‘Bittersweet’ Isn’t Quite The Right Word, But It’s The Closest Thing I’ve Got

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We had a marvelous trip for a family wedding recently to New Mexico.  The whole thing went remarkably smoothly, the airline staff was lovely, and seeing all my aunts/uncles/cousins was a great deal of fun.

One of my cousins has a strange sort of resemblance to my brother.  I say “strange” because my cousin and my brother have/had completely different coloring (one’s a blue-eyed strawberry blonde, the other dark hair/eyes) and completely different heights.  However, there’s something, because I’m not the first to notice it.  My grandmother used to mix them up at times and multiple family members have remarked on the resemblance over the years.

At the reception, my cousin was dancing with my younger daughter, who was just loving it.  Watching him swing her around as she giggled loudly and yelled “more” was incredibly precious and absolutely wonderful.  He’s really good with kids as well as a lovely person and it was fantastic – I’m truly glad to have him (as well as my other cousins) in the family.  As the oldest by a decent margin, it’s great fun to watch as they grow, find careers, get married, and embark on their adult lives.

I also had this incredible stab of sadness.  Just for a split second, my brain played a trick and saw my brother there.  The memories that I usually keep firmly stowed came flying out so fast that I had to look away for a second, take that deep breath.

I know I’m not the only one with these moments – the ones that are so very wonderful that you’d never give them up, that you’re so grateful to have, but that also pierce you right to the core because they’re such powerful reminders of what you’ve lost.

This post is a part of Microblog Mondays.  If you want more, please head over to Stirrup Queens!  Thanks to Mel for originating and hosting.

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Current Cycle Status

Content note: Final FET feelings + already present kids mentioned.

Well, this cycle is finally starting to become real.  I’ve been going back and forth with the RE’s office to start pricing out drugs and nail down the slippery little details that I’ve discovered can really derail things quickly.  I confirmed that they still open at the same time they used to, that now they do Sunday appointments in my city (it used to be that they only took Sunday checks about 1.5-2 hours away at the main office), and got copies of all the paperwork.  When my period starts this month, I’ll call, get the prescriptions, and order the drugs in preparation for next month, thus outlaying the first actual cash in this endeavor.

I’ve noticed that I’m starting to have a more reasonable reaction to the prices again.  Maybe it’s that I’ve been out of the ART world long enough or that we’ve spent money on other things in the meantime, but I’m keenly aware that what we are spending on this cycle is going to be right around what we paid for our entire upstairs flooring in a high end, water resistant laminate including installation.  I remember when I paid for the flooring and called Arthur to give him the final bill remarking that while it wasn’t cheap, it was about what we’d paid for FET cycle past and – salient point – we weren’t paying for a chance we’d get a floor, we were actually going to receive a floor.

That last sort of sums up the mixed feelings I have bidding farewell to the RE’s office and ART.  I’m really grateful for the fact that IVF brought us older daughter and also cognizant of the immense emotional and financial costs that went into all the cycles.  One of the things that’s hard about ART and IVF is that beyond picking a doctor/office/lab and following the protocol, there’s really very little I could control in the cycle.  I was at once expecting my first IVF to fail (because I’m a defensive pessimist) and also completely shocked when I miscarried (apparently there’s some underlying optimism there after all).  I’ve known for a long time – working in the medical field – that modern medicine as a whole is extraordinarily powerful in some ways/instances, but also falls badly short far more often than some of the glowing articles and incredible stories would have people realize.  Even knowing this, I found it hard to stack up the hopes I had with the grittier, less successful realities.

It’s the end of ART for us.  One way or the other.  I’m almost 37 and it’s time.  Whether or not we see if something breaks loose on our own if the cycle fails is something we’re very undecided on.  Met.formin really does appear to regulate my cycles but in my late 30s, other concerns such as higher miscarriage rates are starting to tick up (and that’s making the enormous presumption that I’d get pregnant at all – certainly not a given with my history).  I’m not going to lie, I have a little bit of the ache these days at the thought of being done, I’d really love it if the cycle worked out, but I can’t tell if that’s a deep, ongoing thing or if it’s happening because I’m immersed in getting ready to try to get pregnant with the FET and if the beta is negative will dissipate with some time.  Despite the occasional achiness, I’m grateful for where we are now.  I have no doubt that regardless of outcomes, life is going to go on and I believe it’s going to be good.

Small Steps Forward

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I’ve finally gotten back into a routine of going to the gym in the mornings several times a week.  For awhile I was using our small rebounder trampoline at home, but it just didn’t really feel like I was progressing.  I’m starting to realize that leaving the house – whether going to the gym or running outside – seems to be an integral part of what makes it relaxing to me and worth it.

As I’ve been running on the treadmill, I kept noticing a class going on in the adjacent room.  I checked into it a little and it’s a whole-body interval training with many different stations that was listed on the schedule as “advanced”.  Well, I’m not advanced, I thought and shrugged it off.  I kept thinking, however, that it met at such a good time and I really do want something other than just running.

Today I asked one of the gym workers about the class.  She reassured me that they are happy to work with beginners, I’d just modify some exercises or do shorter intervals.  I was excited until, of course, I started thinking about September (or, more probably right now, early October).  It’s just three months or so until I’d probably have to quit.

I’m tired of thinking this way.  Fertility/infertility/subfertility concerns have been a part of my life for around seven years now.  It’s always a matter of what if, the next cycle, yes or no.  It’s exhausting.  Even when I know this is coming toward the end.

I think I’m going to do it.  A few months is a few months and I could use the motivation/change up in my routine.  If things work out with the cycle, I can always modify and scale back.  If they don’t…well, then I have a new routine and hopefully some new muscles.

If you want more Microblog Mondays posts, check out Stirrup Queens!  Thanks to Mel for originating and hosting.

“And”

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Content note: pregnancy, children, loss – none recent

This weekend, we tore up some of the scrotty grass that’s never grown well next to our patio in the back and put in hostas.  I pulled out the dead hydrangeas from the back bed and planted shade loving coral bells.  We went to visit college friends and as we sat, I had one of those moments that might be called transcendent or even holy, where for just a second, everything was right with the world and good.

The new life, both literal and figurative, was all around us.

I came home, checked my calendar, and realized that it’s not all that much longer until my saline infusion sonogram for this final transfer.  And before I knew it, this morning I was ugly crying, the one that isn’t a couple of crystal tears decorously sliding down the cheeks, but the red-faced, sobbing, snotty Kleenex filled kind.

That’s life, though, isn’t it?  At least after a certain point?  Where the most extraordinary exists among the prosaic of every day and the deepest, darkest muck that can be dragged up?

I am so incredibly, amazingly thankful for my girls.  And I am so terribly sad that I never got to meet the three that died and were miscarried early, long before they truly lived.

I honor the truly ordinary, uneventful pregnancy I got the immense privilege of experiencing.  And I grieve the long weeks of waiting, of fertility treatments and IVF, of hope mingled with sadness, of ultimately having three others over far too early.

I get the loveliness of watching my older daughter survive and now thrive.  And I mourn that she lost the last weeks in pregnancy that she should have had, that she went through so many painful procedures, that we were separated by plexiglass walls and nights apart at the beginning of her life.

I can’t even express how much gratitude I have to see the girls treasuring each other and also fighting – as siblings do.  And I can feel my heart breaking again and again and again that my sibling is gone, that a person I held as he came into the world left it long before me in such a terrible, senseless way.

I hold my dear ones close, their precious selves tangible and messy and wonderful and alive.  And I cry remembering the unnatural coldness of my brother’s still face, the benediction of viewing him in death, the slight smear of blood that transferred to my hand when I put it on his cheek.

I am fiercely glad for my marriage and the love my husband and I get to share every day.  And I mourn the things we have both broken over the years, some of which are still being repaired.

I am grateful for the chance to complete this final cycle, to close out this particular road, to know that no matter the outcome, I am truly fortunate and ready to live this good life I have.  And I am anxious, struggling with the months of waiting in the lead-up, dreading some painful procedures, and worried about the potential for more hurt.

For the last several months, I’ve been veering back and forth between the extremes, saying how I’m fine (true) and FINE – F*cked Up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Egotistical * – (also true).   It doesn’t sum up neatly, the pros and cons on the paper don’t cancel each other out.  They’re all true, all a part of what poet Mary Oliver termed “your one wild and precious life”.

I am, without a doubt, in today’s parlance, a hot mess these days.

And…it’s an absolutely beautiful mess as well.

*credit to Louise Penny

This post is a part of Microblog Monday.  If you want to read more or add your own, please head over to Stirrup Queens’ blog.  Thanks to Mel for originating and hosting.  

Ticket In Hand

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We had our RE consult today and it did not take me long to realize that in the fast-moving world of reproductive endocrinology, I’m definitely a blast from the past.

When I did my first FET cycle in early 2014, I used Lup.ron, oral estrogen, PIO, baby aspirin, a short burst of Medrol, and valium for the transfer.  Today, the FET we’ll undertake in September/October will involve injected estrogen every four days, PIO twice a day (!), dexamethasone, baby aspirin, medrol, and predisone.

My response: “I JUST got feeling back in all the areas of my butt and now PIO is TWICE A DAY?!”

Apparently, this protocol results in much higher implantation rates.  Dr. E explained that there’s too much variability with oral estrogen to be comfortable – apparently some women really struggle to get levels high enough even with high doses – but with the injections, it’s been much more consistent.  The steroids lower the immune system a bit to allow the embryo to implant and the different types plus longer dose periods than before seem to really help this process more effectively.  No more valium for transfer either.  Two days of taking it easy, like before.

I asked how likely the blastocyst we have in storage was to thaw properly and Dr. E told us since it’s frozen with the newer cryopreservation methods, it’s around 98% certain that we’ll have a transfer.

I am…a little overwhelmed, to be honest.  Not so much by the protocol itself (though it certainly is different than any other fertility protocol I’ve undertaken) but simply by the fact that this is it.  As weird and f—ed up as this sounds, the RE’s office and fertility treatments and reproduction (or lack thereof) have been this huge part of my life for about seven years.  Whether or not this FET or anything else results in a pregnancy, my reproductive years are coming to a close.

I won’t miss the worry, the miscarriages, the fertility treatments, the incredible sadness of failed cycles, the two-week wait, or any of that stuff.  Infertility, high-risk pregnancy, loss, and NICU inflicted real wounds that are still healing and scars that still ache at times.

But there were silver linings that I couldn’t appreciate in the trenches.  Dealing with infertility and the associated complications also moved me from being someone who looked over her shoulder for another person when someone asked for an adult to someone who says “here, me, I’m an adult”.  I can battle with a ferocity I didn’t know was possible and also know when it’s time to walk away from a fight.  I know how to talk to an insurance company, how to marshal my resources, and who to call.

It’s more that I’m letting go of something that consumed vast amounts of time, resources, emotions, and despite the fact that this is, inherently, not a bad thing, it’s a change and a door closing.  It’s moving into an entirely different landscape – where I won’t chart my cycle, pee on OPKs, alternately (depending on where I am in an attempt to get pregnant) hope for or dread my period, or take pregnancy tests.  I’ll get rid of the maternity clothes and the baby stuff.  Labor and Delivery will go back to being a department with no more significance to me than Endoscopy or Medical-Surgical.  I’ll change into whatever lies ahead and deal with it, hopefully gracefully.

It’s strange, though, being here.  It’s like waiting in an airport, ticket in hand, and not knowing exactly where I’m going next or how many transfers or bits of lost luggage, but knowing that my flight will depart soon for somewhere.

This post has been a part of Microblog Mondays.  If you want more, please visit Stirrup Queens‘ blog.  Thanks to Mel for originating and hosting.