite far from my home, but is close to my old job. Since I'm somewhat convinced that I may need IVF, I thought I should begin the search for a new doctor due to the distance. Both of these physicians are considered fairly cutting edge (one uses cells from the mother's endometrial lining to grow the embryos--and has upped their success rate quite a bit and the other specializes in IVF for recurrent pregnancy loss). They are both frequently listed on "best" lists (best IVF clinic, best fertility doctor, etc.). I contacted the nurse of one doc and asked about heparin/lovenox. She stated that yes, he does prescribe heparin/lovenox for some of his patients. I am thrilled. She was quick to note that it does depend upon the individual circumstances, etc. That's fine - at least I know it's a potential option. The appointments are in October and November. Yes, November. I also got a call back from the other doc's nurse. He doesn't prescribe lovenox/heparin--but that's because he refers his patients to a hematologist who then may or may not prescribe it. I feel more comfortable with that than a blanket, "no."

In the meantime, I'm still on to Clomid with Dr. Whositwhatsit.

Seventy Percent

I received a "C" in civil procedure my first semester in law school. I was devastated. A "C". A rotten stinkin' "C". I cried. I wailed. I met with the professor. I couldn't believe it was happening. I seriously thought about dropping out of law school.

After four miscarriages, statistically, there is still a seventy percent chance of conceiving a healthy pregnancy even without any medical intervention. Whether or not I will fall on the good side of this statistic only time will tell. For now, I'm taking that "C" grade and running.

The Husband and I met with Dr. Wonderful this week. His first comment was something along the lines of:

"Well, I'm sure you want to know what happened. What you had is generally referred to as a chemical pregnancy. A chemical pregnancy is . . ."

The husband almost throttled him, "The woman KNOWS what a chemical pregnancy is - you've never seen a quick draw Dr. Google like this one over here in your life."

Except for the MTHFR, all tests have been negative. And my particular gene mutation (MTHFR A1298C) is more rare (read super special!) and therefore less is known about it and its possible effects on miscarriage. He was treating it the same as he does with his MTHFR C677T patients - extra folic acid. Heparin? Baby aspirin? I've been taking baby aspirin on my own since January. He doesn't use heparin or baby aspirin in his practice. His thoughts about MTHFR is that the problem is the absorption of the folic acid and that an anticoagulant does not address the problem. Of course I've read plenty of blogs out there where heparin is added to the mix and bingo! real live baby.

Running? I asked if running could have posed any risk. I asked this primarily because it is something that I can control, not because I want to blame myself (although that is perhaps inevitable). I ran a much greater distance than normal very early on in the pregnancy. He indicated that it COULD have caused problems but we'll never know. Dr. Wonderful said that he's loathe to recommend someone not exercise considering how many patients he's trying to get TO exercise but I can try walking next time and see what happens.

The plan? He recommends Clomid. Four cycles. Unfortunately I've read A Few Good Eggs which outlines the horror that is Clomid. Moody? Check. Fat? Check. Completely around the bend psycho? Check. Needless to say, I'm not exactly looking forward to it. His theory is that 1) if I have an ovulation problem that has gone undetected this can help and 2) the more eggs out there the more chances I have of a successful pregnancy.

If that proves unsuccessful we can move on to injectibles with IUI or without (he used the term, "relations" - as in we can have "relations" on injectibles versus an IUI - he really did).

If no dice there? We can move onto IVF with PGD. He explained the inherent problems with PGD in my case and that it's not exactly a perfect system. He also discussed a patient who just went through her second IVF with PGD - both times ALL of the embryos had problems. In that case, he said, the jig is up - it's time to move on.

His thoughts are that the recurrent miscarriages are likely due to "genetic problems" despite the fact that no chromosomal abnormalities were found in the husband, myself or the one embryo that was tested back in September. Further, he seems to believe that it's like the lottery, the more tickets you buy, i.e., pregnancies you conceive, the better chances you have of winning.

Wonderful.

My biggest fear was to walk in and hear, "Donor eggs." I can't tell you how many blogs I scoured subsequent to this latest miscarriage and read of donor eggs. Adoption. Living childless. It scared the absolute daylights out of me. Then a few days later I found several blogs of women who had had multiple miscarriages and are now about to give birth. No explanation. No found causes for all those losses. Many with little or no medical intervention. They just had to endure sometimes five, sometimes more than ten, miscarriages. Dr. Wonderful indicated that a lot of this has to do with patience--some people become "impatient" and need to move on to medical intervention even though with time it could and the chances are likely, that it will happen naturally. I'm not sure I would characterize not wanting to go through any more miscarriages as "impatience" but hey, what do I know?

Clomid, here I come.


P.S. Thank you all so much for all your comments. We haven't told many people about this latest miscarriage and the kind thoughts from all of you was incredibly helpful and made us feel a little less alone.

Idiopathic Recurrent Pregnancy Loss

idiopathic:
-adjective.
of relating to, or designating a disease having no known cause

recurrent:
-adjective.
that recurs, occurring or appearing again, esp. repeatedly or periodically

pregnancy:
-noun.
1.
a. The condition of being pregnant
b. An instance of being pregnant
c. The period during which one is pregnant
2. The quality or condition of being rich in significance, import or implication
3. creativity, inventiveness

loss:
-noun.
1. Detriment, disadvantage, or deprivation from failure to keep, have or get
2. Something that is lost.
3. An amount or number lost
4. The state of being deprived of or being without something that one has had
5. Death
6. The accidental or inadvertent losing of something dropped, misplaced, stolen, etc.
7. A losing by defeat; failure to win
8. Failure to make good use of something, as time
9. Failure to preserve or maintain
10. Destruction or ruin
11. A thing or number of related things that are lost or destroyed to some extent

FVCK

Beta hCG: 13
Progesterone: 4.8

Stress and Miscarriage

Yesterday I was EXTREMELY anxious, upset and stressed-out. The husband and I were fighting, I lost my cell phone (again-later found) and the hCG level made me anxious and stressed. So much so, that I began feeling crampy. Although I have yelled at my mother for even suggesting that stress might be a factor contributing to my recurrent miscarriages, I am beginning to wonder. I did some quick research on-line and saw several recent studies that found a connection between stress/anxiety and recurrent miscarriages: How Stress Causes Miscarriage, Stress and Early Miscarriage, Stress 'linked to miscarriages' and Mother's Stress Could Contribute to Early Miscarriage . The amount of stress/anxiety, however, was not noted. Is one episode enough? Does it have to be several? One study mentioned that three weeks is the critical time. My doctor believes I was about 3 1/2 weeks on Tuesday.

What do you think? Do you see a connection? Has your doctor mentioned a connection?

Results

I've been waiting all day for the results. Just about the time when I was going to throw my fist through a nearby window, the nurse called:

Beta hCG: 47
Progesterone: 22.4

Out of curiosity, I looked back at the test results from my last pregnancy. It's bizarre that it was just about exactly one year ago - although I believe I was a tad farther along then (although it could be mere days--I'll have to investigate):

August 16, 2006:
Beta hCG: 385
Progesterone: 14.1 (I'd just eaten--apparently that makes a difference)

August 21st:
Beta hCG: 2,261.7
Progesterone: 28.1

As a point of reference (for most of you this is old news, I suspect):

hCG levels in weeks from LMP (gestational age)* :

3 weeks LMP: 5 - 50 mIU/ml
4 weeks LMP: 5 - 426 mIU/ml
5 weeks LMP: 18 - 7,340 mIU/ml
6 weeks LMP: 1,080 - 56,500 mIU/ml
7 - 8 weeks LMP: 7, 650 - 229,000 mIU/ml
9 - 12 weeks LMP: 25,700 - 288,000 mIU/ml
13 - 16 weeks LMP: 13,300 - 254,000 mIU/ml
17 - 24 weeks LMP: 4,060 - 165,400 mIU/ml
25 - 40 weeks LMP: 3,640 - 117,000 mIU/ml

* These numbers are just a GUIDELINE-- every woman’s level of hCGfont> can rise differently. It is not necessarily the level that matters but rather the change in the level.

Progesterone during pregnancy:

First Trimester 9-47 ngfont>/ml
Second Trimester 17-147 ngfont>/ml
Third Trimester 55-200 ngfont>/ml

So, tomorrow another visit to the local vampire.

*Update*

I just checked the cycle days of the last time I was pregnant. The first blood draw, on August 16, 2006, was on cycle day 27. The first blood draw for this pregnancy, August 13, 2007? CYCLE DAY 28. Now I'm a bit worried.

*Further Update*

Thanks to Carey and Christina I reviewed my possible ovulation dates. My doctor believes that this time I ovulated on either July 30th or July 31st. Last year, I believe I ovulated on August 2nd or August 3rd. August 14, 2007 is then 14 or 15 days post ovulation. August 16, 2006, was likely 13 or 14 days post ovulation.

MUST LEARN PATIENCE . . . MUST WAIT FOR TOMORROW'S RESULTS.

Meanwhile, I've been reading one or two pages of the seventh and final installment about that courageous wizard kid -- perhaps the ending will distract me. That and BurritoVille. Not likely, however. But a good try nonetheless.

First Doc Appointment

So, the doctor's appointment with Dr. Wonderful was fairly routine. I made the appointment initially because of the whole not-getting-pregnant thing but didn't call prior to the appointment to inform of the latest "development." This was due, at least in part, to my fear that things will change at any moment. Hence the six pregnancy tests.

When I went in, I said to the receptionist, "So, um, I made an appointment initially because um . . . "

"You made a consultation appointment."

"Right, a, um, consultation, um, there's been a change."

"What change?" the receptionist barked.

"Um, well, um, well."

There I was, standing in the middle of a waiting room, filled with hopeful ladies. Everything went dark and a bullhorn was thrust in front of my face.

"Speak into this!" she said. "We want everyone to be able to hear you!"

I finally stammered, "Well, I think I might be pregnant?" It echoed throughout the room. And she eyed me suspiciously.

"Did you take a pregnancy test?"

"No, actually, I laid a hot rock on my stomach and watched to see if it changed colors."

"Well, in that case, go to accounts to pay your co-pay and bring this back," Miss Too-Much-Black-Liquid-Eyeliner said curtly.

So, the normal: blood test to detect the amount of Beta hCG. Another on Thursday. First results should be back on Wednesday.

We discussed running--which I really miss and stopped doing immediately upon the first test. Last time he told me not to run. He was somewhat ambivalent this time--until I told him that I had trouble last time keeping my heart rate under 140. He suggested that I walk. I hate walking. Well, hate is a strong word, I don't hate it, but when you are used to flying down the hill, walking just seems underwhelming. Running feels good. I enjoy it. It's a great stress reliever. Perhaps I will be forced to do a nerdy race walk instead.

According to Dr. Wonderful, I am likely only THREE AND A HALF WEEKS PREGNANT. Which means detecting the hCG last Wednesday is fairly astonishing. What's next? Detecting it the moment you and your partner's buttocks hit the sheets? Or the second the catheter is threaded through the cervix? Or the the egg is fertilized in the dish? Or the moment when a single sperm is injected directly into the egg?
No more waiting for the cells to divide? It's insanity people. Insanity. This means that gestationally, the little bugger is only a week and a half.

Makes me realize even more how fragile this all is.

And thank you. Thank you for all your warm thoughts and well-wishes. It means a lot. Especially since no one else knows about this--except of course, the doctor, his staff and the seventy-five women in the waiting room.

Sometimes You Feel Like A Nut

I feel slightly nutty that I went on a rant recently - not realizing that I may actually have been pregnant at the time. But that is the nature of infertility: a fun new adventure every second!

I won't know much until tomorrow's appointment, but at this point I have taken six different pregnancy tests - all with lines - some dark, some faint, some in the middle range. I have ceased running - which I am hating. The husband is out of town and I have spent much of it sobbing or in the throes of jubilation. I have looked at the calendar and thought about at what point I may need a D & C. Alternatively, I have envisioned the husband, the baby and I picnicking in Central Park next summer. I have gone into Baby Gap, "just to look around." I ate an enormous, nine dollar slice of chocolate cake at the Museum of Modern Art on Sunday because "I'm pregnant and I deserve it." I have been downing calcium enriched orange juice and ceased drinking the beloved diet soda. I have tried not to look at all those damn pregnancy books but I find myself flipping through them nonetheless. I have learned that if I really am pregnant, the current size of these wondrous dividing cells is half the size of the "o" on this web page. I have felt nauseous more than once--but wonder if it is psychosomatic. I have not had the, um, bathroom issues that I had in the previous pregnancies. Perhaps that is good--but perhaps it is not. I have had no more spotting. And I have begun to feel tired. But not terribly so. Not yet, anyway.

It is a waiting game. And I know the drill by now. Beta. Doubling? Sonogram. Heart flicker? Still there? Growth?

We'll see.

No cause for celebrations at this point - but hoping, hoping, hoping.

Hope

I've been attempting to ride my bike to work. So, far, however, I have only accomplished this lofty goal (it's not really all that lofty) twice. Once during my second week when I was feeling particularly energetic and once this week--due to a little rain. New York's subway system basically ceased operating, like dominoes, one by one.

I didn't particularly enjoy the ride there--the traffic was chaotic and I was stressed about the time. I was also worried that everyone else would have shown up to work in a more timely fashion and I'd be the only ass that couldn't figure out a better way to get to work. The last time this sort of thing happened, I also ended up riding my bike. Under dressed and in freezing cold weather. In December. In New York. And pregnant.

After I miscarried, I was somewhat convinced it was due, at least in part, to the hellish bicycle ride I took that December. Of course that is a ridiculous notion. Bicycle rides don't generally cause miscarriages.

So, on Wednesday, during my rather enjoyable ride home, I decided that once I got home, I'd take a pregnancy test. For the hell of it. My period was not due for several, and really, I mean several days. Like, next Monday. I might as well have been peeing on a stack of money. Besides, I wasn't feeling particularly pregnant. My breasts were hurting--but I'd learned that most symptoms I've felt in the last few months have either been the product of wishful thinking or premenstrual syndrome or a little of both. The last time, I just KNEW I was pregnant. I just knew. So, I took the test. And it was instantly negative. I chastised myself for doing something so idiotic--part of me, I know, had made that appointment with the Reproductive Endocrinologist because, I really believed that it could somehow bring us good luck - that I'd show up and be pregnant and NOT EVEN KNOW IT! And wouldn't that be hilarious? A real HOOT. The doctor would laugh, the nurses would laugh. We'd all grab hands and sing and dance in a circle around the stirrups. And all would be well.

But, it was negative.

I actually forgot about it fairly quickly thereafter and went about my business. I was somewhat exhausted and sweaty and disgusting. But I sat at the computer doing very, very important things. Like looking at furniture stores. And perusing silly blogs about clothes. And answering a few e-mails. I went to the bathroom to shower, and was about to throw the damn thing away when I noticed a faint second line. Yes. Very, very faint. I was meeting my husband and a friend of his out and didn't really know how to react. I really wasn't expecting it, at all. I took another the next morning. Faint line. One that evening. Line. Then this afternoon, I saw what I normally see the day before my period--a slight discoloration, brownish. I called the husband and told him it may be another chemical. I tested again. Faint line. Seems fainter. There isn't anything I can do--and I know that. And I just have to wait.

But hope springs eternal.

And bike riding? I'm trying to hang up the superstitions. Not a simple task.

It's Not a Freak Show, Folks, It's Just My Life

Step right up, folks. Step right up. It's cycle number twenty-four! That's right. Come inside the freak show and watch as Ali and the Husband attempt to get pregnant and STAY pregnant for the twenty-fourth time!

As an added bonus, if I can't guess your weight within five pounds, you'll win great prizes—like a used ovulation predictor stick! Or one of a dozen empty bottles of prenatal vitamins! Or perhaps fifty or so prenatal, postnatal, child-rearing, how to conceive, what-to-do-once-you-are-knocked-up-books, pamphlets or articles I have piled up next to my bed!

How long have we been trying, you ask? Two whole fun-filled years! What? Oh, right, you know someone who went through infertility, too? Your cousin's cousin who couldn't get pregnant for six whole months while trying for number three? That is awful. Really. Oh, then they took a vacation and bam! Pregnant? Yes, I've heard of that phenomenon before. Oh, right, another friend of a friend started adoption proceedings and then got pregnant? Right. Yes. Not sure why I hadn't thought of doing that previously.

Needless to say, feeling somewhat disillusioned. And fed up. And tired.

When I was in my early twenties I went backpacking solo through Ireland. There were moments of great bliss. I could get up whenever I wanted (pending the rules of the particular hostel, bed and breakfast, etc.), get tea where I wanted, visit museums and plays of my choosing, stay in a town I liked longer than initially planned, wander the streets taking photographs with my trusty Pentax K1000 at my leisure. No one becoming impatient. No one yelling that we would be missing the train.

However, there were also plenty of moments of utter and absolute nausea of spending another moment with myself. By the end of the trip I was completely, utterly, and absolutely sick of myself and my own company. Sure, there were many occasions where I met people, mingled, struck up great conversations. But there were just as many times when it was just me and me and well, me. Which generally is fine. I don't have to be around others at all times. I enjoy a little me time. But when it stretches on for weeks at at time, it becomes a bit old.

This is happening to me now. In that I am just sick of myself. And sick of this. Sick of what is going on or not going on. The continuous uncertainty. The worry. The vortex that is infertility. With that in mind, I made an appointment with my Reproductive Endocrinologist, a.k.a., "Magic Man", in the hopes that we can move on to the next step. Back in January, the next step (after trying on our own with the daily administration of Super Folic Acid!) was the fertility drug, Clomid and then, possibly In Vitro Fertilization (IVF) - do I understand why a recurrent miscarrier without any evidence of chromosomal deficiencies, issues, etc., needs IVF? Notwithstanding the recent dry spell? No, I do not. At this point, with the not getting pregnant at all, not sure where we might be headed.

So, that's me in a nutshell. Crabby. Sick of myself. Tired.

I did hang out with a friend last night at a great little restaurant (that she and her husband recently opened here in NYC). I banned her somewhat since my first miscarriage. Insensitive comments and all that. In all these many months since the first miscarriage, I have not uttered a single word to her about any of my fertility issues. Never discussed going to an RE, the many lovely tests, or the subsequent miscarriage(s). However, last night, she brought it up. She wanted to know if we were still trying. Perhaps because I'm not as raw as I once was, I just told her like it is (except that I said we were actually NOT trying). I explained that we are not trying, that I've had a chemical pregnancy and a miscarriage since the first one, that from what they've found, they think I have a type of blood clotting disorder and that although fairly benign for me, it is not benign for my offspring. I didn't really care what she said about it. I'm not going to feel like the pain of miscarriage/infertility is any less just because SHE doesn't think so. I was blindsided, however, by her reaction. She was very sweet. And she got a little weepy. I do not need her reaction to validate how painful this is, has been and will continue to be. It's just the path my life has taken. A completely, utterly, unexpected path.

But here we are.

And I say, onward, ho.

I'm Canada!

I couldn't resist this silly quiz. I mean, it is 11:00 at night.

Turns out, I am Canada. It is somewhat fitting. We honeymooned there. We used to cross the border into Vancouver just for the funky, crazy chocolate bars. And we're always talking about how much we love the Canadians. Oh, right, and I love human rights and wacky things like health care for all.

"You're Canada!
People make fun of you a lot, but they're stupid because you've got a much better life than they do. In fact, they're probably just jealous. You believe in crazy things like human rights and health care and not dying in the streets, and you end up securing these rights for yourself and others. If it weren't for your weird affection for ice hockey, you'd be the perfect person."

What country are you from, eh?

Courtesy of the Oneliner.

Hey, It Wasn't Us!

Note to self: do not discuss your future sexual exploits with the internets. No good will come of it.

On Tuesday I drove like a maniac to the airport from work. Earlier that day I made many feeble attempts to clean out my office and wrap up some loose ends. I was told the day before that the next day would be my last and the new job would start Monday (crazy stuff with funding, etc., that I won't bore you with here). Was I bit frazzled? Yes.

When I got to the airport, the husband was waiting for me to check in and then whispered, conspiratorially, that there was a family restroom nearby. I could feel the eyes of three hundred travellers watching us as we sheepishly let ourselves in. Each and every one of them knew what we were doing. And they were disgusted! Ashamed! Horrified! I'm sure of it! Hey, back off, fellow travellers! I'm trying to make a family over here!

We tried. Everything. Standing up was a no go - I'm a bit wee. The counter made me want to wretch - I could only imagine what disgusting substances might lay there, unknown, undetected, beneath my precious, princess-like bottom.

I tried things. He tried things. People knocked on the door. People talked outside the door. People raced by the door. Babies cried. There were footsteps. Coughs. Mops.

It didn't work.

All in all it was one of the least sexy experiences of my adult career of sexy experiences.

And I'm pretty damn sure that I am again NOT "carrying a bun in the oven", "with child", "expecting", "full", "up the duff", "knocked up", "down the well" or "saving face" (thank you Wiki). But I suppose stranger things have happened. Like immaculate conception.

But do read what fun others are having.

Catching Up

I've been meaning to post for sometime now about the new understanding the husband and I have reached (he very kindly read: About What Was Lost), my new job (I got the job!) and life in general. Suffice it to say, things have been busy. But good. Despite the decidedly negative pregnancy test. Today, however, will be . . . interesting. I am going on a last minute trip to visit my folks (all is well, I just had some unexpected time off without the husband (he has to work)). Today is likely the day that I ovulate. And what is an ovulating girl who is about to set off in a plane to do? Command her husband to the airport and do the deed somewhere on the premises. Seriously. I'll let you know how we manage--and if this little exercise results in the two of us laughing sans clothes in a heap. Or in jail for indecent exposure. What a great story (horrifying?)to tell our offspring though, no?

The Big Ol' Goose Egg

Negative. Again. For the third time in so many days. Moving onto acceptance. Now I am truly annoyed.

Things that Annoy Me

1. Pucci. Is it ugly? Is it great? I can't decide.

2. Making stupid mistakes--like when the lead photographer at a five mile race calls and says, "Go on home" and I do and I find out later that he actually said, "Come home," meaning come back to the finish line and continue shooting.

3. When the Husband refuses to repeat something he's just said because he's decided that it's not worth repeating (generally this involves some kind of joke).

4. Being unable to give up my wellknownseattlecoffeehouse addiction. Don't make me do it.

5. Friends don't let friends walk around with ranch dressing smeared across their face, that's all I'm saying.

6. Being a slob, being bothered by it and then doing nothing about it.

7. The city heat.

8. Spending a lot of time trying to decide what to do on a weekend and then doing nothing.

9. Obscenely expensive bags. That I covet.

10. The Two Week Wait.

Prom.

The Husband was out early this morning and caught a glimpse of quite a few teens in fancy party dresses and tuxedos coming out of the pancake house on the corner. I wish I had been there. Something about that time--so early in the morning, after all the festivities are over, that transition between dependence and independence, childhood and adulthood. My nephew just sent this photo of himself and his girlfriend (what? his girlfriend?) from her prom. Although I must mention that they appear to be at some kind of drinking establishment. That sister of mine, her lax attitude about child rearing never ceases to amaze me. On second glance, perhaps that isn't alcohol in the background. I really love that he's wearing a hat. And that she's so slouchy.

I asked a friend of mine to my prom (all those many years ago). He graduated the year before. It was a secret crush. We'd been friends for sometime. I tried to play it cool. I broke up with someone just prior and it was the perfect opportunity to go with him as "friends." If only I could find that photo of us. He's standing about a foot taller than me, Lurch-like with one arm around what appears to be his child bride. I am wearing a shiny, satin dress with an astoundingly enormous green bow. This dress, however, pales in comparison to the blue and white pouf skirt monstrosity I wore a few months earlier. In addition to all the green loveliness, I somehow managed to pour an entire trough of burgundy makeup on my lips, eyes and cheeks. We went with another couple. She looks like Paulina Poriskova. I was convinced that my friend was in love with her. How could he not be? Her date also wore a hat. Much like my nephew. We went for dinner at the Siamese Cat. It may be the first time I ever ate Thai food. Ever the romantic, it was there that my friend spent several moments staring at my chest. I'm sure you won't be surprised then to learn that with this kind of romantic prowess, he managed to make me his for several years thereafter. Yes, several. Somehow, we remain friends. His first child (I've mentioned before), a boy, is due in October. Ah, youth. How has it slipped me by?

About What Was Lost

If you are in the New York area:

Twenty Writers on Miscarriage, Healing, and Hope

Tuesday, Jun 12th - 7:00 PM

@ McNally Robinson, 52 Prince Street, New York, New York 212-274-1160

"With editor Jessica Berger Gross and readings by contributors Sue O’Doherty, Caroline Leavitt, Andrea Buchanan, Miranda Field, Rochelle Jewel Shapiro, and Rachel Zucker. Though up to one in four pregnancies end in miscarriage, the subject remains one of the last taboos, its painfulness often compounded by silence and confusion. Editor Jessica Berger Gross brings the subject of women’s experience of miscarriage into the light with this intimate anthology, each piece written first-hand by a woman who lost a pregnancy. Five of the contributors will read from their contributions in this evening of revelation and discussion, and begin a conversation about shared and private griefs that hope to illuminate the subject of miscarriage."

I've had this on my calendar for months--and was disappointed when I had to schedule a hearing that day (there was no way I would be able to make it). Alas, hearing adjourned! I'll be there. I have my doubts that the Husband will be anxious to attend such a femfest, but we'll see.

Don't Call Me, I'll Call You

I believe I must have neglected to inform the universe that I did not, not at this point in time, care to lose my cell phone. Not now. Not ever.

I just hung up from a very lengthy, somewhat unpleasant conversation with a rich, very rich inhabitant of a very rich, very famous area in New York when I made a mad dash out my office door and into my car. Just prior, I was grabbing files, throwing shoes in my bag, trying to prepare to work in the other office on Thursday. Afterwards, I ran to my car, threw off my sweater (careful to do so with the utmost decorum lest I horrify the co-workers), jumped into my car and sped off. When I heard a clunk. And thought, "Hmm, where's my cell phone?" I drove into the nearest parking lot, hopped out of the car and looked feverishly about. Inside. Outside. In cracks. Under seats (disgusting, truly, truly disgusting). Drove BACK to work, looked in the office, called the phone, looked back in the car and . . . nothing. Somehow I managed to lose my cell phone between the time it took to walk from my office door to my car door.

I hate losing things. I HATE. Losing. Things.

I have become, I think, increasingly disorganized lately as my job has become increasingly more complicated. Which is exactly the opposite of how things should be going. As I feel my way around this new aspect to my job - which entails going to an entirely new building and dealing with completely new issues, new people and oh, yes, did I mention, new law, I am finding myself disorganized, confused, scattered. Earlier today it took me several moments to realize that the cop I was talking to was calling about a completely different case than I thought he was. This wouldn't be so unusual, I suppose, except that he is NOT the officer assigned to that particular case and he works for a completely different department.

Anyway. Have I mentioned I hate losing things? I lose things with some frequency. But only for moments. Minutes really. They always turn up.

I believe, actually, that my cell phone decided to make its escape today. It had been looking a little tired lately. In need of a vacation. Some time apart. It took its opportunity the moment I drove into that parking lot searching for it. It somehow managed to leap out and fall beneath my car and out of view just after I opened the car door.

Cell phone? If you are out there. Come back to me. I hate to lose you.

Miss Positive!

This evening the Husband and I were discussing, amidst our disgusting sweatiness post-run, our weekend plans. We will be accompanying another couple (possibly two couples!) to a movie - you know the one, it involves a comic book, arachnids, a photographer, a redhead, etc. We believe that this particular couple will finally be coming out of the closet--announcing their pregnancy. This was their second IVF cycle. We really couldn't be happier for them. And I mentioned to the Husband how positive she always was--she was upset many, many times, but she always said that she just knew that it would work out, eventually. I need to take a clue from her, and from The Infertility Times. So, here goes:

I will get pregnant.
I will stay pregnant.
I will have a healthy pregnancy.
We will have a healthy child/children.
We will be parents.
I will get that job.
And a kicky new hairstyle.

Got that Universe? Do you?

All right then. Back to our regularly scheduled programming.

That Would Be a Zero

When I was a teenager, I applied for a fairly prestigious, competitive student exchange program. It defined itself as "a non-profit, completely volunteer program, aimed at making a significant contribution to global peace." If selected, you live with a student your own age in another city in another country. Then you both come back to the States for the rest of the school year. Hundreds of kids from around the state apply each year. There are interviews. There are group events. There are group interviews. There are a dozen or so "cuts." The hundreds of kids are cut down to dozens, the dozens eventually to a group of fifteen, the fifteen to a group of twelve. I was down to the last fifteen. And I was one of the three that was not selected. I must have cried for a week straight. As the step-father of a friend was on the board, I found out the reasoning behind the cut: I was incredibly late for the last event. I was going to be selected, so he claimed, but for that. And I was, I was incredibly late. I had simply forgotten about it. And when I remembered I rushed there but it was really too late. And I knew that I hadn't made it. I sensed it. But that phone call was still incredibly awful.

And so today, today when I had that interview for a job that I really, really want and she asked if I was a "morning person" and I said that I was actually not a "morning person" but that I had trained myself to be, I could feel the job slipping away from me. Not from that, precisely, but because I could never really connect with her. We were just off. I was off. She is intense, brilliant and intimidating. And I just couldn't get my footing with her. Although I already work for the department, this position is located within biking distance from my house. As it stands, I have a very, very, very long commute to work. This was the first time we had ever met. And unfortunately there was just no love connection. It was akin to being on a very bad date. We just couldn't get going, on anything. Chuck Woolery would not have been asking me to come out from backstage. And so, I have that same feeling. But I hope that I am wrong.

I do love my current job. So, I have to remember that. But I will be greatly disappointed if I'm not offered this position. Working there would be a dream come true. Really. In all the fluffy clouds, rainbows and unicorn silliness, it would be fantastic.

I am also very much not pregnant this month. I didn't feel pregnant (seeing as I have become an expert on "feeling pregnant") but used approximately 1,005 pregnancy tests in order to be sure. I will be buying stock in pregnancy tests very, very soon. It also brought back all those old fears--afraid of never being pregnant again, afraid of being pregnant, afraid of miscarrying again, afraid of giving up.

My friend called to tell me that he and his wife found out the sex of their baby (due in October) - it's a boy. He wanted to know at what point the baby is able to survive outside the womb so that he can stop worrying so much (he's apparently in a constant state of anxiety about the health of their baby). I told him I couldn't exactly remember (anyone know? 26 weeks?) but that that was parenthood (because you see, I am an expert at parenting, I have dogs) - constantly worrying about your offspring. Kinda sweet, really. He also told me I should have lied about being a morning person. That's not my style. Basing your opinion on one's biorhythms seems a tad ridiculous.

In the end, I should say, that I applied for a different exchange program and spent a wonderful, memorable summer in Valencia, Spain. Mostly wonderful. But that's another story.

My Husband is Funnier than Your Husband

When I began doing the mad on-line research in the oh-so-naive-this-can't-be-happening-to-us phase, I was completely confused, perplexed and at times annoyed with all the "BD" and "POAS" and the "AF." What were these people talking about? And why can't they spell anything out? Uh-huh, so BD and POAS 13 DPO and BFP! Wha??? And where is this magical infertility dictionary anyway? And now? I think I probably know about 33% of the acronyms going (I figured out POAS about three days ago) and am just generally too lazy or still too annoyed to go hunting for the answers (ah, laziness, how I love you.) So, I couldn't resist giving my husband (who reads infertility blogs all of the time! ALL OF THE TIME, I TELL YOU!) The Quiz. I think he actually fared better than I did.

His response:

"I don't have to guess. I know all of these.

AF - Adult Fetus
IVF - In Vino Fabulo (Latin for, "You get better when you're allowed to drink, preggo.")
IUI - I'm Using It (Heard by husbands who were hoping to get some time in the bathroom, but hadn't counted on their wife having strange new needs)
IF - I'm Fat (frequently heard from hormonal--but lovely--pregnant ladies)
PG - Proctor & Gamble (Duh!)
TTC - Time Temperature and Custard (New--and not incredibly popular--cable channel which informs viewers of the time and the temperature and also shows well-lit photos of custard.
DPO - Don't Put Out (Best way to avoid pregnancy)
BFP - Best Friends Porever (Phrase found in many dyslexic's yearbooks)
BFN - Best Friends Narwhale (Phrase found in many schizophrenic's yearbooks)
POAS - Post Office Asshole Stamp (New stamp celebrating the 1000th anniversary
of Assholes)
OPT - Other Person's Tushie (Polite version of a 90s hip-hop classic)
CD - Compact Disc (c'mon people, this one's not that hard)
BD - Bette Davis (Pregnant women often have a craving for All About Eve)
DH - Die Hard (Their husbands usually sneak into the bedroom and watch this instead)
ET - Extra Taco (You're eating for two now)
ER - Extra Raisinets (Seriously, you're eating for two)"

Ah, I lurve that man.

Today is my last day at this fine age. My father, who's birthday was just this past Wednesday, spent it climbing Machu Pichu (with my mother). At age seventy. Pretty rockin'.

Crossroads

The husband and I came to the realization over the weekend that if I have another miscarriage, I will resent the hell out of him . . . and if we never try again, he will resent the hell out of me. How does one move forward with such a realization?


When I am fairly set on the whole, "Forget it - I’m never trying again" idea, I see something like this. This kid. This adorable kid. Or I think of my husband with his child, our child. Or I think about who he or she, this child, could be. Unconsciously. And I feel, if not optimistic, something akin to maybe hope. Maybe. Maybe. But mainly, I feel terrified. We shall be trying again soon. Sigh. Let the freakitude begin. Little red pills, activate.

Soy Idiota

So, I was minding my own business today--at a stop light, when this big, huge truck comes barreling backwards into me. Apparently, he was trying to parallel park. Into my car. There's now a large dent on my hood. And because I a) cannot think under pressure and b) was just driving for two very long hours and c) am an idiot, I listened to the guy complain about how he didn't want his insurance to go up and would I just take some money for the dent and be on my merry way. And so, again (see above) I said OK. And then later, upon arriving home, felt like the biggest moron on the planet. I decided to return to his place of work (I know where he works) and tell him that I just couldn't do it, return the money, and go through the proper channels. But his work was closed. I then called the police in order to file a report of the accident and was told that because the accident occurred several hours before, I would need to go to the precinct and make a report in person. You know, because I AM THE IDIOT WHO DIDN'T CALL AT THE TIME. Nope, all I wanted to do when it happened was to get away from the driver, his various friends who seemed to be wandering about the street piping in with their two cents, and go home. I didn't particularly care about my car at that moment--the car has several dents in it already that I have not repaired because I do not want to put money into the car except for general maintenance (it's quite old with a lot of miles and used exclusively for my long commute). My thought process (if you could call it that) today was that it was unlikely that I would take the time to get it repaired so I might as well just take the money and be done with it. Now, however, I just feel completely stupid and sick about it. In situations that involve cars, I completely lose all sense. For example, I just spent a fortune on tires--which I may or may not have really needed. For some reason, when the auto is involved, I become so nervous and agitated that I cannot function properly. It's like a sickness.

Moving on (for anyone who knows me, that's the most hilarious statement ever--I don't tend to "move on" - I tend to lose sleep and stress about things such as these for days). I shot a race this weekend. Prior to it starting, all traffic was cleared on a bridge from Manhattan to one of the outer boroughs. I was stationed there and the view was incredible. No traffic. No people. Just me and the freezing wind and my camera. And that incredible city skyline in front of me.

In response to my previous post - those situations really are unbearable to me. But I am trying not to live that way--I am trying to move on. But they are always noted. And I am not always successful--in the moving on bit. But I cannot stay or do not want to stay or am afraid to stay in the darkness forever. And sometimes I think the only way to shut it out is to just shut that door--to never have children, to just never try. If I never try, I'll never have to feel that again. But I know that that is not really true. It will always be with me. Always.

Not Knocked Up

The husband and I saw Knocked Up recently. It was a sneak preview for the press--and the company that organized it offered free tickets to fill the rest of the theater. The husband and I see a lot of movies this way. Free! We like free. This time I was late. I drove into the city, miraculously found a free parking space and ran in, expecting to be hassled and turned away. Instead, I got a knowing nod, a quick, “Press, right?” and a seat in the VIP section. Yes, I am press. I write a blog, people! Sometimes being a stuffy attorney in a suit carrying a briefcase has its perks. I do admit that I feel somewhat guilty about it. But really, there was a whisking, a flashlight, an arm steering, etc. Would you stand and argue? The husband had no idea I had arrived, let alone seated, and so we each watched the movie solo.

I missed the first twenty minutes. I sat down just as the main character slowly realizes that she may be pregnant, and that the father is likely a man she knew all of twenty minutes. She and her sister make a mad dash to the pharmacy to acquire about six dozen pregnancy tests. And she uses them all. And there are a lot of scenes of the two of them sitting on toilets, peering at tests, turning them upside down, staring at smiley faces or glowing suns or 3D plus signs. And there are moments when this thing, this infertility thing, this recurrent miscarriage thing, completely knocks me out. Moments when I can’t watch some harmless, goofy movie that involves pregnancy. Moments when I sink lower into my seat and wonder if I should just make a quick exit. It is not always like this. There are days where I can, and in fact do, talk to women about their pregnancies, go to chi-chi baby clothing stores (RED ALERT: Do not go to baby clothing stores with your mother-in-law, she will insist that the young boy be dressed like Little Lord Fauntleroy, complete with velvet suits, lace collars, sashes and short knee-pants, and she will become insulted when you suggest that the boy’s mother might not want to dress her newborn son in what looks suspiciously like girl's clothes), listen to my sister describe each and every one of her four birth experiences ad nauseum in the same conversation we were discussing my INFERTILITY and I am fine. There are some days, however, when it is just decidedly, absolutely, not. I decided to stay. And afterwards, it was just so nice to see the husband. It was raining ever so slightly. And he really, really enjoyed the movie. I asked him why and he said, “Well, I thought it was really funny, and well, really, I just love babies.” It is so sweet to hear him say that, and so devastating as well.

Today was the due date of my last pregnancy.

Cutest Child Ever

Amniotic Fluid Leak

My sister-in-law is due in one month. She began leaking amniotic fluid today. She is being rushed in for an emergency c-section. I have been having a difficult time gleaning any information about this condition on-line. If you have any information regarding this, please let me know. We are all feeling a bit scared right now.

Thank you.

**UPDATE**
My sister-in-law is in labor - but it is slow going. They won't actually perform a c-section unless the labor goes on for too long. At the moment, she is hungry and unhappy. She told me she'd rather it were me than her-my instant reaction was that I was glad it was her and not me--which is sort of weird. Anyway. She's not too peppy or overly enthused about "the process." I didn't ask her when she was going to get in the tub for that water birth--I'm not sure she would have found it too amusing right now.

**UPDATE**
All amniotic fluid was drained and they were forced to induce. The baby was born at 1:00 AM this morning at 5 pounds, 6 ounces. He's on a breathing apparatus but mom and baby are both doing well. She will be leaving on Friday and baby will be released hopefully in a few days. The husband and I are ecstatic and can't wait to meet him.

Note: After some research I've learned that Tim Curry was born on April 19th. And The Simpsons debuted on April 19th in 1987 on the Tracey Ullman show. If you knew the husband and the family you would understand why I find these two facts so great and so funny. The husband's family all have great senses of humor and The Simpsons is a family favorite. And Tim Curry? How funny is that that my sweet nephew shares a birthday with Tim Curry? I mean, my husband shares a birthday with Marie Osmond. They are, I have to say, very much alike. It's uncanny, really.

Happy Birthday!

Spring Fertility Festival

I am surrounded by pregnancy. Everyone is pregnant. I am awaiting my 68-year-old mother’s announcement that she’s pregnant, along with everyone else I know, including some of my male friends, who I am sure have rigged up some system with spark plugs and USB cords to make themselves pregnant as well. My first due date would have been August 15, 2006. The last one, May of this year. The pregnants or just-were-pregnants:

Friends G & M: boy born September 2006 (first son born June 2005)
Friends C & C: boy born September 2006
Cousin A: girl born October 2006
Sister-in-law: due May 2007
Friends C & J: due June 2007
Boss: due August 2007
Co-worker: due August 2007
Ex: due October 2007
Friends M & V: due December 2007

I think I may have missed someone. Although it FEELS as though everyone I have ever met is currently pregnant or in the throws of new parenthood, everyone is in fact not pregnant and everyone is not right-this-minute staring lovingly into the eyes of their perfect, perfect, perfect newborn. Thanks for those friends who abhor the whole kid thing. I can at least pretend to focus on something else. My wanting to close this chapter and move on - accept our lives as they are now and just be - hasn’t changed. But I do recognize that it is partly due to the bitterness, resentment, fear, sadness and exhaustion that is infertility.

When I received the baby shower announcement (Yesterday? Was it really yesterday?) I responded with a quick, "Yes! I will attend!" Then I proceeded to peruse their baby registry. And became very, very, very upset. It is possible that the husband (this is a co-ed baby shower, apparently–and many of his college friends will be in attendance) will have little patience with my desire not to go. Or perhaps I have little patience with myself (Go on! Live! Quit this!). Yet, I find it painful. Can I attend such a thing? Do I have to? Do I tell her why? Do I suck it up and pretend that all is well? Do I just make my mind a blank and soldier on? I don’t know. But I have changed my reply to, "Maybe."

The X-Factor

I was planning on writing about hanging out with the ex-girlfriend. How it was fine. And that she’s perfectly nice and her husband is perfectly nice. And how, unfortunately, I am fairly certain that I offended him by a) discussing how much better everything is in the WORLD now that smoking has been virtually banned in New York - not realizing that he is in fact, a smoker and b) commenting on his Southern accent - which he apparently thought was no longer discernible. I must say here, I have no issues with Southern accents–it’s more of an academic interest in that I was, at one time, thinking about going into linguistics. I was also going to mention how I carefully selected a low-cut black dress, boots and a turquoise necklace in order to wow my husband and he barely batted an eye. And I spent the rest of the evening feeling embarrassed because I never, and I mean never, show that much, if any, cleavage. And then I was going to discuss the fact that the husband’s other ex-whatever (never an actual girlfriend), you know, the one who carried a torch for said husband until yesterday (I exaggerate, surely), showed up unexpectedly. But then I had this conversation with my ex-boyfriend, today: his wife is pregnant. Twelve weeks. And he was afraid to tell me. And he is, was, one of my closest friends (yes, I know, I have a close friend who is an ex-boyfriend-whatever–you think that stops me from complaining about hanging out with the husband’s ex-whatevers, no.). All this makes me feel one way: I am sick of this. I don’t want to try anymore. I want to completely close that door and move on. Did I say that I am sick of it? So, I sent them, the ex and his lovely wife (who, by the by, is not my biggest fan) a hooter cover and I plan on never speaking to him again.

Update: Friends of ours who have been trying to conceive, unsuccessfully, for years, are finally pregnant. It was their second IVF. I am genuinely thrilled for them.

Further Update: I just received a baby shower announcement. For a different friend. It's almost comical, really. Almost.

Even Further Update: Thank you, Alanis Morissette. The day wasn't a total wash.

Solace

I have been feeling myself let go, little by little. Of the never will be. Of the possibly never to be. Of who they were. Who I imagined them to be. I am looking. I am looking the other way. Now. For now. Or trying to. Without time. And it comes and goes. And I haven't felt the weight of it, for sometime now. And I am thankful for that.

Parliament Hill Fields

On this bald hill the new year hones its edge.
Faceless and pale as china
The round sky goes on minding its business.
Your absence is inconspicuous;
Nobody can tell what I lack.

Gulls have threaded the river's mud bed back
To this crest of grass. Inland, they argue,
Settling and stirring like blown paper
Or the hands of an invalid. The wan
Sun manages to strike such tin glints

From the linked ponds that my eyes wince
And brim; the city melts like sugar.
A crocodile of small girls
Knotting and stopping, ill-assorted, in blue uniforms,
Opens to swallow me. I'm a stone, a stick,

One child drops a barrette of pink plastic;
None of them seem to notice.
Their shrill, gravelly gossip's funneled off.
Now silence after silence offers itself.
The wind stops my breath like a bandage.

Southward, over Kentish Town, an ashen smudge
Swaddles roof and tree.
It could be a snowfield or a cloudbank.
I suppose it's pointless to think of you at all.
Already your doll grip lets go.

The tumulus, even at noon, guards its black shadow:
You know me less constant,
Ghost of a leaf, ghost of a bird.
I circle the writhen trees. I am too happy.
These faithful dark-boughed cypresses

Brood, rooted in their heaped losses.
Your cry fades like the cry of a gnat.
I lose sight of you on your blind journey,
While the heath grass glitters and the spindling rivulets
Unspool and spend themselves. My mind runs with them,

Pooling in heel-prints, fumbling pebble and stem.
The day empties its images
Like a cup or a room. The moon's crook whitens,
Thin as the skin seaming a scar.
Now, on the nursery wall,

The blue night plants, the little pale blue hill
In your sister's birthday picture start to glow.
The orange pompons, the Egyptian papyrus
Light up. Each rabbit-eared
Blue shrub behind the glass

Exhales an indigo nimbus,
A sort of cellophane balloon.
The old dregs, the old difficulties take me to wife.
Gulls stiffen to their chill vigil in the drafty half-light;
I enter the lit house.

By Sylvia Plath

To Kill a Mockingbird

I tried my first case in November. The final decision was rendered . . . today. And I lost. To say that I am pissed off, worried and devastated . . . is an understatement. When we did a site visit, and I witnessed the wildlife and vegetation at the site, I remember thinking about how awful it would be if it were developed. It will be developed. And I am just so sad. Not to mention that this is not good for my career. Did I mention that I am going to dinner with several of my husband's college friends, including an x-girlfriend tonight? And that she (and her husband) are staying with us? And that I have never met her before? Honestly, I am ok with it, she's always been extremely nice and there does not seem to be any residual feelings there--on either side. But it is a bit weird. In short, there will be much imbibing of alcohol tonight.

Miscarriage and Paternal Age

The results of a study were released last year linking miscarriage and increased paternal age. Just what we all wanted to hear. Not only does it link an increased paternal age with miscarriage but also such doozies as schizophrenia (because as men age there are more defects in their sperm). You can read the article here.

Try My New Diet Plan! Lose ZERO Pounds! Yes, ZERO Pounds!

All you have to do is do the exact same thing you've always been doing and wonder why the pounds aren't melting off! It's really just that simple! I have been trying for sometime to get my body mass index (BMI) to a healthy under 25 (24.8, actually). For the past few years, my BMI has ranged from about 23.9 to 24.8. I wasn’t joyously wearing bikinis around town, but it was acceptable and healthy. Currently, however, my BMI is hovering around 26.6. I have been the exact same weight since, oh, I began attending those famous meetings in January. It is highly embarrassing. Mortifying really. My weight did change, however, for about five minutes, when I was sick. I lost four pounds and there was much cheering from the nice lady at the scale. That was two weeks ago. I didn’t go last week, because my weight had creeped right back up again. I thought that I could get it back down this week, but alas, the needle is not moving anywhere. It’s steady, steady, steady. I am greatly concerned about becoming pregnant at my current weight - with the problems I’ve had before (at a normal weight) I would like to at least limit the risk for complications associated with obesity. It is, I suppose, the one thing that I can control. Although in the past I led a fairly active lifestyle–I ran about six days a week, I now lead a predominantly sedentary one. If I am not sitting at my desk drafting documents, I am sitting in the car listening to podcasts on my iPod on the radio (cool new gadget, by the by--try Savage Love, Leonard Lopate or Just Relax, It'll Happen). When I get home, I am loathe to run on a treadmill or out in the cold. This is unusual for me. I used to think people were ridiculous when they said that they were too tired or didn’t have the time or it was too dark or too cold or whatever for exercise. I would smugly tell them that it has to be a priority, that it’s about your health and that it feels great. What a wanker. Now I leave the house before 7 am. I get home around 7 pm. I am perfectly, utterly exhausted by the time I get home. I read blogs, laze about, watch Jeopardy. I do believe that unless I want to consume under 900 calories a day (which I decidedly do not) I am going to have to increase my activity in order to lose that weight. And the clock is ticking. I am going to be 35 in a few months. Yep, another risk factor. Age. Yee haw! I’ve considered getting up at 5 am to run - but I’m not entirely comfortable running outdoors at that time of day. And I am not a morning person. My gym also doesn’t open until 6 am. I’ve considered getting up before 6 am, getting on all my workout garb, dashing over there (the long (short!) walk around the corner), running on the treadmill for thirty minutes, racing back home, jumping in the shower and skedaddling by 6:45 am. It sounds difficult but not entirely impossible. I have gone running immediately after work, outside at a school nearby. But that puts me home even later–which makes me cranky. I have managed to run once I get home, but this has been a rarity. In fact, last night I was motivated, managed to get myself to the gym (at 8 pm) and it was closed. There had been a small fire (no one was injured) and the sprinkler system had gone off (thankfully) but the entire facility was drenched in water. I’ve thought about purchasing a treadmill. I could run early and "in the convenience of my own home!" but it costs a small fortune and I don’t really need more furniture or clothing racks taking up space in my small abode. Currently, I run Saturday and Sunday and generally manage to get in one day during the work week. I actually really enjoy exercising. Occasionally I will take a walk during lunch. I am not in favor of running during lunch (although it wouldn’t be an entirely bad idea) due to the whole stinking up the place aspect. Anyway, the bottom line is I’m just going to have to make myself do it–and probably at night when I get home. It used to be routine, exercising, like brushing my teeth. So, I have to just make it routine again. If anyone has any advice, I’m all ears (except "get your fat ass to the gym, fatty!" I’ve already heard that one, from my own mouth.). Then it's onto attempting to combat my tendency towards utter and total slobitude.

Neisa

Strictly Ballroom?

This past Sunday I got together with three girlfriends for dinner. I must admit, it’s been awhile since I’ve done anything much these days–the idea of sitting in my pajamas eating ice cream and going to bed around 9 pm has held a certain, shall we say, appeal these days (and no, I’m not pregnant, just boring). I could barely muster the energy to put a smattering of lip gloss on before running out the door. We were meeting at the Angelika and I was early, a rarity for me. The four of us used to work together–at an incredibly weird, strange office–the type of office that takes four years to fire someone for a daily liquid lunch but will scream and yell about being five minutes late. They are all great women: funny and smart and all very different. We discussed work and my new discovery of an ice cream flavored like vanilla cake. Don’t really like it, I told them. Too sweet. See, I really have so very much to discuss. I have become very, very fascinating. One thing though–as I sat waiting, and each one approached, I was intrigued by how well-put-together they all are. Eyebrows? Perfectly threaded, thank you. Hair? Beautifully cut. Footwear? I’ll take the pointiest, highest, sleekest boots, despite the fact that the sidewalks are covered in a slushy, slippery, snowy mush. Coat? Make it a tweed. I’d forgotten those days. Although I’ve never been that high-maintenance myself (well, if we’re talking about haircuts, etc., if we’re talking about in other ways, I can’t claim to be low-maintenance. Just ask the secretary–I’ve just returned my office chair for the second time in a month because it doesn’t "feel right". I fear she may never forward my calls again.). It occurred to me that perhaps my disinterest in such things is because of my constant focus on other issues. I then decided that it was actually because of my age. They all are, all three of them, younger than myself (when did this happen?). It’s definitely due to their youth, I thought. I’ve just become older and lazier. That was until the husband and I went to a showcase for newly graduating musical theatre majors last night. Schools from around the country come to New York each spring, invite local agents and "showcase" the talents of their students. This involves much singing and dancing. And apparently, blind costuming. The director must have been rifling through a warehouse of rejected competitive ballroom gowns, swung them over her shoulder, shoved them into her car, and presented them with much aplomb to the students. How else to explain the visual assault we were subjected to? Alternatively, perhaps she let them choose their own dresses and out of a fear of potentially stifling their creative energy, refused to utter a sensible word about their choices. Yellow dress complete with glitter á la the Ice Capades cut up to here? Of course! Brown satiny thing that hangs JUSTBELOWTHEHOOHAH (I won’t even mention the splits in the air and the crotch shot, oh, no, not the crotch shot. And yes, she was wearing some kind of panty under-thing that matched, but come on!). Absolutely! Red monstrosity that makes your boobs look like someone wrapped a four by four in red velvet and stuck it over your chest? Why are you even asking? And these are just to name a few. These are young, young women. Just graduating. The world is their oyster! They are amazingly talented! But their talents were greatly obscured by the garish colors and flounciness and splits and too much leg. And although one might point out that this could be a monetary issue, as they are all on student budgets (one presumes), those dresses likely cost a pretty penny. So, you see, young and old, we can all make some pretty strange clothing choices (I know, this is riveting stuff–what will she do next? Cure cancer?). All this brings me to a certain request: when I am about to go on stage, to sing my heart out, in that ill-fitting, satiny, glaringly bright garment, with my legs sticking out in too white hose and shoes that cut me off at the ankle, would you please, please just pull me aside and point out that I have a perfectly lovely black dress in the back of my closet that would be completely appropriate? I really appreciate it. Now all you have to worry about is breaking it to me gently that I can’t sing, not a note, not a peep. And also, that I have a little something green, likely spinach, stuck between my teeth.

Nothing New to Report

Things are status quo over here. Nothing exciting going on. I am trying, however, to be a little less obsessed and a little more focused on other things in my life. So, here's a picture of a puppy (a friend's). She's eight weeks old and very, very sweet. What do you think my friend should name her? She's thinking something Italian, possibly something wine-related.

Women Who Wait

I don’t do sick. All last week the husband was sick. He spent much of the week sleeping. And I spent much of the time staring at him saying, "Can I get you anything? Ummm, like, ummmm, uh, tea? Or, ummm, uh, uh, cold medicine?" And the rest of the time cajoling him into going out into the cold for a run (he seemed OK, really!) I don’t know what to do when he is sick. And it took me sometime to realize that the man actually WAS sick and that some kind of, I don’t know, nurturing was possibly required. I blame him. I'm sure my complete ineptitude is somehow his fault. I suppose I should be thankful that he’s not REALLY sick that often, in fact, not often at all. Anyway, now I am sick. Bloody hell. I’ve imbibed about three quarts of orange juice today alone. And the best part is it comes and goes. I’ll feel marginally better and then be slammed with the need to lay down on my office floor with the lights dimmed. (Update: I wrote this prior to becoming much more ill, which included a raging fever and ear infection. I am just now coming out of the haze).

Monday evening the husband and I went to see Peggy Orenstein read from her new book, Waiting for Daisy. I haven’t finished it yet–but it’s been a fast (and quite good) read. She is very Berkeley, very hip, very cool, and about twenty years younger than she looks in her photograph. Her writing is honest, smart and funny. And she is very smart, honest and funny. I was temporarily distracted, however, by a blond woman sitting next to me. She was likely in her mid-thirties and thin. Thin, thin, thin. New York elite thin. Old lady walking her dog by Park Avenue thin. I was astonished, really, by the size of her legs and knee high boots. Where does one find boots that high for pipe cleaner-like legs? Does she buy children’s boots and have them lengthened? Does she have them specially made? I’m not saying she has any issues–we all are different shapes and sizes and I embrace that. It’s just that, her legs were SOVERYTHIN that it was just a little bewildering. I must remember, however, that I have a friend who is quite naturally thin (very thin) and she gets tired of being asked by concerned citizens everywhere if she’s anorexic. So, lady, be free with your teeny tiny legs, it’s just that, where the heck did you find those boots?

During the Q & A, Ms. Orenstein (can I call you Peggy?) took issue with the countless blurbs about her book that include a statement that said, in essence, "this book is about a woman who waited too long to have children." She is quite incensed by these statements and made an interesting point: for all the medical professionals running around with pictures of baby bottles tipped over with the sands of time spilling out, have they themselves made any adjustments to how things are run in the medical profession? For example, have they made any changes that would allow a woman to both have children at that ideal age and go to medical school? Have they adjusted their time lines? No. According to an article about Waiting for Daisy, Orenstein wrote the book out of frustration by "punitive media messages that reduce young women to their child-bearing potential and that warn them to ‘marry "Mr. Good Enough,"’ and back-burner their careers or miss out on having a child."

While I was at the doctor to get a prescription for an antibiotic for the inflamed ears of hell, the young (I’ve reached the age now where I have a doctor who is VERY LIKELY YOUNGER THAN ME - this is scary) doctor noticed that I may have a slight heart murmur (which I do, and it is very slight and fairly inconsequential). Although I was of the mind of, "Can’t this wait? I’m horribly uncomfortable and just want a damn prescription for an antibiotic. I’ll come back later and you can hook me up to as many EKGs as you wish" I was instead thrown down by the lovely older gentleman doc (some kind of EKG specialist apparently) who pushed that damn roller ball onto my sternum with enough force that I was gritting my teeth in pain. Rolling, rolling, rolling over the bones. I did tell them both that although I was unlikely pregnant this month, it was possible, and that I would like an antibiotic that would be safe if I was (which, as it turns out, I am not). The doctor then proceeded to tell me that due to my advanced age I am at an increased risk for miscarriage, birth defects, and pregnancy complications such as twins, high blood pressure and gestational diabetes. You don’t say? No mention of the controversial study that found women who wait to, "enjoy better health, live longer and end up having healthier babies."

At a Loss

An article on miscarriage can be found in the March issue of Women's Health Magazine, "At a Loss: What to Expect When You're No Longer Expecting." It's a decent article, which centers around the author's own experience. However, not all the causes of miscarriage are explored, and there is a "What are the Chances?" section that gives me pause. Apparently a "sense of purpose", a planned pregnancy, decreases your chance of miscarriage by 40%. And eating fruits and vegetables? Cuts your risk in half. Somehow I don't really find these "findings" comforting. But instead wonder if it just continues to perpetuate the notion that a woman is to blame for a miscarriage. I did, however, appreciate the acknowledgment that miscarriage is a fairly taboo subject, as it involves both sex and death. And it is a rarely discussed topic, despite the fact that 15-20% of pregnancies end in miscarriage. If only some of the myths about miscarriage were dispelled, and there was an acknowledgment that this affects many, many women, perhaps fewer would suffer in silence. Everyday in America, 4,780 women endure a pregnancy loss. And that's a lot of people.