Preserving A Space

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Over the last few months, I’ve played around with the idea of printing out my blog as an actual, physical book.  Not to work up for publication or for any sort of distribution, but because, well, it’s my life.  Certainly edited and condensed in some respects – many posts have ended in my drafts folder, countless sentences and paragraphs pruned, life outside of infertility often left undocumented – but definitely truthful and an accurate chronicle of the last several years.

It’s funny how the internet is at once permanent and constantly shifting, blogs and platforms and media appearing and disappearing at breakneck speed.  I went back recently to find a post that I loved from a blog, only to find the blog and post gone.  While I have no plans to move out of this space right now, I know I don’t want to lose the entries if one day the terms of service with the hosting or the platform itself changes or for any other reason.  Printing them out in a tangible medium feels somehow more permanent to me, more real.

In the end, it’s a big part of my story.  It’s the space where a lot of moments live that in real life are long gone.

So, my question to all of you is this: have any of you printed out your blog?  What service did you use?  How expensive?  How much difficulty or ease?  Any advice or stories to share?

This post is a part of Microblog Mondays.  If you want to get in on the action or read more, please head over to Stirrup Queens.  Thanks to Mel for originating and hosting.

Eleven Years In…He’s Still Wonderful

Our eleven year wedding anniversary was on Saturday.  We went out on Thursday evening (since I had to work on Saturday) and Arthur brought me a card and small bouquet of flowers.  Sunday, Arthur got me up from my nap with the following words: “Hey, don’t freak out, but…”

Uh-oh.

“I think I saw a mouse.”

Management followed through superbly after I notified them and the exterminator came out yesterday.  He placed a few glue traps and a childproof box of mouse poison.  I winced.  “So…if the mouse gets poisoned…I might have to pick it up?”

“Yeah,” he said, “or it might crawl outside to die.  If it gets stuck in a glue trap, you’ll be able to see it, but you’ll just throw out the whole thing.”

I stared at him.  As much as I sometimes complain about it, I adult reasonably successfully most days.  I’ve dealt with job losses, infertility, IVF, miscarriages, and very premature birth.  I have a job with a high degree of responsibility.  I can balance my checkbook and figure out large swaths of paperwork.

Dead mice, though?  No way.

Arthur shook his head when I told him when he came home for lunch that I was not touching this one.  “But all you do is sweep it into the dustpan with the broom and get rid of it,” he said.

“Nope.  Not happening.”

“You weren’t this upset on Sunday.  You once had a live mouse in your hair during family reunion and didn’t start screaming because you didn’t want to cause a panic.”

“Live mice don’t ick me out as much as dead ones.  It’s not rational.  But I don’t want it living in our house, either.  So you’re just going to have to deal with it.  If I find it, you’ll probably hear the shrieks all the way over at work.”

Arthur was putting on his shoes to go back to work when we both heard it: a loud squeaking and rustling from the kitchen.  “I’m not going in there,” I announced.  “You go look.”

Arthur came back.  “It’s under the fridge, I think.  I’ll deal with it when I get home.”

I took the easy way out and called maintenance, who came, moved the fridge, and informed me the mouse had escaped.  I texted Arthur the news.  He texted back that he agreed “Mouse Hunt” would be a good movie to watch soon.

For our anniversary, I’d been working on a sweet, romantic sort of post about the reading we had done at our wedding called “The Blessing of the Hands”.  There are a few versions out there, but it talks about how these are the hands that will hold you in sickness and through trials and in the good times.  I had been thinking along the lines of how his were the hands that moved our whole apartment by himself and held mine during a long hospital stay and when we were pretty sure we’d never have a baby and so on and so forth.

That’s all true, but I have a very different, way less dramatic or romantic or sweet line to add now: “These are the hands that will check the traps and clean up the dead mice you hate so much.”

Or maybe not so much less romantic…after all, eleven years, and we’re still happily putting up with each other’s quirks and foibles.  We’re laughing and joking together, working as a team.

And really, what else could be better?

That Thing With Feathers

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Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without words,

And never stops at all…

– Emily Dickinson

 

We never really did much natural cycling when we first started trying to conceive in 2012.  My cycles were so incredibly abnormal right from the start that we had done our initial testing, gotten the PCOS diagnosis, and started seeing an RE before the one-year mark.  Even when we’d do a few months between medicated cycles and then ART cycles, I didn’t have normal natural cycles.

Once I quit breastfeeding (or, more accurately, attempting to breastfeed), the spot-bleed-spot-bleed-no-normal-periods came roaring back for several months.  Since that was my normal before my daughter was born, I wasn’t particularly surprised, just frustrated.  In some deep, dark recess of my mind, I’d genuinely hoped that giving birth would “fix” my reproductive system.  I tried a bunch of supplements, stayed on met.formin, lost weight, and nothing changed.  I saw my OB/GYN, got a prescription for birth control pills, picked up a pack, declared myself done with natural cycles, and then in a fit of pique, decided to pull a Scarlett O’Hara: “I’ll think about that tomorrow”.

Every day thereafter, I reprised.  I kept up with the supplements and met.formin.  Until one day, the bleeding stopped.  I marked the date as cycle day 1 and shrugged.  I wasn’t too hopeful.  I had an ultrasound in December because I was having pelvic pain and wondered if I had a cyst.  My ovaries had the classic “string of pearls” appearance of PCOS.

I started spotting on day 21, but then on day 28, had an actual round of bleeding that was easily identifiable as a real period.  I marked the cycle again and waited.  The bleeding stopped in a timely manner.  Again, I had a period on day 28.  The acne also started to let up a bit.

Well, this is new.

In late February, we decided to see what would happen if we ditched any form of preventing pregnancy.  In April, unsure if my body was even making the right hormones or trying to ovulate despite having cycles, I ordered some cheap OPKs.  They’ve come up positive each month for an LH surge and are appropriately negative otherwise.  I have a basal body temperature thermometer, but with my odd hours (I work nights twice a week) temping has not clarified anything.

A couple of weeks ago, I realized my met.formin prescription was going to run out, so I called the RE’s office to get that prescribed.  Since I was on the phone with them, I figured that I’d go ahead and schedule my saline sonogram.  It’s a bit on the early side since we’re not planning to transfer until next spring, but I reasoned that if anything showed up as an issue, then we’d have some time to figure out next steps.

Today, I saw Dr. E, my RE, for the sonogram.  When Dr. E checked my ovaries, he noted that they don’t look polycystic the way they usually do.  I looked at the screen.  I know the appearance of my ovaries well, and the usual bunch of immature follicles was definitely missing.  Dr. E asked about my cycles, and I told him about the positive OPKs, regularity, and the supplements.  “Well, keep it up,” he said.  “It seems to be doing something good.”  He told me that it was hard to say given my history if I’d get pregnant naturally, but it was worth continuing and he hoped it would work out for us.

It’s somewhat promising as infertility situations go.  Definitely an improvement in many ways, but is it enough to actually get pregnant? Even with ICSI and a surfeit of eggs, we really don’t make a lot of embryos – and the ones we do make tend to be about a day behind.

I really want to be hopeful.  I really want to think that even after all this, the “old fashioned way” might be truly possible.  I really want to think that even if this doesn’t work out, one of the embryos will work next spring.  There’s no doubt I have seen (and had) longer odds and stranger things work out.

At the same time, I also know all too well the painful wounds that appear when hope flits away and reality unwelcome rushes back.  As I told Arthur recently, “Everyone keeps saying you need hope to live.  But in my case, it usually just f*cks me over.”

That’s where we stay for now in terms of infertility.  In the gray area between hope and not, possible and not, that unsatisfying non-answer.  What I keep reminding myself is that this is a season, not forever – and much of the rest of life is good right now.  Today, though, definitely lightens that gray a little and causes the ‘thing with feathers’ to stir.

Want to read more Microblog Mondays or participate yourself?  Please head over to Stirrup Queens and enjoy!  Thanks to Mel for originating and hosting.  

Returning Home

Big time spoilers for The Lord of the Rings – especially the ending – ahead.  

It’s no secret that I am a huge fan of The Lord of the Rings.  There aren’t too many things in my life that have stayed constant since age 14, but these books continue to inspire, motivate, and comfort me.  As I’ve grown, aged, and lived, the meanings have changed, the understandings deepened, but every time I pick them up, I find something new.  When I first read the books, I was thrilled by the exciting adventure, the battles, and, oh yeah, Aragorn.  These days, it’s a different part that I keep turning to read.

One of the things I love about The Lord of the Rings now is the ending.  The movie version leaves out part of the original ending, and I understand that choice at some level.  The original ending is messy, hard, and complicated in a way that’s difficult to translate to the screen.

For those who aren’t familiar with the book ending, it looks initially like a very traditional storybook ending wrap-up.  Then the movie and book part ways: there is evil waiting in the Shire for the returning hobbits.  They have to fight yet another battle to get the Shire back – their home is ugly and changed by that evil.  The book and the movie return to sync when Frodo departs Middle Earth.

When I initially read The Return of the King, the scouring of the Shire irritated me a bit.  It seemed…unnecessary.  The major task was fulfilled, the ring destroyed, the epic showdown at the gates of Mordor fought, and the hobbits returned home triumphantly.  Then Tolkien throws in this seemingly discordant sadness and destruction.  It’s no wonder Peter Jackson left it out of the movie.  It feels unfair that after everything the hobbits have done and the horror they’ve been through they don’t come home to a hero’s welcome, that there’s still more to do.  This isn’t a Harry Potter ending.

Now, though, I get it.  Tolkien has captured the reality of life after being touched by struggle and tragedy, in whatever form that comes to particular people.  You don’t walk through Mordor and remain untouched.  Even once the main event is over and evil seemingly vanquished or at least survived, it’s coming home to find more work to do and reminder after reminder sitting in your front yard.

We walked through Mordor the days my daughter nearly died.  We walked through Mordor when my brother so inexplicably left us.  The days when nothing made sense.

I hoped when we finally came back, naively, it would still be mostly the same.  I knew better.  But I hoped.

Instead, it’s been the weariness of battling back what those journeys took from us.

It’s no longer the epic battles of life and death.  It’s the bitterness at the bottom of the glass, the sh*ttier stuff, but battles that are no less for their smallness.  It’s fighting those unwelcome triggers and reclaiming home.

It’s knowing when to lay down the swords and begin the peaceful work of planting and bringing green life back to damaged land.  It’s showing mercy.  In some ways, this is almost harder.  It requires vulnerability, patience, honesty, kindness, and diligence.  Qualities that some days are tough to muster.

Tolkien doesn’t give Frodo a beautiful happy ending in his beloved Shire.  The wounds simply go too deep.  I take a lot of heart, though, from Sam’s ending.  Sam, who also bore the Ring, touched evil, who also walked through Mordor.  Sam, who “planted saplings in all the places where specially beautiful or beloved trees had been destroyed and he put a grain of the precious dust in the soil at the root of each.  He went up and down the Shire in this labour…”  Sam, who receives these words at the last, painful farewell: “Do not be too sad, Sam.  You cannot be always torn in two.  You will have to be one and whole, for many years.  You have so much to enjoy and to be, and to do.”

That is an ending – or perhaps another beginning – worth all of the work.

Alternate Routes

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When I started looking at nursing schools, I made a plan that looked something like this: get my associate’s degree in nursing (ASN) at the community college where tuition was affordable, practice for a few years, then go back for my master’s in nursing (MSN) after we’d had a couple of kids.  I knew that bachelor’s in nursing (BSN) was becoming more and more necessary for hospital, management, or critical care jobs, but I already had a bachelor’s degree in English and didn’t see much value in getting a second one.  I looked into MSN programs that would allow me to skip that step, found them reasonable, got my ASN, and started on having those couple of kids.

Ha.

In any case, after IVF bills, NICU, and knowing that we still have FET bills and a bit more time in TTC world, I am nowhere near ready financially or ability-wise to commit the time/effort to go after a master’s degree.  I’m not even quite certain what direction I’d want to go in for that master’s degree any more.  None of this mattered so much for a bit.  I was completely embroiled in doctor and therapy appointments, trying to get E to eat, and dealing with life as well as learning a new department at work.  I had a job, that was what mattered.

Into all of this entered a co-worker a couple of months ago who mentioned that one of the other local health systems was now pushing for all of their RNs to have BSNs.  While it didn’t threaten my position, I did sit up and take notice.  It marked the first time needing a BSN (or higher) had come up this close to home.  I saw the writing on the wall: it was time to talk about next steps.

At first, I re-researched the MSN programs.  Maybe I could fit it in somehow.  The research, however, more or less confirmed that an MSN was simply not in the cards right now, or really, for at least the next five years.  I took a deep breath, looked into BSN programs, and found an online one through my state system.  The price was reasonable.  Most of my credits transferred.  The coursework looked manageable with all of my other responsibilities.

I applied, got accepted, and plan to start in July.

It means I can wait until I know what I want to do for that master’s degree.  It means I don’t need to worry so much about jobs.  It means I can wait ten years or never go back to school if that’s what I want.

It’s not the route I envisioned originally.  As far as alternates go though, I’m pretty excited about this one.

This post is part of Microblog Mondays.  If you want to read more or get in on the fun, please head over to Stirrup Queens.  Thanks to Mel for originating and hosting!

This Dream Stands Before Me

Content Note: Child, parenting

When we moved to the city, we weren’t in much of a position to begin exploring.  Fortunately, as spring finally made an appearance, we began remedying that situation.  We started by taking E to the botanical gardens for her first birthday.  I hadn’t visited the gardens in years, and while the outdoor gardens weren’t appealing on the cool, gray day, the indoor gardens were beautiful and blooming.

It wasn’t E’s first outing – we’d made a few forays to restaurants during quiet hours when we could keep her in her carrier away from germs – but this one was the first we’d really done with the intention of getting out with her and showing her sights.  I’m not sure if she was impressed or unnerved by the brightly colored foliage, fish pond, and waterfall, but she kept looking around and staring at everything.

Later that evening, we took some cookies and other goodies up to the childbirth center where I spent my time on hospital bedrest and the NICU.  Seeing all the nurses who had cared for us for so many months was fun and everyone oohed and ahhed over how big E had gotten. When we stepped into the busy NICU, leaving the treats at the desk, I realized E didn’t belong there anymore as I watched people rushing around.

We threw E a party that weekend, just inviting family, but with Arthur being the oldest of five, it still meant a fair number of people.  I made simple food: meatballs, sandwich spirals, spiced oyster crackers, a fruit plate, a vegetable spread, as well as a from-scratch chocolate cake.  We helped her open her gifts, E far more enamored with the colored paper and boxes they came in.

Taking the baby out just for fun, throwing a party, going to NICU just to visit instead of staying, marked a moment that I’d dreamed about during her whole NICU stay and even beyond.  Every day, I’d go to NICU, take stock of the wires and tubes, and visualize E as a healthy toddler.  Hope that there was a life beyond the NEC scares, the brady episodes, the oxygen, worry about RSV, and the monitors where we would no longer wonder if this was the day it would all come crashing down.  It kept me going through the months where we couldn’t get E to eat, the nights the home apnea monitor would go off several times, often due to loose leads but jolting us nonetheless.

All of a sudden, that child ceased to be simply a hope and stood in front of me in the flesh.  I smiled, realizing that no matter what other dreams were gone, this one, this deeply cherished one had somehow come true.

Oh, Right…Infertility

I like to think I’m not particularly superstitious, but when Arthur and I got down to talking about the nuts and bolts of transferring one of our two remaining embryos in the fall, I couldn’t help it.  I used to love fall.  My birthday is in late October and I’m a huge fan of pumpkin spice everything, jack-o-lanterns, the beautiful days with crisp evenings, and the leaves turning brilliant colors.  However, the last few years have gone something like this:

A few days before my 30th birthday – Diagnosed with PCOS and told that it was “not impossible, but unlikely” that we’d be able to conceive on our own.

31st birthday – In the middle of ovarian stimulation/egg retrieval for the first IVF cycle that ended in miscarrying twins.

Shortly after my 32nd birthday – Arthur unexpectedly lost his job and I started bleeding with the SCH (both on the same day!).

33rd birthday – My brother shot himself.

SO…while I can intellectually accept that all of this is unrelated and probably coincidence, fall just doesn’t seem to hold the good sort of surprises for me.

We looked at each other when I brought this up and I knew as soon as I said it that we probably needed to put the transfer off a couple of months.  Not only did it give us some much needed financial breathing room, it gave me some emotional breathing room.

I don’t know how I’ll handle that first anniversary of my brother’s death.  I do know that the stress inherent in a transfer cycle, mega-doses of progesterone and, if I was lucky, HCG in my system won’t make it easier emotionally.  I also know that it’s not the time to deliberately set myself up for the terrible disappointment of a negative beta, the anxiety of an early pregnancy, or the devastating loss of miscarriage.  If we got pregnant on our own around that time, well, we’ll cross that bridge if we ever come to it, but making a choice to throw a transfer in there is a whole other situation.

I have such mixed feelings surrounding putting transfer(s) off until early 2017.  Relieved because I just don’t know how much more stress/loss I can take right now, and it’s a wonderful chance to get to simply enjoy parenting E (who has become a great deal of fun to interact with).  Hopeful because we have two frozen embryos and some time for natural cycles.  Frustrated because at some level, I’m tired of infertility.  I’m tired of knowing that we likely have about $7,000 – 10,000 in RE bills coming to complete the transfers.  I’m tired of waiting and just want to be finished with the process.

Regardless, I know it’s the right decision.

In a month or two when my met.formin prescription runs out, I’ll probably make an appointment to re-up that and do the saline sonogram to check my uterus for scar tissue or other problems.  I’m hoping sonogram comes back okay, but at least if there are issues, we have some time to mull over options before next spring.

In the meantime, we’re informally seeing if something breaks loose in a natural cycle.  Truthfully, I don’t see this happening.  We needed a lot of medical intervention to get pregnant, have no idea at this point if my left fallopian tube is open, and while I am having surprisingly regular cycles, we never made lots of great quality embryos during the IVF cycles.  I know what the deck looks like, and it’s not stacked in our favor.  At some level though, it’s almost as if I need to try this for a while – if just to satisfy my curiosity and answer the “what if” in my head.