One Day At A Time

Thank you for all the kindness and well-wishes – very, very much appreciated.

~*~

My ultrasound last week had been scheduled with the high-risk OB’s nurse midwife.  In a very large practice of 10+ physicians and lots of NPs, it just happened that she was the one with an open appointment that day.  I am so, so incredibly glad that it worked out that way.  When the ultrasound tech didn’t see an embryo/fetus anywhere, the high-risk OB himself – the man that got us through the absolute sh*t show of my pregnancy with and delivered E, who I trust totally – came in to give me the final word (and performed my D&C the next day).  I appreciated that immensely.  Not getting bad news from a stranger or someone who didn’t know my history made such a difference, especially since, thanks to Covid-19, I was by myself at the ultrasound.

The D&C was definitely the right option for me in this particular circumstance.  The pregnancy symptoms are, thankfully, abating.  It’s a particular bit of insult to injury to have breast pain so bad that it was waking me up at night – including the night before surgery – when there’s no actual baby to justify the discomfort.  That was one of the more frustrating parts of the whole situation: my symptoms were really major this time, more so than with any of the previous four pregnancies.  I sort of assumed that symptoms were an encouraging sign, but apparently not in this case.

A friend brought us a meal afterwards.  I actually cried because I was grateful – it was SO nice and so incredibly welcome since we got home from the hospital around 5:30 and none of the adults were up to making anything.

~*~

I’m struggling a bit to hold the dual realities that I don’t want another pregnancy and also I want to be pregnant right now.  The idea of going through the two week wait(s), seeing the two lines, beta HCG draws, the first ultrasound, the waiting through anatomy scans, viability, praying to get to term – provided I got to any of those points at all – makes me feel vaguely nauseated.  I just don’t have anything left of whatever propelled me through all the other fertility misadventures.  At the same time, I want desperately to be holding an ultrasound picture of an 8-week baby and awaiting the next ultrasound with nervous anticipation.  I want to be looking forward to my due date in March, sourcing a low-cost maternity wardrobe and waiting for those kicks.

Basically, I don’t want a replacement.  I want this specific pregnancy except that I want it to work out with a healthy baby at the end.

That’s an impossibility and it aches.

~*~

Moving on is the one thing I actually have some mild optimism about in the better moments – it will take time (probably a lot more than I’d like it to) and some days will feel impossible but that it will happen.  We’ll work on getting rid of the baby stuff still in the basement, finishing up a few projects to really make our spare room the craft/study/music area for the girls, and…birth control.

We know we’re going the permanent route at some future point, but with Covid-19, some insurance realities, and still reeling emotionally from this experience, it’s just not good timing to go through that process immediately.  I set up my follow-up visit slightly further out than usual to allow my uterus to heal so we can look at the full range of effective non-permanent options out there to hold in the meantime.  The last thing we need right now is “surprise!”  Which feels incredibly weird after nearly a decade of trying to get pregnant, wanting to be pregnant, and desperately hoping for (or at least being open to) a pregnancy.

It’s time, though.

Alpha Omega

Trigger warning: miscarriage

When my second daughter was born, I used to rock her doing that sigh-sing-song of random syllables to comfort her.  “Ohhhh-meg-ahhh,” I’d murmur, slipping part of her name into it.  “Ohhh, Meg, ahhh.”

At some point, a family member heard me doing this and asked if I was making a reference to this being the last kid – as in “Alpha and Omega” being the beginning and end of the Greek alphabet (lots of science people in the family).  “Nah,” I said.  “Just sings nicely together.”

It stuck with me, though.

When we transferred the final embryo last fall and it didn’t stick, I didn’t feel “done”.  Arthur was done, but I never had that sense of finality.  We argued on and off for months, even after I got rid of my maternity clothes and some baby gear.  Even when common sense, age, and a pandemic made having an argument about another kid feel beyond ridiculous.

And in May, after arguments, counseling, and every kind of back-and-forth, we decided to take one last crack at the thing.  And lo and behold, there were two lines.  And an HCG number that looked fantastic and was rising beautifully.  And we prepared.

I went in today for my first ultrasound at 8 weeks 2 days.  There was a sac, measuring a week behind.  No baby or yolk sac or anything else in there.  I watched as the tech scanned over and around, thorough and careful to be sure.  They asked me about my HCG numbers.  The doctor came in and confirmed what I had already texted Arthur.

Blighted ovum.

D*mn.

I’m scheduled for a D&C tomorrow because I have, quite frankly, been through enough suffering without adding horrible miscarriage cramping/bleeding into the mix.  I’m also very symptomatic as far as pregnancy symptoms and I’d like that to stop sooner rather than later.  It does not matter any more if my uterus scars.

Because we are done.

For real.

For certain.

Five pregnancies is a lot on the body and soul, especially adding in all the other factors like IVF and PPROM and now the third loss.  It’s enough.  I’m done.

My older daughter is named for Samwise Gamgee’s oldest daughter in Lord of the Rings.  If somehow walking out of Mordor with her is the biggest battle we faced, this is the day we go to the Grey Havens and bid good-bye to something precious and special and end this final chapter.  Watching as those figures board the ship to something beyond our world and knowledge, tears streaming freely.

Then we go home because even now, I feel the promise author Tolkien gave to his character Sam in the book, to live a long, happy life and that someday, someday, the torn-in-two feeling would no longer be so horribly acute.

We asked a question at the beginning, at the alpha point of this journey eight years ago.  We have our answers now: two miraculous girls.

Today we are at the omega.

The Sisyphean Task of Bargaining

I was standing in the bathroom the Saturday evening before Christmas, getting ready for work, when Arthur appeared in the doorway.

“So, L called this afternoon,” he said slowly.  I inhaled sharply.  I knew the next words that would come out of his mouth.

“She’s pregnant.”

I stared at him miserably.  “How far?”

“Six weeks.”

“Oh,” I said.

~*~

It’s true that I would never wish the messiness I’ve been through on that quest on another person, and I stand by that sentiment.  I’m glad she’s not going through those things and I do hope all this works out well for her.

This happened to be the third pregnancy announcement of that week and I’d actually been pretty proud of myself for handling the others well.  I’d congratulated and been genuinely happy for them, even if there was a little achiness.  But the announcement of someone in the family (sister-in-law), someone I also happen to not get along with at all and have a whole ugly history concerning, felt like entirely too much.

~*~

The immediate effect was the utter destruction of the fragile détente Arthur and I had formed to get through the holidays and give ourselves a little bit more space about fertility and being done – or not.  It was one of the worst fights we’ve had in nearly 15 years of marriage, a conflict that encompassed weeks of silences, retreats, open clashes, sullen glares, smoldering irritation, and plenty of times when everything seemed fine on the surface as we worked together on the house, shuttled the kids around, or sat around together.  About the time we both figured we had to have exhausted the conflict, we found it hiding in the undone dishes, the mess in the bathroom, the recycling left on the kitchen counter.  Both of us wanted it to stop and neither of us could find a way to leave the trench we’d each dug.

My OB/GYN finally helped bring it to a more manageable level when I splattered infertility and failed IVF and jealousy all over the table by gently telling me that yes, with me at 37 and my history, we did not have time to wait forever.  “But you’re not doing more fertility treatments and three months is most likely not going to change your ability – or not – to get pregnant,” she said.  “Give it three months, breathe, then revisit how you and Arthur feel about this.”

~*~

None of this, of course, was truly about trying again.  With the permission to take that off the table and breathe, I could see that this was (again) about coming to terms with our fertility issues and the other things we’d put largely on hold in the thick of it.

I’ve wondered, for a while now, why I seemed to be stuck in the anger stage of grief.  L wounded me a couple of years ago and I just…haven’t been able to let it go.  Even though at some level, I’ve felt ready to do so for a long time now.  I was angry at Arthur for deciding he was done when it came to family building.  I was angry when the beta came back negative.

Ah, but grief is a tricky, slippery thing.  Because it turns out, I’m more in the bargaining stage of things.  It just doesn’t look like the examples I’ve seen given about bargaining, where people say things like “take me instead of my (fill in the blank)” or offer money or power.

For me, it looks much more like the famous myth of Sisyphus, rolling the rock up the hill every day, having it come tantalizingly near the top, only to have it roll back down.

If I can untangle the relationship with L, I can overcome the grief at being rejected by her as a sibling and also (not coincidentally) somehow cosmically make right the grief and loss of my brother’s death.  I will refuse to let this point of connection go – even if it takes the form of a horrible resentment that is incredibly unhealthy – because I can prove that I am worthy of this connection.  G-d knows I’m working hard enough at it. 

Roll, roll, roll…and it all comes crashing back down.

If I can persuade Arthur to try again, that is somehow going to make up for the miscarriages, the infertility, the disappointments, the bitterness. 

Up the hill goes the rock.  Down, down, down it comes again.

That’s bargaining.  The certainty that if I can succeed at these Sisyphean tasks, if I can get that d*mn rock to just stay put at the top, it will all be okay.

It is bitterly untrue.  Because a relationship with L, even if I theoretically could magically restore it to being BFFs and true sisters and all that (unlikely even under the best circumstances, we’re just very different people and there’s simply too much between us at this point), would never take the place of my brother.  Because trying on our own for a third child and/or the very real gratitude for my wonderful living children does not erase the miscarriages, add years back to my life/fertility, or put around $50,000 (preferably with interest) in my bank account.  Theoretically trying to have another child does not insulate us from the potential for loss in the future either.

I’m about a million years behind the times, but I was recently reading a Dear Sugar column by writer Cheryl Strayed, written in response to a woman who had experienced a devastating stillbirth.  “Nobody can intervene and make that right and nobody will. Nobody can take it back with silence or push it away with words. Nobody will protect you from your suffering. You can’t cry it away or eat it away or starve it away or walk it away or punch it away or even therapy it away,” Strayed wrote.  Her words hit me straight in the heart.

Nothing and nobody can bring Eric back.  Nothing and nobody can change the myriad number of small and large losses that encompass infertility/miscarriage.

It’s really easy at this point to start talking about how lucky I am (true) or how much privilege I have (a lot, also true).  It’s really tempting to slip back into the comfortable place that is denial, put up a nice wall in front of the rocks that are still sitting at the bottom of the hill.  While acknowledging and examining privilege is absolutely a worthy pursuit and feeling true gratitude is a marvelous thing, denial is neither of those.  It’s pretending that because other things have gone right, the grief isn’t there for the stuff that hasn’t.  Also tempting is kicking the rock in fury because, well, the thing should stay put at the top.

Whether it’s fair or not, those rocks aren’t staying at the top.

Recognizing that, and not forever taking fruitless runs at pushing them up – and ignoring people who tell me that surely one more run will do it or to please hide these unsightly boulders – is the challenge now.

Wide Open Spaces

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When Arthur called an end to our efforts on trying to conceive, I found myself in the midst of a bit of an identity crisis.  I’m not sure why this surprised me – I’ve spent the better part of a decade trying to get pregnant and then stay pregnant in ways that were invasive, emotional, time-consuming, and expensive.  One of the things that happened along the way between infertility and NICU was that other parts of life fell by the wayside.  It’s hard to make plans or get involved in other activities when you’re at the whims of the RE’s office or in quarantine.

Time to begin the small steps of moving forward.

~*~

To that end, I decided to rip off the band-aid last week and start the process of cleaning out all the pregnancy/baby items cluttering the basement.  I don’t want to start the new year with that particular task looming large.

I started with the hardest part: the maternity clothes.  I fought so hard to get to the point where I could wear them in my fourth pregnancy – after three pregnancies without much outward sign.  I tossed them into totes and tubs and took them up to the consignment store where I watched as the employees evaluated and sorted.  “Donate whatever you don’t take,” I told them.  I walked out with the empty containers and some cash.  I made it to the car before bursting into tears.

~*~

I recently was invited to participate in an advanced adult choir.  For years, I’ve listened to recordings of British composer and choir master John Rutter directing the Cambridge Singers in both his own compositions and other choral classics.  It has long been a dream of mine to get to sing some of the music on those albums, which are full of tricky a cappella pieces as well as what I’ve termed the “floating sopranos” – the top part and descants just lightly flow over the top of the other voices, impossibly soft, controlled, and high.  This is my chance to do just that.

It’s a reminder that there are other dreams to follow and so much beyond the narrow confines of trying to conceive.

Choral music

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

The Stories We Tell Ourselves

After the FET didn’t take, Arthur and I had the usual picking up of the pieces and trying to reformulate them into something that resembles a whole.  As always, this involves a fair number of discussions.  Most of the time, even when we’ve disagreed on specifics or details, we’ve generally come to a compromise that both of us are reasonably okay with going forward.  If we’re not on the same page, we’re usually in the same book, as it were.

This time, it turned out, we were decidedly in different books.

We both were in wholehearted agreement that we’re done with ART, but beyond that was where things broke down quickly.  I was on team “let’s see where the chips fall for at least a few months and then move on if nothing happens”.  Arthur surprised me by declaring that he was on team “Done.”

Well, there’s really no compromise possible on something like that – either we’re open to the possibility of another child or we’re not.  The odds would not be in our favor on conceiving and/or carrying to live birth at this point, but it’s possible.

After a several skirmishes leading to outright arguments, the short story is the only realistic conclusion for us has been reached: we’re done.

~*~

I’m not going to pretend that I’m at peace with the whole thing or deny that a part of me is still harboring a small hope that Arthur might change his mind in the next month or so, but I also can’t say I don’t see Arthur’s point in this whole mess.  It’s been a long 7+ years and honestly, we’re both exhausted, physically and emotionally.  ART demands an amazing amount of energy.  Beyond that, I’ve been doing what amounts to a rotating shift for 4+ years now which messes up my sleep cycle (2 consecutive night shifts at work, then up during the day the rest of the week) and while 37 is by no means old, it’s also not the same as being in my 20s.  Arthur and I are often like ships passing in the night since he works a more traditional 5-day a week 8-5 job.  E goes to kindergarten in the fall of 2020, heralding a new phase in life.  M will probably start another day in preschool at that point.

Some of it, though, I think, is the narrative of “try harder” still echoes in my head.  Part of me feels like I’m giving up.  Like if I just kept pushing, trying, hoping, I could somehow still the voice that tells me that it’s possible and I have to do just this one more thing.  It’s the d*mn shadow that I’ve battled throughout the whole process – the one that urges scorched earth tactics, that says that until everything is completely destroyed, it’s not enough.

It’s a liar.

I know that.  I know that.  I’ve spilled volumes of word processor “ink” on this myth myself and read plenty of other essays/blog posts/books that urge the setting of boundaries and the importance of maintaining mental, physical, and relationship health.  It would have been enough no matter how the whole thing ended or at what point we stopped.

And yet, it’s surprisingly hard to push back from the table and say “no longer”.

~*~

I can’t change the facts, but I have been working on re-framing the story I tell myself.

In the last few weeks, the story in my head has gone something like this: I could try harder.  We could achieve this, even in spite of my history.  We could overcome the hardships of possible miscarriage, a geriatric pregnancy, and a failed FET cycle if I was tough enough to keep going.

Instead, I’m trying this on for size: Infertility sucks.  We fought incredibly hard to the absolute best of our ability.  We are beyond fortunate in so many ways.  Setting boundaries and respecting limits are good things.  Time to heal the wounds and move forward enjoying life.

I’ve written about this before, but I keep coming back to author Bill Bryson’s ending to A Walk in the Woods: Rediscovering America on the Appalachian Trail.  Near the end, Bryson has a conversation with his companion Katz.  Bryson is a bit disappointed that they didn’t make it as far hiking as he envisioned.  Katz, on the other hand, has an entirely different perspective:

‘“Anyway, we did it,” Katz said at last, looking up. He noted my quizzical expression.
“Hiked Maine, I mean.”
I looked at him. “Stephen, we didn’t even see Mount Katahdin.”
He dismissed this as a petty quibble. “Another mountain,” he said. “How many do you need to see, Bryson?”
I snorted a small laugh. “Well, that’s one way of looking at it.”
“It’s the only way of looking at it,” Katz went on and quite earnestly. “As far as I’m concerned, I hiked the Appalachian Trail. I hiked it in snow and I hiked it in heat. I hiked it in the South and I hiked in the North. I hiked it till my feet bled. I hiked the Appalachian Trail, Bryson.”
“We missed out a lot of it, you know.”
“Details,” Katz sniffed.’

 

We hiked the darned trail through infertility.  We hiked it through snow and heat (especially not fun when a cycle demanded being at the RE’s office, then an hour away over icy roads).  We hiked it through cancelled cycles and miscarriages and negative pregnancy tests.  We hiked it through bills and insurance fights.  We hiked it through joy and devastation.  We hiked it through an allergic reaction and Lupron and injection after injection.  We hiked it through ER visits and SCHs and c-sections and a long hospital stay and NICU.  We were enough all along, both seven years ago and now, no matter how this thing ended.

That’s the story I’m going to work to keep telling.

 

Here We Are

Seven years.

Seven medicated cycles.

One attempt at a medicated cycle, stopped on day one due to cyst.

Two fresh rounds of IVF.

Two FETs.

Six total embryos transferred between 2013-2019.

One natural pregnancy.

Two daughters born.

One big unknown.

It seems a bit fitting that in the same month I got the PCOS diagnosis back in 2012, we are wrapping up the last loose ends in 2019.  Same sunshine, same crisp air, same bright trees and dusty corn fields.  I wore space rocket socks both to commemorate the first all-female space walk and also because we are lifting off to journey to new places.

2019-10-23 15.28.34

Fertility treatments ended with my fourth and final transfer today.  It’s a weird feeling.  It’s like if my brain is a desk that’s usually stacked high with all manner of paperwork and other items, I just reached out, swiped everything off, and the whole thing is open and blank (there’s a huge mess on the floor, but the sorting is for another day).

I’m not going to pretend I’m not anxious – anxiety is kind of what I do.  I’ve been anxious that something would delay the start of the cycle, then anxious that something would happen to force me to restart the cycle next month, then anxious that the embryo wouldn’t thaw correctly, now anxious about a negative pregnancy test. But here we are, and no anxiety can take away from the fact that #6 (a euploid “fair” graded day 6 embryo that gives us around a 40% chance of live birth) is successfully transferred and we no longer have anything left in storage.  This is it.

Yesterday, after my brain spiraled into dark places, I put an old Fredrick Buechner quote on my letterboard:

2019-10-22 14.10.52

That’s my goal.  Whatever happens next, be not afraid.

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.

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.

Good Stuff

Content note: Child-centered post

Yesterday marked the first day in quite awhile that the weather was fine enough for a good walk outdoors.  The temperature was in the mid-40s, which, given cold this winter, felt downright balmy.  The sun shone and we took a short walk to the park down the street.  E rode her trike and collected rocks.  We came home tired and a little muddy (the trike tipped in a puddle) and it was wonderful to finally get outside again.

The girls will turn two and four shortly.  They’re no longer babies, but instead children who are more interested in running ahead, picking out tiny treasures for their various collections, and reading books.  It is, of course, a little bittersweet – after waiting so long for them, it feels like the days have sped up – but it is also marvelous to watch them grow and change and begin to fill in the contours of their personalities in demonstrable ways.

M waited a long time for words but suddenly now in the last few weeks began speaking in full sentences: “I want more milk.” “Don’t go that way.  Go there.”  “It’s time for snack.”  She’s almost discharged from developmental therapy (for the speech) and knows her own mind well.  Books are her favorites, particularly Paul O. Zelinsky’s gorgeously illustrated Rapunzel, along with almost any book that has flaps to open.

E also is doing well.  Every time I think about the tiny 2lb 8oz (1190 gram) baby in the NICU incubator and stare at this child who is still quite petite in stature but huge in personality, it almost makes me want to cry with happiness.  She’s at age level in most skills except for some gross motor that needs to finish catching up.  Her favorite thing is stickers and making cards for people that she happily scribbles all over and explains to me what she “wrote” there.

Together, as much as I dislike the term itself, the girls are the definition of “frenemies”.  A sample interaction: E yanks a toy away from M, who tries to push E but doesn’t quite manage to do more than brush E’s shoulder.  E flops on the floor and starts sobbing loudly.  M goes over and pats E, making soothing noises.  E yells at M and stomps off.  A few minutes later, both girls are cuddled on the couch with E explaining a book to M, who is listening with great attention.

In other words, they’re siblings.  But I also know how much they genuinely care for one another.  E worries about M, M searches for E when E’s not in sight, and they play together well a surprising amount of the time.

They’re small children and there are days that don’t look nearly this idyllic, but every day, I’m grateful. 

Mile Eleven

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About a month after my PCOS diagnosis and before falling fully down the rabbit hole of infertility treatments, I ran a half-marathon.  It was one of those “bucket list” kinds of things I’d begun training for in earnest shortly after we originally began trying to conceive in April because I knew deep down something felt “off” and didn’t want to face it.  I took my running habit, ramped up, and signed the papers to run in November.  If I was wrong, I figured, I’d walk or give my registration to someone else.  In the meantime, the long runs gave me something else to focus on.

The day of the race was a mildly overcast, cool but not cold November day – perfect weather.  I lined up at the start and took off with the other runners.  The first mile was great.  I was excited, my adrenaline was high, and it flew by.

The second and third miles were not so great.  This was the point where I began to realize what I’d gotten myself into and I fought the part of my brain that kept telling me I’d never make it 13.1 miles.  When I passed 3.1 miles, I wondered why I hadn’t just signed up for a nice 5K.  Then I’d be done.  However, as I kept running, mile four felt easier and I started enjoying the thing.

I ran through the countryside.  This particular race tends to be quiet, isolated, and doesn’t have the quantity of spectators or cheering that I’ve read others have.  I ran over country roads, admiring the farmland, enjoying the quiet.  I caught up with an old buddy and ran a mile or so with her, chatting.  Otherwise, however, I was by myself with my i.pod and loving every minute.  Seven miles passed.  I have this.

Then I hit mile eleven.

I really wanted to run the entire race without taking sections to walk.  But as soon as I got into that eleventh mile, it wasn’t merely that I wanted to walk.  I wanted – seriously – to lay down at the side of the road, quit, and let the race organizers come pick me up.  I hit the wall, and I hit it bad.

A combination of factors were probably at play here: eleven miles is a long way to run, it had been a bit since I’d had water or electrolyte replenishment, and in a 13.1 mile race, eleven is right at that nasty spot where I was close to the finish line and yet far enough away not to have the adrenaline rush of being “close”.  It did not matter.  It sucked.

A hill rose up in front of me.  You have got to be kidding me, I thought.  This wasn’t even a real hill.  I grew up in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, so I know hills.  This was more of a tuft of dirt but the placement infuriated me.  The irritation gave me strength.  I ran up it and finished out mile eleven.

I finished shortly thereafter, just in time to see the winner of the marathon cross the finish line, get some water, and celebrate with Arthur and a few friends and family who had come to cheer me on.  I was glad I had done it and I had managed to complete it my way – without walking a single step, and well under three hours.

~*~

Really, in the vast majority of ways these days, I’m fine.  Happy, really.  Not needing the support the way I once did.  At this point, I love where we are in life and it’s good.

There’s one more embryo, frozen.  Tested.  Waiting.

I’m procrastinating on calling the RE’s office even though Arthur and I have a reasonably solid plan because…well, it opens doors.  It reminds me that I’m not all powerful, that plans fall apart, that doing everything right can still result in heartbreak in both expected and unexpected ways.

I like feeling in control.  I know I’m not, but on a day to day basis, it’s really easy to pretend, to slip into the minutiae and let the illusion remain.  Calling the RE, putting in motion the final plan, means letting go.

It’s time to run mile eleven in this race.  Face the tuft of dirt.  Keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Because the finish line is somewhere close.

This (long-form 😉 ) post has been a part of Microblog Mondays, where the idea is to write in your space, usually a short post but whatever moves you.  If you want to read more, head over to Stirrup Queens!  Thanks to Mel for originating and hosting.