Alice Rabbit Becomes Unbearable

Alice Rabbit Becomes Unbearable
by Charles L. Dodgson
Published: January 29, 2007

New York, Jan.29 -- Local woman Alice Rabbit, convinced that she is likely already pregnant, has bravely forgone caffeine, alcohol and fake sugar. Rabbit, who was interviewed shortly after feeling incredibly nauseous and after a day of somewhat strange lower abdominal stomach cramps and an overwhelming feeling of exhaustion and a frequent need to urinate, claims that these facts alone indicate a positive pregnancy status. When asked how Rabbit could be experiencing pregnancy symptoms only a few hours after possible conception, there was no response. Those who know Rabbit claim that she is spending an inordinately large amount of time checking ovulation calendars, thermometers, cervical mucus and early pregnancy symptom threads on the internet and are becoming concerned that she may not emerge from such obsessive undertakings for approximately two more weeks.

Same Old . . .

The husband is currently working on a screenplay - a ridiculous comedy (I say ridiculous in the best possible way). Without giving too much away, it opens with a man and his lady friend. A charming young lady. She is absent minded and ditzy, with melon sized breasts. We learn that she has finally gotten the opportunity to star in an engaging, intellectually stimulating movie (porn) and is leaving our hero. She wipes her tears on her enormous breasts and our hero is left in a state of loneliness and despair. It actually is quite funny. However, I do find it somewhat troubling that my husband is writing about female characters who are dumb as rocks with absurdly exaggerated bodies who pine to be in porn. Should I be worried?

There has not been much exciting to report over here. Had a lovely weekend. Dinner with pregnant friend on Friday. Fiancé is nice, Irish and laughs at all her jokes. Felt quite pleased with myself as I handed over gifts of onesies and tiny socks. I’m your local recurrent miscarrier! And yet, I can rise above it and give gifts! Then movie with other friends on Saturday. Coffee afterwards. Discussions of never telling their future yet unborn kids (or presumably, conceived, but one never knows these days) of Santa Clause or the Easter Bunny or Tooth Fairy because they are all lies! Lies! I was somewhat befuddled by this and tried, albeit lamely, to defend the whole santatoothfairyeasterbunny thing because, as a child, I found it, well, fun! And charming! And thrilling! But I managed to feel bemused by the entire conversation. I kept saying,“But it’s about IMAGINATION!” I wasn’t really getting anywhere. Then we went to see a Broadway musical - a show that basically reenacts a bizarre, wonderful, unnerving, plotless documentary of the 1970s. I enjoyed it immensely. Oh, and yes, there is the whole trying to get pregnant thing. I guess we’re going for it–although at times I feel like I am hanging onto the banister with all my might while being pulled down the stairs, screaming and crying that I can’t–it’ll just end badly! Besides, I’m too fat! I have too much work to do! We don’t even have a two bedroom apartment! But alas, the bottom line is that I really do want to try - even though I am scared half to death.

Hermey Needs to Make a House Call

Can you hear that? That sound that is vaguely reminiscent of small rodents trying to build tiny mansions in between your walls? That’s me, chomping at the bit. Today is the day I break open the first package of ovulation predictor sticks. I’ve used them before, prior to having the endometrial biopsy and found the whole thing a tad irritating. Limiting fluids for four hours, not going to the bathroom for four hours, hanging out in a work bathroom for three minutes waiting for results, is not exactly what I’d call thrilling. Ah, dreams are made of this. In addition to using the little predictor gizmos, I’ve also been obsessively consulting Dr. Google every five seconds: the connection between folic acid and miscarriage, MTHFR and miscarriage, miscarriage statistics, stress and miscarriage, standing on your head and miscarriage, going to the circus and miscarriage, what to do when everyone you’ve ever met is currently pregnant and miscarriage. Because I enjoy self-torture, I’ve also been watching an absolutely insane amount of television about babies. First it was "Bringing Home Baby!" or some other equally inane title. It covers those first twenty-four hours after the family returns home with the newborn. Riveting! And yet, I watched and I watched and I watched. I attempted on several occasions to bring the husband into the fold, "Come look. Ha ha ha. They’ve just gotten the baby to sleep! Wow. Now the family is eating. Looks like chicken. Oh no! The baby is crying." Strangely, he wasn’t at all interested. Then I began watching programming on twins–identical twins, identical quadruplets, identical quintuplets, whatever. The husband did make a brief appearance during the show about identical quads. He took one look at them, shuddered and muttered something about "scary teeth." "You’re horrible!" I squealed. "Those are the most adorable little girls!" And then I looked closer and their teeth really did look somewhat sinister–a tad pointy and jabby. There are FOUR of them and they are IDENTICAL. They really could DESTROY you even at age six if they really wanted to. And all they’d need is to take a few quick bites with those maniacal choppers. Once I pointed out that they were pretty witty for age six, the husband was a little more lenient on the lack of good orthodontia. Wit, oh that is something he can always get behind.

Eggs, Planes and Far Off Places

When I was living in California as a teenager–I lived around the corner from a girl a year older than myself. She was adopted. And she drank, messed around with boys, dyed her red hair black, got a tattoo. I did none of those things. I spent most of my days curling my hair with my cordless butane curling iron (which I found fascinating), putting together kicky outfits (lots of turtlenecks and knee length straight skirts) and seeing how long I could last on one large chocolate chip cookie and a single diet coke (as it turns out, not that long). I found out later that she slept with a boy that I was dating - had sex with him on a couch the next morning after a party. This was the boy I made hide in the closet when my mother unexpectedly came home–even though we weren’t actually doing anything and hadn’t actually done anything and wouldn’t actually do anything in the future, either. She also introduced me to Amnesty International, an awesome alternative rock station and U2. After high school she moved to San Francisco, enrolled in college there, lived with roommates and got pregnant. The father was a young, incredibly good looking skate punk with long blonde hair. Sometime in between, she also worked as an "escort", walking on men’s backs with high heeled shoes. She assured me that no actual sex was involved. She found a very wealthy family in Manhattan to adopt the baby and moved in with them until she gave birth. She returned to San Francisco, had an affair with a woman, dropped out of college and worked in a cheesy tourist trap on Fisherman’s Warf. Around this time I decided that upon graduation from college I would take a solo month long backpacking trip through Ireland. She decided that she should come along with me. I was less than enthusiastic. However, she sent a plane ticket, likely paid for with money from the Manhattan couple. But I didn’t ask and we flew to Dublin. On the flight she informed me that she was pregnant. Again. This time, she was a surrogate, using her egg and the couple’s sperm. She was constantly nauseous, hungry and tired. You know, pregnant. She wanted to go to the wax museum and I wanted to see the tower where the opening of Ulysses takes place. She wanted to sleep and I wanted to go to the Abbey. She wanted to stay in bed and breakfasts and I could only afford hostels. I was thrilled, in the end, that she was only there for a week and I had more than three weeks to myself. I was really too young, too selfish, too weirded out by the situation to be anything but annoyed with her. And I knew she was doing it solely for the money. And I found that distasteful. Sometime passed and she came to visit us in Seattle. She was pregnant again. And again as a surrogate. She was critical and harsh, as she usually was and it was beginning to wear thin. And so after she left, I began ignoring her letters, her phone calls. I don’t know what became of her. More than ten years later, myself and my husband have become one of those couples–much like the recipients of her babies–contemplating adoption, in vitro, surrogacy. How strange that I would have known someone on the other side. And although I was so judgmental at the time, so disgusted by the very idea that her motives were anything but altruistic, my view of her has softened. If the end result is the same, if a couple who wants a baby gets a baby, does the woman who puts herself through the process of egg retrieval or surrogacy need to be doing it for only the most saintly of motives?

This is Southern California

Their house was white. Squarish. And shaped in a “u”. With a large courtyard in the center. And a pool. Turquoise. Flat. Motionless. A few palm trees were planted, strategically, at each corner.

They were coltish. The two of them. Tall, angular, thin, tanned. My father worked with the mother. The daughter had just come back from her father’s. She had her suitcase opened up on the bed. The clothes were in neat rolls. But her underwear was folded and placed on top. And there were large blood stains in the center of each one. She told me that she had gotten her period, for the first time, at her father’s. And her eyes narrowed. And she looked at me suspiciously. I didn’t really understand much about periods. Her long perfect brown hair swept over her shoulders. And then she told me about how she’d seen David Bowie in concert. And that David Bowie had one brown eye and one blue eye. I’d never been to a concert. I can’t say that I even really listened to much at that age. I was both fascinated and repelled by her. I wanted to be her and I also wanted to be as far away from her as possible. Her intensity scared me. I’ve been thinking of her and that house and her mother a lot lately. And I cannot really understand why. I don’t even remember her name. And it was just a brief moment a long time ago. But something about her frankness, something about her openness about her own body and the fact that she didn’t really know me made me want to get closer to her, like you do when you are close to the edge of something, to see if you might fall off. I wonder if I’ve been thinking about this, in some strange way, because I again feel like I’m flirting with some kind of danger–something intense and scary and unknown. That is, getting pregnant again. And as I draw closer to the time, the optimal time, when I know that it is possible that I could get pregnant again, I am both repelled and drawn to it. What if it works out? What if it doesn’t. Do I want to take the chance again? Wouldn’t I rather just run away? Wouldn’t I rather adopt? Have I properly mourned the loss of the pregnancies that weren’t? Have I properly dealt with the possiblity that I won't be able to have my own biological child? Do I need to?

That Awful Year

It was one year ago on January 6th that I had that first awful appointment with the OB/GYN. I wrote the following, mainly about the first miscarriage, around last October, after the third:

It’s so much. It’s so much. You go to the office. You’re nervous. You talk about prenatal vitamins. You talk about skiing and horseback riding--two things you are no longer allowed to do. You talk about flaxseed. And you are in a hospital gown. And you feel small. You feel warm. Your husband is with you. You have done the dating thing, you’ve done the living together thing, you’ve gotten married. At your wedding, you think about having kids with this man. You think about looking down at a little person’s face and seeing his. His dimples. His dark hair. His big brat eyes. You think about his super test taking skills and how he likes to break into comedy routines in the grocery store line. You think about how as a kid he used to stay inside for hours reading comics. Or rowing a boat around his grandparent’s campground. And you think, you think maybe this little one will be like him. You hope so. You hope he’ll be good at jeopardy like his father. You hope he has his sweetness. You hope he has his weird hyena laugh, which you used to hate, but, but now, now you don’t. And you get onto the table. And the pretty doctor who you have a hard time understanding slides the wand in and begins searching around the monitor. She’s moving it around and around. And the screen is fuzzy. It looks like an old TV screen. And you remember the old TV case your parents had. With the knobs. You used to play in it. The TV glass was gone. You and your friends would put on shows through it--as though you were on TV. And you think about your parents. And you think. And she asks you to go use the restroom. And you come back. And she does it again. And then she goes and gets a better machine. And then she tells you that it seems small. And then. And then the nurse comes in and sticks you for blood. You have to have your hormone levels checked. And the nurse has dyed black hair. And it is graying. And she is wearing heavy black liquid eyeliner. And she has fat hands. And you are told. You think you may have been told that there is no heartbeat. And that it is small. But you can’t be sure. Maybe that’s not what she said. She’s checking your blood. Go to a place in Chinatown on Sunday. Check the blood again. You do. You have it drawn on Sunday. In Chinatown. And the place is crammed with people. And the day is warm. Sunny. It is January. In New York. And you wait. And you wait. The light is blinding. It is pouring through the window. It faces the street. The man sticks you. He tells you that his wife is also pregnant. You think he tells you it’s their fourth. But you can’t be sure. You are having a hard time hearing anyone. Perhaps you have lost your hearing. You can’t remember hearing anything out on the street. Just people. Moving. Moving past you. There is a pastry shop. And carts on the sidewalk. Full of odd fruits. And you walk back to the subway. And you call on Tuesday. You call to find out. You are in the stairway at work. You are trying to avoid having anyone hear you. And the nurse tells you everything is fine. And you double over and let out a sob. A wail. And it echoes in the stairway, a stairway painted a shiny grey. But part of you is confused. A part of you were preparing for the worst. Part of you doesn’t believe it. Part of your body must know. Part of you knows. And you are right. The doctor calls another day. And says she is sorry. It is not viable. And you think that she probably has a list in front of her of patients to call. Charts piled up next to her. Viable. Not viable. Tick, tick. Check, check. And you refuse to have the procedure. Part of you doesn’t believe it is happening. Part of you feels like it’s the last thing you can do for this baby. For this unrealized baby. For your baby. For your little, sweet, baby with your husband’s eyes. And your fat cheeks. You should go through this with this baby. Even though he is dead. You can’t imagine having someone go in and rip him, it, baby, embryo, out. And you try to continue with your life. But you can’t. You start imagining jumping in front of an oncoming train. If you could just jump. In front of. A train. This could be over. This. This black. But you don’t. And so you don’t. And things get lighter. Your hearing returns. And you try again. But, wash, rinse, repeat. And now when you look at pictures of her, this little girl, yourself, before all this, you think about how this will happen to her later and you feel sad for that girl, this Romana Quimby aged nine girl. This girl wearing turquoise striped shirts. This girl stringing up sheets in the backyard between fruit trees to put on plays. This girl who likes to draw tall slim ladies with wings and princess crowns because that’s what her sister did. This girl. This girl who is proud of her humming and whistling skills. This girl who thinks it would be fun to be a secretary someday because she likes the sound of long nails clicking on typewriters. This girl who doesn’t know that she will lose three pregnancies in one year. And that that will be her life. This girl. Me.

What Color is Your Parachute?

I’ve always had fairly vivid dreams. Flying (over inflated sense of self), houses burning (can’t things stop changing already?), flooding (just another natural disaster), old boyfriends (ick). I used to bore my office mate with all the minute details from the night before. I should learn, really, that dreams are really only interesting to the person who dreams them. Except to perhaps your shrink. But then, maybe not even then. As friends of ours are coming to town this weekend, perhaps it is no surprise that I should dream about them. Baby will be in tow. When she announced her pregnancy last January, it was the week I was miscarrying. When he was born, I was miscarrying again. For the third time. Last night I dreamt that as we all sat down to dinner, they wouldn’t let me hold him. I begged and pleaded. But they refused. "I’ve held plenty of babies!", I cried. Rain drizzled down the windows, and the father held him underneath, through the window, in the rain, so that I wouldn’t get near him.

Yesterday I had the appointment with the RE. The husband took the train. And from what he told me, he rather enjoyed seeing all the old stately houses still covered with glittery lights. Even though, as he pointed out it was JANUARY THIRD and somewhat improper to still be celebrating the holidays. We don’t have our lights on anymore, he pointed out. We are very on top of things. Yes, because around here, we like to have our old, brittle, dead trees pulled away from the heater, still covered with lights, but turned off. I should mention that upon our return from our travels, we discovered that the lights no longer worked. Anyway, we were meeting the RE to discuss the game plan. And the game plan, apparently, is to have sex with a little folic acid sprinkled here and there. Not actually during sex, just administered nightly in pill form. I did want to have the doc tell the husband in more detail the workings of the old mother-fr gene mutation (that’s MTHFR to you). As it were, I have MTHFR A1298C, and because I like to live in excess, I have not one but two copies of the mutation. Two, two, two gene mutations in one. Likely from both parents. As medical terminology (synthesizing folate, homocysteine levels) flowed from the mouth of our doctor, my husband, dear man that he is, was having trouble concentrating. He had just been told that sex, without condoms, was in his near future. I did mention that I was willing to do this two more times. Perhaps two times including the IVF with PGD, an option if I have another miscarriage. Even though, I must point out, that there have been no genetic abnormalities detected (karyotyping) in the husband, myself, or the last baby. However, apparently, some genetic issues may not be detected (they only test for, say, 12 genetic problems, when there are 8 more, or some such thing (those numbers are completely made up)). Well, let the good times begin. I will likely get pregnant. It’s the rest of it I so worry about. I do enjoy being tossed out of planes without even the tiniest of parachutes.

Luck.

I’m beginning to wonder if I should take some sort of cleansing bath or walk through burning sage. This year, this year was supposed to be better. No more miscarriages, I told myself. No more dreadful jobs. This would be a year of optimism and light. I should know by now that once I start making plans, even as vague and innocuous as those (optimism and light?) I go down in flames. I landed my dream job. And although the commute is long and boring, I still look forward to getting here. And after a good three days of delayed planes and cancelled flights, missing and lost baggage, fatigue and dirty underwear and long drives through Pennsylvania, I was back home, returning to a city I love and a job that I feel damn lucky to have. Today, my boss came in, shut the door and told me this was not a conversation he wanted to have. I thought he was going to tell me I did something horribly, horribly wrong, involving this recent hearing or my closing brief. For a minute I thought he was going to tell me that someone was very, very unhappy with my performance. I even thought for a split second that there was an issue with the additional day off I requested because of the cancelled flight. Instead, he told me that the woman that I replaced was exercising her option to return, which means, that I am out. He thought I was handling it well, but really, I’m just in shock. He’s doing what he can to find out if there are other positions out there but if not, I’ll be out and she’ll be in at the beginning of March. I knew when I was hired that my predecessor had this option, but it seemed a remote possibility. I was told that she did not enjoy working here. And the human resources person stated at the time of my hire that in all her years of experience she’s never seen it happen. Because I work for a government agency, they provide holds on positions for a probationary period. What’s interesting is that I cannot imagine doing this if I were in her position. When your decisions directly affect another person, such as this, unless I had no choice, I just can’t see myself doing it. With my luck, I’ll finally get and stay pregnant but be unemployed. To have a healthy, happy baby, however, overrides everything else, so I’ll take it.

Your Briefs or Mine?

I've been writing a &%$#$ closing brief for the better part of two weeks now. It's due Thursday. Wish me luck! Your water quality and aesthetic enjoyment of our natural world may depend upon it.

I meet with the RE in January. The husband is anxious to get on with that--but I'm kind of glad that I changed that appointment (Dec 20) as I will likely still be hung up revising this disgusting brief.

The endometrial biopsy was a piece of cake. Seriously. No pain. This of course worries me to death. Why wasn't it painful? What's wrong with me?

Argh.

The M'er F'er Gene Mutation

I didn’t hate the physical. In fact I beamed with pride when the doctor exclaimed with surprise and glee, “Wow! Great reflexes” after he pounded lightly on my right knee. No sooner had I imagined a glorious future that included trapeze swinging, sparkly costume wearing and a multitude of squirming children under one arm, did I fail to barely register the second knee tapping. I sighed. I am like that. If some wondrously unexpected thing happens (yes, at this point, with my body failing, this constitutes, “wondrous”) I know not where or when or how it came to be and then . . . nothing. I am totally, and absolutely, inconsistent. I am, the One Hit Wonder. The doctor quickly moved on to the squishing of the breasts and the pressing of the stomach. The doctor was somewhat dismayed at the many layers of hospital gown I had wrapped myself in, “You’re really kind of tied up in there, aren’t you?” I prefer a little mystery doctor, don’t you? Then he asked me to slide my feet into the stirrups and when the lights were dimmed, the disco ball spinning and the sonogram machine buzzing, I noticed that there was a somewhat strange formation, elliptical and light colored on the back of my uterus. He looked at it from several different angles, took pictures of it, highlighted it, measured it. But back in his office, he didn’t mention this strange little formation but instead discussed my somewhat enlarged left ovary that looked ready to release an egg ANY MINUTE, which he indicated was a bit strange, considering where I was in my cycle, but not altogether unheard of. I got the impression that I was supposed to be overjoyed by the knowledge that this particular ovary, the left one, was about to release an egg. As this egg is going nowhere, I don’t know how I could be anything but, well, neutral. He asked if I had the blood work done and I said that in fact I had and so that was that.

The next day was the dreaded sono-hysterogram, which had me popping ibuprofen left and right in preparation for the lovely cramping. All in all it wasn’t awful, but it wasn’t altogether pleasant either. It was the insertion of the catheter that had me trying to levitate off of the table. It was a pain that I can only describe as a long drawn out note on a high octave, which I later related to nerve pain, although I understand that there are no nerves in the cervix. This little bit of information is from my sister, however, who is able to slide children out of her own uterus with barely a cough and a sneeze, so take it as you will. For those few moments that I was not grimacing, I caught a glance at the sonogram screen with its tiny droplets of colors dancing about, moving here and there in conjunction with the wand and it really was, for a moment, if not exactly pretty, interesting. Strange, cavernous, swooshing sounds kept emanating from the machine. When I asked the sonogram tech what exactly those sounds were, she squealed with delight, telling me that the sound was coming from my ovaries and that it meant they were ALIVE. As she continued to move the wand and take pictures, she told the doctor about her great fascination with reproductive medicine and her astonishment at some of the procedures being undertaken in order for people to have children. The doctor mentioned the recent approval of womb transplants. She laughed, nudged me conspiratorially and said, “Can you believe what a hot commodity a uterus is? Aren’t you glad you have one? I mean, I’ll tell you why people do this stuff, desperation. They are desperate! Isn’t that crazy?” She looks at me. The doctor shifts uncomfortably. I realize that she likely knows nothing about me. That she was just scheduled to go in, move the wand around, tell the doctor to push in more saline, and take a few pictures of my uterus, the endometrial lining and my ovaries. I realize that she doesn’t really know that I could very well be on my way to being one of those crazy desperates. But then she spots the strange formation on the back wall, and they discuss what it could possibly be. It could be a fibroid. Then again, she says, it could be left over from the . . . and she trails off. The embryo. It could be from the embryo. Afterwards, after I had had a chance to throw my clothes back on in the dark of the room, my doctor came back in and told me a little bit about the spot on my uterus, what it could be, what they will do about it, etc. He was far more interested, however, in telling me about the results of my blood work. I am positive for MTHFR. He mentioned that I have a fairly rare type, a duplicate of the duplicate or some such incomprehensible thing and that, although I deviate slightly from patients with the MTHFR gene mutation that he sees, he will treat me the same. I will have to take a folic acid (and Vitamin B-12) supplement. I have since read countless studies and reports of a connection between the MTHFR gene mutation and miscarriage. It seems incredible that something so simple like adding a supplement could change my pregnancy outcomes for the better but apparently, it just might be true. When he told me how my particular gene mutation is more rare and more strange, I said, “Well, I always wanted to be special!” Which sounded funny internally, but really, sounded kind of pathetic once it was uttered. At any rate, Monday I will have the endometrial biopsy. Then, I hope, we will sit down and discuss all the results and my options.

I Weep For My Brother

Every day on my insanely long commute, as I wind through street after street, admiring the brownstones as they go by, I encounter a strange little milieu of red spray painted words of various lucidity on wood boards presumably found on the grounds nearby. It is not far from the Crack is Wack mural by Keith Haring and if you weren’t looking, you’d probably miss it. Oftentimes he, because I most definitely presume that it is a he, includes a stuffed animal on a chair or a potted plant. I can never quite make out the point of the scene as the phrasing, the setting, the various items that he includes, do not form a cohesive whole. Recently, however, he spray painted, "I weep for my brother" on an old board, propped it up on a chair, and set it next to a car door which he had painted with dripping red paint. The paint ran down the windows and onto the side of the door. Although I cannot be certain, I believe it is a memorial to Sean Bell, the man who was recently gunned down by police on his wedding day. He was 23. He was the father of two children. In 1999, police killed an unarmed West African, Amadou Diallo. He was shot 19 times. The officers were acquitted of all criminal charges. In 2003, Ousmane Zongo, also West African, was shot four times during a raid in the warehouse where he repaired African art. He was shot twice in the back. The officer claimed that he had a gun, which he in fact did not. In this case, the officers claim that there was a fourth armed man amongst the wedding party. No witness has come forward. I cannot say for certain what happened. It is hard to not believe, however, that fifty shots at three unarmed men is excessive. And so, I weep, I too weep for my brother.

The Good Doctor is In

I wouldn’t say, exactly, that I am optimistic. I would say that I may be slightly edging towards excited for this evening’s physical extravaganza at the RE’s (this is likely because it’s for a physical (take that Jude Law! I don’t need you!) and not for anything that involves any real pain—that takes place tomorrow). I believe in this doctor. I am thrilled that the clinic actually has a program specifically for recurrent pregnancy loss (most do not) and that the good doctor seems thoughtful and thorough. This is the beginning of maybe, just maybe, getting somewhere.

I did find myself, however, for a moment, missing my OB/GYN as I was scheduling the sono-hysterogram yesterday (They are going to do what? Where? FOR AN HOUR? I’m sorry, did you say “cramping”?) as I am used to him and his gruff, humorless ways and his protruding belly and the fact that his wife seems to be giving birth every other day. I really did, though, miss him. Although he’s literally never asked me anything about myself (I suppose there may be no perfect time to ask someone where they went to undergrad (Arizona) or where they grew up (difficult to say, West Coast?) or their favorite color (green) or favorite artist (Sally Mann? Frida Kahlo? Picasso?) when you are staring at the fuzzy image of an embryo without a heartbeat) there is comfort in the familiar. And although he’s made me angry before when I was convinced that I was losing babies because of familial periodontal disease (not likely) or because of an as of yet diagnosed bleeding disorder I was convinced that I had (again, probably not) he’s always called to follow up and listened and been there. And when he’s told me something that I absolutely did not believe (a D & C is less painful than miscarrying naturally, for example), he’s been right. So, here’s to you, Dr. OB/GYN, may your thousands of children be healthy and happy and may we meet again under more auspicious circumstances.

More Poking and Prodding or a Little Glitter?

I have a physical exam scheduled with my RE for the same day as a movie premiere I was invited to where one Jude Law and one Kate Winslet will also be in attendance. Not that I have a clue as to what to wear (really, what does one slightly nerdy eco attorney/freelance photographer wear to these things?)— but I’d really like to cancel that physical (I have to have an HSG done this week, anyway) and move it to later on in December (even though that will likely mean I will YET AGAIN have to take time off of work for it—something I have been trying to avoid because I am still fairly new at this job (started in June) and subsequent to that start date I had a chemical pregnancy and then a miscarriage which meant many trips to the doctor and/or the hospital). Thoughts?

Chinatown and Freaky Sunday

Blood work today. Yes, on a Sunday. At the only place in all of New York City and Long Island, apparently, that is open on a Sunday. Anyway, it was off to Chinatown yet again (I was there in early January - in order to detect the rapidly falling level of human chorionic gonadotropin (hCG) hormone in my system and its equally low achieving buddy, progesterone). In case you were wondering, and I know you were, I had the following tests administered (most of the info about the tests is from my old friend Dr. Google (disclaimer: I am absolutely not a doctor, nor a medical professional, haven't a clue, really, about any of it). I do have to say, though, that my doc (the good doctor!) did explain most of this to me at the time he wrote the prescription:

Antithrombin III activity: used to detect a problem with blood clotting and to help diagnose an antithrombin deficiency.

Blood type/Rh/antibody screen: I am Rh negative - if you really must know. Apparently I have some antibodies in my blood that they want to check out. I have had to get the lovely RhoGam shot every time I've miscarried (that would be three, three shots).

MTHFR: "5,10-methylenetetrahydrofolate reductase,": the MTHFR gene is responsible for absorbing folate. There are two different theories about the MTHFR gene and miscarriage: one theory claims that MTHFR increases the risk of blood clots, which could block nutrients from reaching the placenta. The other theory is that MTHFR causes lower folate and B-vitamin levels, which increase the risk of miscarriages. It's still pretty controversial I think. There haven't been extensive tests (i.e., medical trials) about this. My doc did say, however, that many of his "habitual aborters" have done well by increasing folate, but as he said, that's merely a "testimonial" - not really very scientific--but he believes in it.

Factor VIII: this is Von Willebrand factor--an essential blood clotting factor. It's possible that I actually clot more slowly than normal--which would be the opposite, essentially, to thrombophilia, as that is what one test showed back in August. My doc is testing this at my insistence--there isn't really a known connection to Von Willebrand's and miscarriage--but it is a hemophilia type bleeding disorder and hemophiliacs DO have problems with miscarriage. The problem with Von Willebrand's is that it is very difficult to diagnose--the Von Willebrand factor can increase because you are anxious, which generally speaking, people are when they are having blood draws. In addition, the Von Willebrand factor generally increases while pregnant which would decrease the chance, obviously, of it creating problems.

Estradiol: The estradiol test is used to help evaluate ovarian reserve. In combination with the Day 3 FSH test, the estradiol test can help to determine the quantity and quality of the eggs. By the way, my 41 year old sister offered her eggs to me. Sweet, really. But does the woman realize that she's SEVEN years OLDER than I am? I know, I know, she's so fertile she just LOOKS at her husband and well, you've heard this before from your sister, friend, mother, etc.

FSH (follicle stimulating hormone): again, this is used to detect ovarian reserve.

Homycysteine: I believe that this goes along with the MTHFR test. Anyway, this test is used to determine if a patient has a B12 or folate deficiency. The homocysteine concentration may be elevated in patients before B12 and folate tests are abnormal.

LH (Luteinizing hormone): used to test menstrual irregularities and to aid in the diagnosis of pituitary disorders or diseases involving the ovaries.

Prolactin: this tests pituitary function, low levels of pituitary function result in lowered levels of thyroid or adrenal hormones. Probably used to test for polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS).

Testosterone: I believe they are looking at polycystic ovary syndrome with this test as well. Aack. Testosterone? Aaack. I don't really have any of the classic symptoms (except for weight gain) for PCOS. But really, weight gain? Having a miscarriage or two or three and then reaching for another cookie does not a disease make. I will be surprised if I am diagnosed with PCOS. But, one never knows.

TSH: (thyroid stimulating hormone): used to determine whether the thyroid gland is functioning properly. By the way, an underactive thyroid gland (hypothyroidism) can cause symptoms such as weight gain, tiredness, dry skin, constipation, a feeling of being too cold, or frequent menstrual periods. Hmmmm. That is interesting.

Wow, there really isn't much more exciting than going on and on about blood work is there? Can you imagine what I'll be like when I'm 90?

Also, as we were on the platform waiting for the train (that would be the L) we saw Jody Foster walking by, fast. She was wearing (because I KNOW you want to know) all black and a rather jaunty pair of green plastic glasses. Her hair was quite blonde and tousled. Very hip was she. And in a SERIOUS hurry. I mean, that woman walks fast. She looked kind of worried. Or annoyed. Perhaps it was because we were staring at her.

After the big soiree at the lab, we walked on over to an incredible baby store. Because, you know, I enjoy self-torture. Such a beautiful store. Bu and the Duck. They have the most amazing dresses and little hats. And handmade toys. Sigh.

More info . . .

My sister-in-law was told that she has an increased chance of Downs because of her age, not that her child does in fact have Downs or even that they think that there is a strong likelihood of Downs. No tests have been done. It does make me wonder, however, if this, this possibility of Downs, is swaying her thinking more towards the idea of not keeping this pregnancy. I wonder too, if she is getting pressure from all of us, from her brother and myself and her parents - because WE all want this baby, and maybe she thinks that she should do it for us, even though she doesn't really want to go through with this herself. This is an incredibly personal decision and her own. And I must step back and let her do what she wants, give her what she needs and not be so selfish. To me, this baby represented something good from a year of pain, the pain of miscarriages and the very real possibility that I won’t be able to carry a baby to term. For my husband, I wonder if this baby represented a life with more direction for a sister that he worries about, a shove towards getting her life straightened out. And for their parents, I suspect, that this baby was perhaps their one chance at becoming grandparents. This is too large a burden for a child. A fetus, a baby, a child who is just over three months in utero. These thoughts are selfish, and naive, but real.

Awful News

My sister-in-law's baby may have Downs. This is very sad news.

As Fate Would Have It

The appointment went well with the RE. In a nutshell, I have to have a lot of tests. Fun, fun tests of the snagging bits of your endometrium kind and blood, much, much blood. But oh! I am used to the blood. How I used to be afraid of needles! And now, I proudly thrust force my forearm to be punctured by the nurses or the phlebotomists or the nurses and the phlebotomists. And did I tell you how they love using that one new nurse? Or that new phlebotomist? You know, the one who was just practicing on an orange? Well, they do. And oh, did I mention my tiny, tiny, pesky veins that they can never find? Oh, but what fun! What joy! And, oh, the bruising! But really, what's a little vampire action if we come away with a little one? Not much. Not much at all.

As fate would have it, not only is each and everyone of my friends pregnant (or just given birth) and all of my husband's myriad of cousins pregnant, but my husband's sister, my THIRTY-EIGHT YEAR OLD sister-in-law is pregnant. You know, the one who wasn't trying. The one who didn't necessarily want to have kids. Yep. That's the one. Part of me is really happy. It's exciting! How exciting! A new little being! My husband (and I) will have a new niece or nephew! And we will spoil her. And love her. And we will have her come out to our pad in New York. And we'll take her to Europe (hey, it's my fantasy). And we'll help with her college expenses (Columbia) and her pre-med studies (how exactly we're helping her with that isn't important!) and her trips to Africa with Doctors without Borders! Hey, I'm exhausted already. Part of me, however, is also mad. And jealous. And sad. That about sums it up.

The Latest . . .

1. I forgot that I needed to vote today no less than fifteen times on my way home. I did, however, vote . . . eventually. And the lady sitting at the table twittered away about my last name (which is unusual and shared by a very famous singer) for a good five minutes before I was able to shut myself into the little booth and stick it to the GOP.
2. I think I may have unwittingly gone on a date over the weekend. A guy that I was working with (shooting the marathon) asked me out for a drink afterwards - the thing is, I'm so old and married that it didn't occur to me that he may actually be INTERESTED in me until half way through the night. Then I made a quick getaway. I have to admit though, that I am flattered, if not somewhat clueless. But hey, I've still got it! Actually, he was probably just bored.
3. My husband got a haircut this weekend. He's looking a tad Emo Phillips. This will have to be remedied, and right quick.
4. Speaking of my husband, he went to a bar with a friend on Friday. The (female) bartender bought him quite a few drinks. What can I say? We're a dashing couple wanted by ones of people.
5. I saw an acupuncturist yesterday. Even though I was told that they take my insurance, they don't really, shall I say, TAKE my insurance, in that they don't actually BILL my insurance. Instead, oh crafty ones, they give the poor slobs with my insurance a discounted rate. I did it anyway (I was there, I was curious, the drive was long and annoying). She prescribed weekly visits (of course!) until my cycle is more regular. Um, no. However, it was quite relaxing and painless, even for a wimp like me (OK, when the needle went in on the top of my foot, it was slightly uncomfortable, which, by the way, she forgot to remove, which left me stammering, "Um, did you forget one?", knowing full well that she had in fact forgotten it and with an irrational fear that years from now I am going to find a tiny acupuncture needle embedded somewhere odd).
6. I have an appointment with a new RE (I saw one RE but only for one visit and then got pregnant again and all looked well and so no tests were done, but well, it didn't end well) on Thursday. I'm excited about it.
7. I want to tell you how much I am enjoying Lisa Williams: Life Among the Dead, but it's too embarrassing to admit, so I will tell you that if you haven't seen HEROES, it's a must. Well written, beautifully shot, great actors, interesting story.
8. I must get back into running.