Doing a frozen cycle is a little bizarre. It's surreal, because our embryos already exist. There is nothing I have to do for egg quality's sake--it's already done. Bryce can booze it up and go bike riding and wear tighty-whities if he so chooses because his part was done in July. It's so weird! It's like our babies are a lasagna in the freezer--all we have to do is preheat my oven and pop 'em in (and hope that somehow a vortex doesn't open in the oven and they disappear...that's where the analogy falls apart a bit).
I am sort of at a loss with this cycle, because I've never done one before. I consider myself somewhat of an amateur expert at the IVF process for fresh cycles--having done three of them and done a ton of research to be prepared for each eventuality (and unfortunately experiencing a few eventualities that I'd rather have passed on, thankyouverymuch). But a frozen? I am not as knowledgeable. Mostly because we never thought we'd get a frozen cycle in the works. Why research that when the first two IVFs didn't produce any embryos that could be frozen? And then with the last cycle, we had our embryos frozen but were so sure we'd be pregnant (we were) and that we wouldn't need them (but we do) that I didn't look into it then, either. So now that our little freezie pop babylings are up on deck, I'm feeling a little lost.
Here's what I do know. It starts like a regular cycle protocol for me, where you go on Pill first to sync up your cycle with the lab schedule. Then, unfortunately for me, the Lupron starts. I am so sad that there is no alternative to Lupron for a frozen. (You can do a "natural" frozen cycle with no meds, but seeing as how my system is so collossally dysfunctional that is just not an option. My hormones need tight controls! My body is not to be trusted with itself!) So, back to the fake-menopause nightmare for me. After a while on the Lupron, when I'm nice and suppressed and my body's control (ha) is relinquished, I start injecting estrogen. Which, sadly, is intramuscular (butt shot) but is not as nasty as the progesterone in oil shots, so I've been told. It's a small amount to be injected and it's only injected every 3 days, so that's not so bad. After a while on that (I really don't have a clear idea of how many days), we do a lining check to see if the estrogen has plumped me up and made a nice home for the freezie pops, I quit Lupron, start the awful progesterone in oil butt shots in addition to the estrogen, and then I go in for the transfer! Our beautiful blasts are thawed the day of transfer I think, and then they get their glamour shots so we can see what we've got in our oven. Then we wait, and test. That's it! No ovarian stimulation, no risk of hyperstimulation, no surgery, no anesthesia that makes me loopy, just a baby deposit made with a catheter into my cushy uterus. It's incredibly surreal.
One of the reasons why it's surreal is because technically, these babylings were conceived in August. But they go in my uterus sometime before the holidays, and so will be born sometime in the summer if they manage to stick around. So even though logically they don't start the age count until they actually implant, they will be older than they seem. Sort of. It really screws with your mind if you think about it too much.
We have been nervous about the frozen cycle, because in the limited reading I have done on the topic, the success rates aren't usually as high as a fresh. I read on average they are around 20% or so. But then, we found out that at our clinic it can be as high as 45-50%! They only freeze primo, primo embryos. So they have lower rates of embryos frozen, but much higher success with the procedures they actually do. It has to be a robust, extraordinarily beautiful embryo to freeze. Because of those strict quality controls, they lose very, very few embryos in the thawing process and they enjoy wicked high pregnancy rates. Looking at those statistics, I actually have a higher chance of getting pregnant with a frozen than a fresh. And I got pregnant with our last fresh--it just didn't choose the best place to land. That's the other thing I read--you are more likely to get pregnant with a frozen if you got pregnant from the fresh cycle. Not by a lot, but enough to make me feel better about it. Although I know a handful of people who got pregnant from a frozen after failing the fresh, too. So frozens definitely can work!
I think I've decided to keep my research to a minimum for this frozen go-round. Sometimes I can go a little overboard (who, me?) and overdo it when it comes to information. I can stress myself out. I can be a bit of a control freak. For this cycle, I am going to truly let go. I mean it. I will do my acupuncture and maya massage and yoga to prepare, but I'm not going to stress about it. I'm not going to go crazy. (I say this now, but when the time comes I am going to need people to remind me that I said I'm not going to go crazy this time. Way, way easier said than done!) I hope that we are looking at our last cycle, for now at least. Although it would be really cool if we had two blasts and got pregnant with-twins, and could wave buh-bye to this whole rigamarole. We've never done a blastocyst transfer before--they've all been Day 3. It's so exciting to do something new. And terrifying. But mostly exciting.
Here's hoping that our lasagna in the freezer makes it through the baking!
Friday, October 14, 2011
Sunday, October 9, 2011
We're So Lucky
Every once in a while, complete strangers (or people you know at a highly superficial level, like neighbors down the street) say the most insensitive things unwittingly. And usually, we just let it slide or say something mildly sarcastic (that only we, or a friend in the know who is with us, pick up as sarcasm). The first time it happened was right at the beginning of our journey, about a month after we got married. Our neighbors down the street, who have two children in the late-elementary-early-middle-school range and are always frazzled and driving off to one practice or another with harried expressions, commented on Bryce's car. Bryce is an Audi guy. He likes to drive a fun car. He never gets them new--so they look very expensive but in reality aren't more than, say, a new CRV would cost--but his choice of car causes people to have certain assumptions. Bryce's current car is technically a sports car, but in the housing of a family sedan. It's sleek and fast but a four-door with built-in window shades (no "baby on board" shade featuring Winnie-the-Pooh required in this car), and has lots of great safety features. But, it has a V-8 engine and makes a lot of purring and roaring noises. And it's fast. The dad of the family down the street (who can't be that much older than we are) said to his wife, "when can we get a car like that?" (they drive an SUV) and her response was "Whatever, they don't have kids. That's why they have that car. Just you wait." It was the beginning, so I wasn't as jaded and open and easily irritated as I am now. But I just laughed a forced laugh "haha, yup, we are certainly free as little birds!" and tried not to give in to the overwhelming urge to get psychotic and yell "WE WANT YOUR STUPID SUV! WE WOULD TRADE THIS STUPID VROOM VROOM THING AND OUR "FREEDOM" FOR YOUR CRAZED SCHEDULE IN A HEARTBEAT!" It wasn't worth it. (However, now I silently goad on these same neighbors... go ahead--say something to me now!) They have no idea what we are going through. I can't blame them for being insensitive to an issue that they know nothing about. But you can bet I would clear up that misconception pretty quickly should a comment arise now.
Last night we went out for Thai at a restaurant we go to fairly frequently. We had a waitress we haven't had for a while, and at the end of the night she asked the question I dread. "Do you have kids?" Now, just to be clear, it's not the question that bothers me. It's the reaction to our answer. It is perfectly ok to ask a couple if they have kids, especially when they look like they're in their thirties and it's feasible they might. It's what happens next that burns my britches. We say "not yet," or just "nope" without any happy expression to be seen. And, like the waitress last night, people tend to say some variation of "Oh, you're so lucky." Given, if you don't have kids you have certain freedoms. You can sleep in without someone crying in the next room or jumping on your sternum whining "Mommymommymommy wake up I need juice." You can go out to dinner more freely. You aren't spending money on diapers and school supplies (for others) and food for more than just the two of you. At least, if you don't have kids by choice, either because you aren't trying or you don't intend to try. It's a little different when you have been working very hard to lose those freedoms but to no avail. So do we feel lucky? Not so much.
Last night Bryce was my hero. Usually he just says something sarcastic and laughs it off or virtually dismisses it. Like the other day when he got breakfast at the Wegman's across from his office and one of the ladies he sees every day said "Do you have kids? You'd be a great father. I bet kids just love you! You should have kids!" and Bryce's response was "No, kids don't like me." It's a defense mechanism, and his friend totally got what he meant. Haha, kids don't like Bryce because we've technically conceived 8 times--8 little embryos, half me and half Bryce, have gone into my uterus--but none of them have stayed. Or stayed very long. Haha, kids don't want to hang out with us. Very funny. At first when Bryce takes that tack with people I get irritated--like he's misrepresenting himself to avoid the conversation and somehow jinxing us. But I do kind of get where he's coming from.
Except last night, Bryce rose the to occasion first. The waitress asked her question, and I said "Not yet." She said, "Oh, you're so lucky!" and Bryce immediately (but very politely) said, "No, actually, we're not lucky at all." I added that it wasn't for lack of trying, and she said "Well, just keep at it, it will happen!" and then Bryce said, "Well, we've been at it pretty hard core for two years, so the last thing we feel is lucky." She said, "Well, at least you can save your money for when you do have kids!" (can't really blame the lady for trying to find something positive), but then Bryce quickly said, "Yeah, that would be nice, except all our money goes into trying to HAVE the kids. We're in medical treatment for everything." I did temper things with "I guess we are a little lucky, we can sleep in and enjoy our time to ourselves for now" (but it does feel like a crappy consolation prize). That poor, poor waitress. She totally got more than she was planning on with that conversation. She felt really bad, but for once Bryce told me after, "I really didn't mind it if she got uncomfortable. You shouldn't ask a question if you don't want an honest answer--if you're going to tell a childless couple that they're 'lucky,' then you should be prepared for the response if that's the last thing we feel. She asked the question, I just answered it." I LOVE THIS MAN.
Because that's the thing--we do appreciate the freedoms that we have since we don't have kids yet. The nice bottle of wine, the nights out at Maria's, sort-of-sleeping in (instead of kids crying or begging for breakfast or saying "Mommy-up!" we have a dog who walks around and digs his nails into the floor around the bed until you take him out, a cat who is banished to downstairs with a baby gate because he cries and whines at 7 on the dot or when the toilet flushes (whichever comes first), and another cat who occasionally sleeps in the bedroom but will lick your face until you wake up if he's hungry...so we really don't totally get out of the morning scenario. Although you can ignore animals to a point whereas you can't really ignore your child...). But our later mornings are in no way better than what we want more than anything. I would welcome needing a bigger car or having to haul baby crap with me everywhere I go or having someone puke on my feet in the middle of the night if it meant we finally had the family we dream of. We don't feel like we are lucky, not at all. Lucky is not failed procedure after failed procedure, complications out the wazoo, and finally getting pregnant only to have it end in surgery due to an embryo with a crappy sense of direction. Lucky is not spending tens of thousands of dollars and feeling trapped in the sense that we have no idea, none at all, when this will end and how much we will need to put into it in every possible way. Lucky is not feeling totally exhausted at the thought of injecting myself again and feeling terrified of what our results will be on our next go-round--if it's negative I will be sad, but if it's positive I will be so nervous that something will go wrong until I can hit a "safe" point. And I really don't know when that is anymore. Lucky is not technically having extra time, but spending it all in a doctor's office or acupuncture appointments, or doing 8 billion little things to "relax" and "prepare your body." It's not waiting by the phone to see if your dreams will finally come true or if, again, you are decidedly unlucky. Yup, we definitely do NOT feel free or lucky right now.
So, while I feel a little badly that our waitress last night got an earful, I think she will think twice before flippantly saying "You're so lucky!" to another couple if they don't have kids. Maybe she will just say "Ok" and move on to some other small talk topic. Maybe by being the weird people who were firm and detailed but polite about how unlucky we are, we have saved some other infertile couple the same situation.
Last night we went out for Thai at a restaurant we go to fairly frequently. We had a waitress we haven't had for a while, and at the end of the night she asked the question I dread. "Do you have kids?" Now, just to be clear, it's not the question that bothers me. It's the reaction to our answer. It is perfectly ok to ask a couple if they have kids, especially when they look like they're in their thirties and it's feasible they might. It's what happens next that burns my britches. We say "not yet," or just "nope" without any happy expression to be seen. And, like the waitress last night, people tend to say some variation of "Oh, you're so lucky." Given, if you don't have kids you have certain freedoms. You can sleep in without someone crying in the next room or jumping on your sternum whining "Mommymommymommy wake up I need juice." You can go out to dinner more freely. You aren't spending money on diapers and school supplies (for others) and food for more than just the two of you. At least, if you don't have kids by choice, either because you aren't trying or you don't intend to try. It's a little different when you have been working very hard to lose those freedoms but to no avail. So do we feel lucky? Not so much.
Last night Bryce was my hero. Usually he just says something sarcastic and laughs it off or virtually dismisses it. Like the other day when he got breakfast at the Wegman's across from his office and one of the ladies he sees every day said "Do you have kids? You'd be a great father. I bet kids just love you! You should have kids!" and Bryce's response was "No, kids don't like me." It's a defense mechanism, and his friend totally got what he meant. Haha, kids don't like Bryce because we've technically conceived 8 times--8 little embryos, half me and half Bryce, have gone into my uterus--but none of them have stayed. Or stayed very long. Haha, kids don't want to hang out with us. Very funny. At first when Bryce takes that tack with people I get irritated--like he's misrepresenting himself to avoid the conversation and somehow jinxing us. But I do kind of get where he's coming from.
Except last night, Bryce rose the to occasion first. The waitress asked her question, and I said "Not yet." She said, "Oh, you're so lucky!" and Bryce immediately (but very politely) said, "No, actually, we're not lucky at all." I added that it wasn't for lack of trying, and she said "Well, just keep at it, it will happen!" and then Bryce said, "Well, we've been at it pretty hard core for two years, so the last thing we feel is lucky." She said, "Well, at least you can save your money for when you do have kids!" (can't really blame the lady for trying to find something positive), but then Bryce quickly said, "Yeah, that would be nice, except all our money goes into trying to HAVE the kids. We're in medical treatment for everything." I did temper things with "I guess we are a little lucky, we can sleep in and enjoy our time to ourselves for now" (but it does feel like a crappy consolation prize). That poor, poor waitress. She totally got more than she was planning on with that conversation. She felt really bad, but for once Bryce told me after, "I really didn't mind it if she got uncomfortable. You shouldn't ask a question if you don't want an honest answer--if you're going to tell a childless couple that they're 'lucky,' then you should be prepared for the response if that's the last thing we feel. She asked the question, I just answered it." I LOVE THIS MAN.
Because that's the thing--we do appreciate the freedoms that we have since we don't have kids yet. The nice bottle of wine, the nights out at Maria's, sort-of-sleeping in (instead of kids crying or begging for breakfast or saying "Mommy-up!" we have a dog who walks around and digs his nails into the floor around the bed until you take him out, a cat who is banished to downstairs with a baby gate because he cries and whines at 7 on the dot or when the toilet flushes (whichever comes first), and another cat who occasionally sleeps in the bedroom but will lick your face until you wake up if he's hungry...so we really don't totally get out of the morning scenario. Although you can ignore animals to a point whereas you can't really ignore your child...). But our later mornings are in no way better than what we want more than anything. I would welcome needing a bigger car or having to haul baby crap with me everywhere I go or having someone puke on my feet in the middle of the night if it meant we finally had the family we dream of. We don't feel like we are lucky, not at all. Lucky is not failed procedure after failed procedure, complications out the wazoo, and finally getting pregnant only to have it end in surgery due to an embryo with a crappy sense of direction. Lucky is not spending tens of thousands of dollars and feeling trapped in the sense that we have no idea, none at all, when this will end and how much we will need to put into it in every possible way. Lucky is not feeling totally exhausted at the thought of injecting myself again and feeling terrified of what our results will be on our next go-round--if it's negative I will be sad, but if it's positive I will be so nervous that something will go wrong until I can hit a "safe" point. And I really don't know when that is anymore. Lucky is not technically having extra time, but spending it all in a doctor's office or acupuncture appointments, or doing 8 billion little things to "relax" and "prepare your body." It's not waiting by the phone to see if your dreams will finally come true or if, again, you are decidedly unlucky. Yup, we definitely do NOT feel free or lucky right now.
So, while I feel a little badly that our waitress last night got an earful, I think she will think twice before flippantly saying "You're so lucky!" to another couple if they don't have kids. Maybe she will just say "Ok" and move on to some other small talk topic. Maybe by being the weird people who were firm and detailed but polite about how unlucky we are, we have saved some other infertile couple the same situation.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Rearranging
This was a productive weekend. We stopped bitching about how we feel crowded in our house, and started to do something about it. Bryce has been building bookshelves, built-ins, to go on either side of our fireplace. This will hopefully solve some of our storage issues for books (we have about a zillion, which is wonderful but they cover every possible surface), and use some space that isn't being effectively utilized. But, in order to put the bookcases there, other things had to move. Which started a flurry of furniture-sliding, rug-rolling, and piling-crap-onto-the-dining-room-table-ing. It was awesome.
We tried about four different configurations. What we ended up with involved rethinking the way we see our first floor. Our house has no entryway. You walk in and BAM! You're in the living room. We sort of faked an entryway before, by putting the couch as a divider and creating a sort of hallway. We had a desk and the wine fridge in a little recessed area by the (tiny) coat closet and a letter-holder-key-hook thing hanging on the wall above it. And what happened is stuff piled up on the desk, it wasn't an entirely usable space, and we weren't fooling anyone. Still no foyer in our house. So we moved all that stuff--the desk went to the upstairs nook that was empty, waiting for the trestle table with benches and basket storage underneath that Bryce was planning to build (it is lovely to have married a handyman with flair and talent!). The trestle table that was going to be a crafting-coloring-homework station for phantom futurechildren. But, we needed the built-in bookshelves more, and more immediately, so the trestle project got tabled (ha, ha) but the nook remained empty. Which is a colossal waste of space. So, the desk went up there, my school crap and laptop went there, and hopefully my files will go up there too, neatly and in a system that works (haven't quite figured that out yet). It's ironic, because when I first moved in, the nook was where my desk and office was originally. And it moved because I am a hot mess piler. But, this is a sacrifice I must make. We don't have enough space in this house for me to hide my piling in a room that's better suited for storage. I need to reform my ways and practice some of what I teach all day in the resource room...organization and time management. So I'm back in the nook.
Which is great, but leads to other spaces that we have that are being "saved." Like my little room upstairs. This is a guest room that was my first total stamp on our house. I totally redid it, with input from Bryce but the concept was all mine. Coastal, cozy, and airy despite the fact that it's the tiniest room ever. The room, even though it is one of my favorites in the house, almost never gets used. Because it's supposed to be the baby's room. All of my picture books went in there, in a window seat Bryce built years ago. Then all my Maine picture books went in there on display. Then the drawers of the nightstand and little dresser started filling with pregnancy books and organizers. And, unfortunately, drawered they stay. I used to go in there for meditation. I used to go in there and read to my belly, to encourage my slow grower to keep up the good work. Lately, it's just a smidge painful to go in there. I can see where the crib goes, and how I'd keep the little dresser for baby clothes and put baskets in the built-in bookshelf for baby stuff. But it's still empty. It's not even truly waiting for someone who's getting ready to make his/her home in there. But, in the vein of our rearranging/ reorganizing/space-utilizing frenzy, I think we will have to tackle that room too. I can't afford to have a museum room that's kinda-sorta a shrine to the baby we don't have yet. I can picture me in there, feeding my FutureBaby, rocking my FutureBaby in my glider, putting my FutureBaby down for a nap. But I should actually use the room now. Maybe if I use the room now we'll actually need it sooner. (Odd logic, but not the first time my mind has worked in mysterious ways. And actually, that's Bryce's theory. Once we start using that space regularly and appropriate it to something else, require it for something else, we'll need it for FutureBaby(ies). I wish it were that easy!)
So anyway, back to the living room. We moved the desk upstairs, and the wine fridge to a temporary home in the living room (it will go in the storage room that's now my hot mess piled office, once we're I'm done with that project). We put another table that Bryce built, his first, next to the door and made THAT the depository/entryway place. We'll put a basket underneath with organizers for mail, stamps, bills, coupons, etc. and keep the letter organizer on top. My school bag(s) go underneath. The table fit perfectly. We decided not to separate the room, but to use the whole space as the living room. Bryce's leather Morris chair, which is the seat everyone gravitates towards when they come over, moved to the recessed area as a little reading nook that was still close enough to the couch area so that if we had a lot of people over (ha, ha) the person in that chair could still be connected. The couch (really a loveseat) is on the wall with the windows. The ottoman is faking a loveseat on the opposite wall. The coffee table is between the two. The coffee-colored armchair is floating at the top. It's open, airy, roomy, and cozy. All of a sudden our living room doesn't seem so small and crowded.
The best part about the rearrangment is that last night, as we were sitting and reading and drinking a yummy California Zinfandel, Bryce said he loved the new space. That now there's room for playing and running around. That finally, he can see children fitting into our house (or at least child, singular). I can see it, too. I can see the toys and space for bins for the toys. I can see the exersaucer and the floor mat. And Bryce made the point too...it feels like we're nesting, like we're getting physically ready for what it's taking us so long to achieve. Our house has been a stressor--and while we realize that rearranging one room does not account for the chaos and pure "stuff" that comes with a tiny child, at least we are further ahead of the game than we were. It cost us nothing to make this shift this weekend. All it took was the time to totally rearrange everything and see things in a different way.
We tried about four different configurations. What we ended up with involved rethinking the way we see our first floor. Our house has no entryway. You walk in and BAM! You're in the living room. We sort of faked an entryway before, by putting the couch as a divider and creating a sort of hallway. We had a desk and the wine fridge in a little recessed area by the (tiny) coat closet and a letter-holder-key-hook thing hanging on the wall above it. And what happened is stuff piled up on the desk, it wasn't an entirely usable space, and we weren't fooling anyone. Still no foyer in our house. So we moved all that stuff--the desk went to the upstairs nook that was empty, waiting for the trestle table with benches and basket storage underneath that Bryce was planning to build (it is lovely to have married a handyman with flair and talent!). The trestle table that was going to be a crafting-coloring-homework station for phantom futurechildren. But, we needed the built-in bookshelves more, and more immediately, so the trestle project got tabled (ha, ha) but the nook remained empty. Which is a colossal waste of space. So, the desk went up there, my school crap and laptop went there, and hopefully my files will go up there too, neatly and in a system that works (haven't quite figured that out yet). It's ironic, because when I first moved in, the nook was where my desk and office was originally. And it moved because I am a hot mess piler. But, this is a sacrifice I must make. We don't have enough space in this house for me to hide my piling in a room that's better suited for storage. I need to reform my ways and practice some of what I teach all day in the resource room...organization and time management. So I'm back in the nook.
Which is great, but leads to other spaces that we have that are being "saved." Like my little room upstairs. This is a guest room that was my first total stamp on our house. I totally redid it, with input from Bryce but the concept was all mine. Coastal, cozy, and airy despite the fact that it's the tiniest room ever. The room, even though it is one of my favorites in the house, almost never gets used. Because it's supposed to be the baby's room. All of my picture books went in there, in a window seat Bryce built years ago. Then all my Maine picture books went in there on display. Then the drawers of the nightstand and little dresser started filling with pregnancy books and organizers. And, unfortunately, drawered they stay. I used to go in there for meditation. I used to go in there and read to my belly, to encourage my slow grower to keep up the good work. Lately, it's just a smidge painful to go in there. I can see where the crib goes, and how I'd keep the little dresser for baby clothes and put baskets in the built-in bookshelf for baby stuff. But it's still empty. It's not even truly waiting for someone who's getting ready to make his/her home in there. But, in the vein of our rearranging/ reorganizing/space-utilizing frenzy, I think we will have to tackle that room too. I can't afford to have a museum room that's kinda-sorta a shrine to the baby we don't have yet. I can picture me in there, feeding my FutureBaby, rocking my FutureBaby in my glider, putting my FutureBaby down for a nap. But I should actually use the room now. Maybe if I use the room now we'll actually need it sooner. (Odd logic, but not the first time my mind has worked in mysterious ways. And actually, that's Bryce's theory. Once we start using that space regularly and appropriate it to something else, require it for something else, we'll need it for FutureBaby(ies). I wish it were that easy!)
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| Our new "entryway" |
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| The new reading nook |
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| Fake "loveseat" |
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| Imagine the built-ins flanking the fireplace. |
Monday, September 26, 2011
Finally Ready For Some Positives
Ok, so I realize I have been particularly gloom-and-doom and woe-is-me lately. I don't apologize for it (it's where I am and where I've been, and it's probably where anyone in this situation would be too...), but I feel badly subjecting people to my pure, unadulterated sorrow. Time for a little pick-me-up.
At the time that everything was going down the tubes (or up...ha. ha. ha.), when people would tell me that "hey! there's a lot of positives here you can take from this!," I did not want to hear it. I knew there were a lot of good things to be grateful for and look forward to, but at the time when your world goes topsy-turvy and what could have been your greatest joy turns into your greatest sorrow, you just don't want to even entertain the good stuff. My choice was to acknowledge it and then turn right back to grieving all that was lost. I wasn't ready to look forward to what we had gained along the way.
But now, a bit over a month later, I am ready to think about and be thankful for everything GOOD that came out of this cycle, from the obvious to the not-so-obvious.
At the time that everything was going down the tubes (or up...ha. ha. ha.), when people would tell me that "hey! there's a lot of positives here you can take from this!," I did not want to hear it. I knew there were a lot of good things to be grateful for and look forward to, but at the time when your world goes topsy-turvy and what could have been your greatest joy turns into your greatest sorrow, you just don't want to even entertain the good stuff. My choice was to acknowledge it and then turn right back to grieving all that was lost. I wasn't ready to look forward to what we had gained along the way.
But now, a bit over a month later, I am ready to think about and be thankful for everything GOOD that came out of this cycle, from the obvious to the not-so-obvious.
- We actually got pregnant. I was feeling snarky at first about this, like "yeah, I can get pregnant in my tube, but does that mean anything really?" Apparently it does. Getting pregnant in your tube does indicate that you can get pregnant in your uterus. (And not what I thought it might be, that my uterus was so inhospitable that my poor embryo clawed its way up my tube to escape it.)
- We got to experience being pregnant. I felt nauseous and was
happythrilled about it. I could feel a connection to that ill-fated being, even as early as it was. It was beautiful as much as it was sad, and I so look forward to having that feeling again. Hopefully relatively soon. - We had a kick-ass cycle. Even though it ended poorly, everything leading up to that low positive was phenomenal. We had our best quality ever, our best fertilization ever, our most robust embryos yet. I wrote a thank-you note to my doctor about how awesome the cycle was, because even though there was a bad ending (or a lucky ending, if you think about it in terms that my tube was stretched incredibly taut and a day or two more and who knows what could have happened!), everything leading up to the end and the way the end was handled was just stellar. We couldn't be happier. (Actually, we could, but that just didn't happen this time.)
- We have frozens! I can't highlight this enough. In the beginning I was devastated when we didn't have frozens--I thought they were a given and felt cheated that we had none. The second time the fact that we had no frozens was not surprising. So to have frozens this third time is amazing. We get a second shot sooner than we could do a fresh cycle and for way less money. We got a bonus this time! (And, since we did get pregnant with the embryos from the fresh, we have a better chance of getting pregnant with the frozens, per some research I've read.)
- We have discovered that we can suffer a horrible turn of events, a traumatizing loss and physical setback, and still bounce back enough to want to do this again. We are resilient. Sometimes I don't feel so resilient and just want to hide under the covers all day and not face any of this. But then I buck up and realize if I want to be a mom, I can't hide away in the dark forever. We are fighters. We have our eyes on the prize, even if we're bloodied and broken and bruised all over.
- I now take my asthma medication very, very seriously. The funny thing about taking a medication that truly controls your asthma is that you get lulled into a false sense of security. You think you don't really need it. Your lungs are clear every time a doctor listens. So when you forget one day and your HCG numbers go up significantly, you have a very misguided hypothesis...you should totally go off your meds to sustain your pregnancy. You don't need 'em. Oops. That kind of thinking left me feeling like I was drowning after coming out of anesthesia, coughing and gasping for air and needing nebulizer treatments. Oh, and coughing right after three abdominal incisions are closed? Not such a hot idea. So I learned my lesson. If you have asthma and your doctor prescribes medicine and it works, for Pete's sake take it!!! I will never miss a dose again. It turns out babies need oxygen, and so do I.
- I have amazing friends and family. I was so, so touched by every single card, phone call, coffee run, text, email, flower delivery, special prize packet, visit, baked good, etc. etc. etc. that we received during our time of loss. I felt so loved and so supported and it was totally overwhelming. I cried a lot when I received kindness and sympathy, because it was just so beautiful to receive so much love from so many people. It made a tremendous difference. Thank you.
- My relationship got stronger. It is incredibly hard to go through this process and care for your relationship. The emotional swings are wicked and sometimes it is easy to lash out at the person closest to you when you are so filled with sorrow and anger that you just need to release something. And it is just so hard to feel so beaten down and unlucky all the time. But instead of fighting like crazy (which would be totally unsurprising), we have found new ways to talk through why we are angry, or sad, or just really bitchy (guess who that is?). We can be irritable with each other, but we remain a united front. We make plans. We talk about what was really sad, and what we didn't understand about the others' reactions. We are still a team, which is awesome. I don't know what I'd do if we weren't so solid. I feel incredibly lucky to have found a love that can sustain this kind of trauma and stay intact. I wish that we didn't have to go through all this, but since we do, I'm incredibly thankful that I have such an amazing husband to share the pain and the joy with.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Wednesdays
Wednesdays are hard. I was born on a Wednesday (Wednesday's child is full of woe, how pleasant is that old poem? I'd like a rewrite, please), but that's not why. Wednesday is the day I had my surgery that removed my dysfunctional ectopic pregnancy. Four Wednesdays ago at this time I was still pregnant. Four Wednesdays ago, about an hour from now, I was under anesthesia and becoming not-pregnant.
Wednesdays tend to be a day of wound re-opening. I am ok during the day, when I am busy with my new teaching job. But in the evening, I can't help but still dwell on the fact that just four weeks ago I was pregnant (albeit knowingly on my way to a surgical miscarriage of sorts, and so aware that it was short-lived). I cry a lot on Wednesdays.
Physically, four weeks later, I am 95% ok. I am still sore a bit at my site where the tube and pregnancy left my body. My muscles are still a little pissed off at the trauma from the surgery and my not-so-stellar recovery. But I can walk normally now and I can even go up stairs at a brisk, bouncy pace. I am not in pain and can almost forget that just a few weeks ago I was on heavy painkillers and stuck in bed.
Emotionally, four weeks later, I am barely passing. I would put my emotional grade at a 68%. I can hold it together at work for the most part (except for after school today, when the guidance staff put out an email of grief resources for students going through family tragedies, and it hit a little too close to home to my own grief for the baby that wasn't meant to be). But when I get home and have space to think, it's hard. I think about how I have de-pregnified my existence. How I took the baggie of pretzels out of my purse because I don't need a snack to not feel nauseous anymore. How when I find the little box of ginger candies in my purse it makes me want to cry because they aren't necessary for daily living anymore. How when I cleaned out a tote bag for bringing my stuff to school I came across the pregnancy book I bought when on the business trip with Bryce outside of Boston--I wanted so badly to have something new and mine and related to my pregnancy, as though it would somehow be a magical talisman to keep my ill-fated pregnancy afloat. It went into the little room, the mythical baby's room, where all my pregnancy books, and picture books, and board books that we used to read to my belly during our short period of being pregnant reside for the moment. Our house is pretty much pregnancy-free. I am enjoying the last of my glass of wine right now, and even that makes me sad--four weeks ago I wasn't drinking wine because I was pregnant. While I enjoy my wine and my margaritas on Friday nights, even that pleasurable vice comes with a twinge of grief. I wish I wasn't drinking right now. I wish I was actually going to be 11 weeks on Saturday, instead of expecting my period. (I'm holding onto the hope that maybe the fact that I was pregnant, no matter how briefly, might reset my dysfunctional menstrual cycle. Maybe I'll ovulate this month. Ha.) It's amazing how many little reminders I find that I once had it in me to believe I was a miracle and that, for a short time, I was the miracle. I think they're mostly removed and displaced though.
At some point, all of these things will come back out as we plan for our next attempt with our frozen embryos. But right now I am not ready. I am still in a state of mourning for my brief pregnancy that felt much longer than it actually was. I enjoy my wine but taste the bitterness that is knowing I can drink wine because we didn't quite make it to our miracle. I can't help but wonder, when will Wednesday just be Hump Day, a celebration of the weekend that is almost here? When will it not be a painful reminder of the Wednesday when our hopes of being an exception in a good way were excised along with our ill-fated pregnancy and my tube? Soon, I hope. It gets a little less jagged every week. But this week, this fourth weekly anniversary of the end of something that had already gone wrong, I can still feel the stabbing pain of loss. I guess I can look forward to the transition from stab wound to blunt object.
Wednesdays tend to be a day of wound re-opening. I am ok during the day, when I am busy with my new teaching job. But in the evening, I can't help but still dwell on the fact that just four weeks ago I was pregnant (albeit knowingly on my way to a surgical miscarriage of sorts, and so aware that it was short-lived). I cry a lot on Wednesdays.
Physically, four weeks later, I am 95% ok. I am still sore a bit at my site where the tube and pregnancy left my body. My muscles are still a little pissed off at the trauma from the surgery and my not-so-stellar recovery. But I can walk normally now and I can even go up stairs at a brisk, bouncy pace. I am not in pain and can almost forget that just a few weeks ago I was on heavy painkillers and stuck in bed.
Emotionally, four weeks later, I am barely passing. I would put my emotional grade at a 68%. I can hold it together at work for the most part (except for after school today, when the guidance staff put out an email of grief resources for students going through family tragedies, and it hit a little too close to home to my own grief for the baby that wasn't meant to be). But when I get home and have space to think, it's hard. I think about how I have de-pregnified my existence. How I took the baggie of pretzels out of my purse because I don't need a snack to not feel nauseous anymore. How when I find the little box of ginger candies in my purse it makes me want to cry because they aren't necessary for daily living anymore. How when I cleaned out a tote bag for bringing my stuff to school I came across the pregnancy book I bought when on the business trip with Bryce outside of Boston--I wanted so badly to have something new and mine and related to my pregnancy, as though it would somehow be a magical talisman to keep my ill-fated pregnancy afloat. It went into the little room, the mythical baby's room, where all my pregnancy books, and picture books, and board books that we used to read to my belly during our short period of being pregnant reside for the moment. Our house is pretty much pregnancy-free. I am enjoying the last of my glass of wine right now, and even that makes me sad--four weeks ago I wasn't drinking wine because I was pregnant. While I enjoy my wine and my margaritas on Friday nights, even that pleasurable vice comes with a twinge of grief. I wish I wasn't drinking right now. I wish I was actually going to be 11 weeks on Saturday, instead of expecting my period. (I'm holding onto the hope that maybe the fact that I was pregnant, no matter how briefly, might reset my dysfunctional menstrual cycle. Maybe I'll ovulate this month. Ha.) It's amazing how many little reminders I find that I once had it in me to believe I was a miracle and that, for a short time, I was the miracle. I think they're mostly removed and displaced though.
At some point, all of these things will come back out as we plan for our next attempt with our frozen embryos. But right now I am not ready. I am still in a state of mourning for my brief pregnancy that felt much longer than it actually was. I enjoy my wine but taste the bitterness that is knowing I can drink wine because we didn't quite make it to our miracle. I can't help but wonder, when will Wednesday just be Hump Day, a celebration of the weekend that is almost here? When will it not be a painful reminder of the Wednesday when our hopes of being an exception in a good way were excised along with our ill-fated pregnancy and my tube? Soon, I hope. It gets a little less jagged every week. But this week, this fourth weekly anniversary of the end of something that had already gone wrong, I can still feel the stabbing pain of loss. I guess I can look forward to the transition from stab wound to blunt object.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Out of Space?
One thing that we have noticed about infertility is that it puts you in a state of temporary(ish) paralysis. Ordinarily, in the fertile world, you might be able to actually plan for the expansion of your family. If you don't have enough space, you make the decision to move or stay put and add on, or buy new furniture that fits your needs. Because you know for sure that your family is expanding, and it costs you money for the pregnancy (prenatal care, maternity clothes, nursery outfitting etc.) and for the baby's needs (bottles, diapers, formula, clothes, etc.) but the pregnancy itself was free and took some working with a calendar but not much extracurricular planning and medicating. So while it can be overwhelming to realize how much a baby costs once it's on it's way and/or arrived with all the equipment and gear that needs to be fit into your home somehow, the pregnancy itself didn't cost anything to achieve.
Enter infertility. I hate to keep harping on the fact that it costs so much for us to have a baby, I really do. I do not see our future progeny as one big dollar sign/money suck. However, it is incredibly frustrating to realize that our child is costing us their college fund before they even exist (sorry, kiddo(s), it's loans and scholarships for you unless we hit it big). And even more frustrating to realize that we have NO IDEA when this crazy rollercoaster of treatment will end, and if it will even actually end in a biological child. If it doesn't, and we decide to go another route, it's not like people are handing out babies to adopt on the corner for free, like surplus kittens. It costs a lot of money to adopt a child. And adoption is not exactly an easy process. I know of an awful lot of people who have had domestic adoptions fall through because the birth parent decided they wanted to parent after all (the length of time after you bring that baby home that you may have to turn around and hand that baby back depends on the laws in your state), or who have had difficulty adopting internationally because different countries have different rules on how long you must be married first, or how old you can be to adopt a younger child, or who close the door on international adoptions temporarily or permanently. There is no such thing as "just adopt." It is its own pricey, time-consuming, emotionally draining pathway to parenthood. Both pathways are beautiful and there's no "right" way to go about it--it's what works for you. For my husband and me, we want to exhaust the pregnancy pathway (biological or not) before we consider the adoption pathway. And, from what we've been told, a biological child is within the realm of realistic possibility. We have just been ridiculously unlucky so far.
So back to the topic at hand--we are stuck at the moment. We have no idea how much money we will have to spend overall. We have been very fortunate to have received financial assistance from programs and family, and so aren't eye-deep in debt for our three fresh cycles so far. However, it's not just the actual medical costs that add up. It's the organic eating; the Maya massage to prep the uterus; the vitamins and supplements to improve egg quality, thicken the uterine lining, and reduce possible birth defects; the counseling (I found an amazing counselor that I connect with and work very well with, but she is not affiliated with the free counseling offered by my clinic--an added expense but totally worth it); the yoga... All of it adds up to hundreds of dollars per month spent outside of actual doctor's appointments, procedures, and ridiculously expensive medication. So, even though we are fortunate to be in a good place with our income and to have people helping us out, it makes things very tight. We are not able to plan ahead.
Case in point--we spent almost our entire weekend trying to figure out how we can make our house work for us. We have a lovely house, a 1930's cape on a quiet cul-de-sac that backs to a wooded ravine. It's private, and also close to civilization. It's a 3 minute commute for my husband and a 15-20 minute commute for me. We are very lucky. Except for one thing--the house itself is not laid out well. It's rabbit-warren-y. And we have a major storage problem. We are constantly running out of room to put things and it's hard to assign useful function to different rooms. And there's only the two of us, our dog, and the two cats. No baby and thus none of the myriad gadgets/equipment that accompany the precious bundle. So we are, of course, freaking out. How are we going to find space for everything? We can't even keep everything we've got under control! We have gone back and forth--do we sacrifice our awesome location and killer outdoor space and move to a house that better suits our needs that might not be in the neighborhood that we like? Or do we love where we are so much that we need to bite the bullet and add on a two-story addition when the time is right? We honestly don't know. And the key phrase here is when the time is right. When is that, exactly? When we are finally at the end of our second trimester and can hope that we aren't such magnets for misfortune that we could still lose a baby late in the game? When we have squeezed twins into the tiny room that will be the baby's room? I don't even know if that's possible. If we have one baby, we could probably make things work until 12 months. Giving us about two years. Assuming that our next attempt works, which unfortunately, as much as we'd really like to, we just can't assume. So we're stuck. We are frustrated by our lack of space, but any major renovation or moving project is going to cost money, money we need to earmark for the babymaking itself. Even organizational solutions to make our space work cost money that is hard to part with when we have impending cycles to consider. And, honestly, we don't need the extra space, not really and truly, until we do accomplish what seems so elusive and nearly impossible--having an expanded family. It sucks. It is robbing us of the ability to plan for our family and to dream about what we can do to give this precious, incredibly desired baby the space he/she needs. It has us feeling cramped only because in our heads, we can already see the high chair, and the pack-n-play, and the exersaucer, and the basket of toys in the living room. But it's not really there. And it won't be, at least for another year or so, if we're extraordinarily lucky.
So, we have decided to try to make what we have work for us, for the time being, and to try to not even entertain all the other options until that's something we need to do. Because it is so depressing to realize that everything hinges on treatment working, and we have no guarantees. We can make our house work for the two of us (and if we can't, then we really have a problem!). We just so want to be able to plan ahead for the future that we can both see and almost taste, but just can't quite make reality yet.
Enter infertility. I hate to keep harping on the fact that it costs so much for us to have a baby, I really do. I do not see our future progeny as one big dollar sign/money suck. However, it is incredibly frustrating to realize that our child is costing us their college fund before they even exist (sorry, kiddo(s), it's loans and scholarships for you unless we hit it big). And even more frustrating to realize that we have NO IDEA when this crazy rollercoaster of treatment will end, and if it will even actually end in a biological child. If it doesn't, and we decide to go another route, it's not like people are handing out babies to adopt on the corner for free, like surplus kittens. It costs a lot of money to adopt a child. And adoption is not exactly an easy process. I know of an awful lot of people who have had domestic adoptions fall through because the birth parent decided they wanted to parent after all (the length of time after you bring that baby home that you may have to turn around and hand that baby back depends on the laws in your state), or who have had difficulty adopting internationally because different countries have different rules on how long you must be married first, or how old you can be to adopt a younger child, or who close the door on international adoptions temporarily or permanently. There is no such thing as "just adopt." It is its own pricey, time-consuming, emotionally draining pathway to parenthood. Both pathways are beautiful and there's no "right" way to go about it--it's what works for you. For my husband and me, we want to exhaust the pregnancy pathway (biological or not) before we consider the adoption pathway. And, from what we've been told, a biological child is within the realm of realistic possibility. We have just been ridiculously unlucky so far.
So back to the topic at hand--we are stuck at the moment. We have no idea how much money we will have to spend overall. We have been very fortunate to have received financial assistance from programs and family, and so aren't eye-deep in debt for our three fresh cycles so far. However, it's not just the actual medical costs that add up. It's the organic eating; the Maya massage to prep the uterus; the vitamins and supplements to improve egg quality, thicken the uterine lining, and reduce possible birth defects; the counseling (I found an amazing counselor that I connect with and work very well with, but she is not affiliated with the free counseling offered by my clinic--an added expense but totally worth it); the yoga... All of it adds up to hundreds of dollars per month spent outside of actual doctor's appointments, procedures, and ridiculously expensive medication. So, even though we are fortunate to be in a good place with our income and to have people helping us out, it makes things very tight. We are not able to plan ahead.
Case in point--we spent almost our entire weekend trying to figure out how we can make our house work for us. We have a lovely house, a 1930's cape on a quiet cul-de-sac that backs to a wooded ravine. It's private, and also close to civilization. It's a 3 minute commute for my husband and a 15-20 minute commute for me. We are very lucky. Except for one thing--the house itself is not laid out well. It's rabbit-warren-y. And we have a major storage problem. We are constantly running out of room to put things and it's hard to assign useful function to different rooms. And there's only the two of us, our dog, and the two cats. No baby and thus none of the myriad gadgets/equipment that accompany the precious bundle. So we are, of course, freaking out. How are we going to find space for everything? We can't even keep everything we've got under control! We have gone back and forth--do we sacrifice our awesome location and killer outdoor space and move to a house that better suits our needs that might not be in the neighborhood that we like? Or do we love where we are so much that we need to bite the bullet and add on a two-story addition when the time is right? We honestly don't know. And the key phrase here is when the time is right. When is that, exactly? When we are finally at the end of our second trimester and can hope that we aren't such magnets for misfortune that we could still lose a baby late in the game? When we have squeezed twins into the tiny room that will be the baby's room? I don't even know if that's possible. If we have one baby, we could probably make things work until 12 months. Giving us about two years. Assuming that our next attempt works, which unfortunately, as much as we'd really like to, we just can't assume. So we're stuck. We are frustrated by our lack of space, but any major renovation or moving project is going to cost money, money we need to earmark for the babymaking itself. Even organizational solutions to make our space work cost money that is hard to part with when we have impending cycles to consider. And, honestly, we don't need the extra space, not really and truly, until we do accomplish what seems so elusive and nearly impossible--having an expanded family. It sucks. It is robbing us of the ability to plan for our family and to dream about what we can do to give this precious, incredibly desired baby the space he/she needs. It has us feeling cramped only because in our heads, we can already see the high chair, and the pack-n-play, and the exersaucer, and the basket of toys in the living room. But it's not really there. And it won't be, at least for another year or so, if we're extraordinarily lucky.
So, we have decided to try to make what we have work for us, for the time being, and to try to not even entertain all the other options until that's something we need to do. Because it is so depressing to realize that everything hinges on treatment working, and we have no guarantees. We can make our house work for the two of us (and if we can't, then we really have a problem!). We just so want to be able to plan ahead for the future that we can both see and almost taste, but just can't quite make reality yet.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Compartmentalizing
It's been three weeks now since the surgery that ended my doomed pregnancy. That seems like not that long ago at all and a lifetime ago, all at the same time. On Monday I had to buck up and go back to school, go back to work, go back to at least appearing like a normal human being and not a walking sad sack of a tragic story. It's been four days of Teacher Me--which actually feels like a lifetime. Every day takes so much out of me in every respect, and I am ridiculously hard on myself. Tuesday I had a difficult day and felt very ineffective and like I didn't know what I'm doing (because I'm new and...I don't, not really)--and I went home and cried on the couch to my husband. He was like, "You're right. You've been at this what, two days? You should totally be an expert by now." Sometimes perspective from someone else is really helpful when you have apparently lost all of yours. Because I have to put so much energy into learning all of my kids; learning two different buildings in terms of staff, curriculum, politics, etc.; and setting up plans for a program I have never done before, I have zero energy to put into my own baggage from this past experience. So I have to compartmentalize.
I have found that the best way to make it through my days at work without being the weird new teacher who runs to the bathroom to cry, or is constantly quiver-lipped, is to leave the traumatized part of me at home. I don't talk about it at school. I really don't have time to think about it at school. And if I find myself thinking about it, I have to shut that down quick because I can't afford to be messy at school. I know no one there, not really. Everyone has been great and supportive, but these are people that I met for the first time in June and have spent only hours with when it comes down to it. So I don't have to talk about it, even though it does linger in the ether a bit simply by the fact that I missed the first week of school and so missed being introduced at faculty meetings--so there are a lot of people who I meet in hallways or who stop by and who innocently ask why I was out (or just matter-of-factly comment on it, "Ah yes, I didn't meet you last week because you were out."). Not that many people have asked, and when they do I simply say "I had emergency surgery." Because I'm pretty sure going in for ultrasound at 2:00 and going under the knife 9 hours later after phone finagling by your doctor to get an OR the same day counts as an emergency. If I'm asked what kind of surgery, I say "the emergency kind." People who simply comment and don't ask just get a confirmation--Yes, I was out, but I'm back now and excited to be teaching in the building.
It's weird, because I have always been so open. Although sometimes I question that decision, like when I have so many people to update when things go horribly wrong. If I didn't tell quite so many people, I wouldn't have to go through the torture of explaining my story, over and over and over again. This year I think I can be a little sneaky--my morning building is super supportive. Most of my appointments are in the morning, so if I miss there, they will know why and it won't travel to my afternoon building. (I say "afternoon" but it's really 10:20 that I move buildings...my sense of time is skewed. That tends to happen when you eat lunch at 10:30 in the morning!) So I can compartmentalize myself that way, too--I can have a building where I have fewer students and a shorter timeframe for being there where people know (because they'll sort of have to if I need coverage for monitoring appointments), and my more challenging afternoon building where I am at full capacity and teaching straight through the last three periods of the day, where I am responsible for reviewing everything from Algebra to German to Earth Science and my head is spinning by the end of the day, where almost no one knows. There is no room for infertility at that building whatsoever. There is room for infertility in my car, crying as I drive home. There is room for infertility when I walk the dog. I think I may be the crazy lady on the street--I was the shuffling post-op walker in my pjs, and now I'm the sad-looking teary-eyed dog walker after school. But at least I'm not the sad-looking, teary-eyed new teacher.
My compartmentalizing plan occasionally has hiccups--like when I ran into a teacher from the high school who also moved to the 9th grade academy. It was a fire drill, with my most challenging group of students. She had known about what I was going through and knew what had happened in the summer, and she gave me a wonderful hug and expressed her sympathy. And I was rendered a near puddle. I couldn't even talk because had I opened my mouth I probably would have been wracked with sobs or outright bawling, and that would not be good in front of my students. This woman knew all of my hopes for this cycle and how devastating the loss was. And her knowing that opened me up to knowing that at school, which was not so great. She understood and didn't say more, but I felt badly--here was someone who was offering me condolences and support, but I just couldn't accept it in that setting. It was putting major cracks in the box I had put all that sadness into for the school day. I couldn't handle it. It's like my tears have welled up to about my nose-level, and if I see someone who knows to offer sympathy it starts the waterworks going. I'm not quite at the verge of tears but as close to the verge as I can get. I'm on the verge of the verge of tears.
Overall, this compartmentalizing strategy is working out pretty well for me, despite the occasional near-misses. I have yet to cry in school. I have come close, but I haven't spilled over.
I discovered that I also compartmentalize in a different way. Today we had our follow-up appointment with our doctor to discuss both the surgery (while I am not doped up and likely to forget everything) and our plan to move on to our frozen cycle. We talked at length about what actually happened during my surgery, and I saw the entire series of pictures of my innards. I have one set, and I was going to post them here, but I thought it's possible they may be a bit traumatizing for those who aren't insanely interested in the inner workings of the body and who don't think it's cool to see what a uterus looks like from the inside. But I saw all of the pictures today. And I found out that I compartmentalize differently in my doctor's office. I feel almost a responsibility to be positive and good-natured and humorous about the whole thing there. I feel badly because we are STILL there, working towards our goal. My clinic is awesome and everyone is very caring and friendly and genuinely enjoys seeing us come in, although they'd rather see us leave pregnant. It's another case where kindness and sympathy can open up the floodgates and leave me a puddle, and if I'm a puddle then I can't focus on all the information I need to have about what happened to me and what is going to happen to me with the frozen. I need to turn off the sad, traumatized part of me so that I can be as informed as possible. So I am overly gregarious, instead. It's not like I'm not normally an animated, enthusiastic, silly person. (I actually had a company that I no longer work for tell me in a warning that I was "excessively goofy," which is hilarious since I went on to work for one of the most conservative workplaces in my area with no personality issues. I can be goofy, yes, but I'm always professional in the right context.) I would say that today I bordered on "excessively goofy" at my clinic, making lots of silly references and jokes and trying desperately to keep the mood light. Which took a hell of a lot of effort when seeing the photos of my surgery that I didn't see before. The ones of my tube and pregnancy excised from my body and on a surgical tray, specifically. My tear factory was threatening to go into overdrive. Because seeing it like that was incredibly sad to me. It was neat to see exactly how they removed my tube and the pregnancy, and all of the endometriosis that was removed (thankfully Stage One, so not extensive, but still another piece in our infertile puzzle), and how the surgery was performed with little instruments. But it was completely and totally devastating to see the blue-purple bulge of tissue that was what could have been my baby, trapped in a thin membrane of tube, looking like a tumor. Seeing that made it real again. So immediately I went right into a barrage of questions and jokes about how I can't focus on anything. Because at that moment, I really couldn't focus on what was in front of me. Because it made me so incredibly sad and I was in danger of completely and totally losing my shit in front of my doctor and the student that was sitting in. Poor student, witnessing our complete silliness and odd sense of humor about the whole thing (I wasn't alone...Bryce was also a total goofball at today's appointment). Part of it is real--if you can't laugh about this stuff, you really have no choice other than to lock yourself in a dark room and cry for days. But part of it was a diversionary tactic. A compartmentalizing away my sad self and displaying my happy-go-lucky self.
I'm not burying my feelings, which would be unhealthy. I'm just squirreling them away to another place so that I can safely feel all the sadness and anger and loss in the privacy of my home, or my car. And so that I can put it all here in writing, instead of verbally vomiting it onto unsuspecting coworkers. So that I can be the well-adjusted (if wacky) patient, and not the hot mess I really am on the inside, within my sad, angry little box.
I have found that the best way to make it through my days at work without being the weird new teacher who runs to the bathroom to cry, or is constantly quiver-lipped, is to leave the traumatized part of me at home. I don't talk about it at school. I really don't have time to think about it at school. And if I find myself thinking about it, I have to shut that down quick because I can't afford to be messy at school. I know no one there, not really. Everyone has been great and supportive, but these are people that I met for the first time in June and have spent only hours with when it comes down to it. So I don't have to talk about it, even though it does linger in the ether a bit simply by the fact that I missed the first week of school and so missed being introduced at faculty meetings--so there are a lot of people who I meet in hallways or who stop by and who innocently ask why I was out (or just matter-of-factly comment on it, "Ah yes, I didn't meet you last week because you were out."). Not that many people have asked, and when they do I simply say "I had emergency surgery." Because I'm pretty sure going in for ultrasound at 2:00 and going under the knife 9 hours later after phone finagling by your doctor to get an OR the same day counts as an emergency. If I'm asked what kind of surgery, I say "the emergency kind." People who simply comment and don't ask just get a confirmation--Yes, I was out, but I'm back now and excited to be teaching in the building.
It's weird, because I have always been so open. Although sometimes I question that decision, like when I have so many people to update when things go horribly wrong. If I didn't tell quite so many people, I wouldn't have to go through the torture of explaining my story, over and over and over again. This year I think I can be a little sneaky--my morning building is super supportive. Most of my appointments are in the morning, so if I miss there, they will know why and it won't travel to my afternoon building. (I say "afternoon" but it's really 10:20 that I move buildings...my sense of time is skewed. That tends to happen when you eat lunch at 10:30 in the morning!) So I can compartmentalize myself that way, too--I can have a building where I have fewer students and a shorter timeframe for being there where people know (because they'll sort of have to if I need coverage for monitoring appointments), and my more challenging afternoon building where I am at full capacity and teaching straight through the last three periods of the day, where I am responsible for reviewing everything from Algebra to German to Earth Science and my head is spinning by the end of the day, where almost no one knows. There is no room for infertility at that building whatsoever. There is room for infertility in my car, crying as I drive home. There is room for infertility when I walk the dog. I think I may be the crazy lady on the street--I was the shuffling post-op walker in my pjs, and now I'm the sad-looking teary-eyed dog walker after school. But at least I'm not the sad-looking, teary-eyed new teacher.
My compartmentalizing plan occasionally has hiccups--like when I ran into a teacher from the high school who also moved to the 9th grade academy. It was a fire drill, with my most challenging group of students. She had known about what I was going through and knew what had happened in the summer, and she gave me a wonderful hug and expressed her sympathy. And I was rendered a near puddle. I couldn't even talk because had I opened my mouth I probably would have been wracked with sobs or outright bawling, and that would not be good in front of my students. This woman knew all of my hopes for this cycle and how devastating the loss was. And her knowing that opened me up to knowing that at school, which was not so great. She understood and didn't say more, but I felt badly--here was someone who was offering me condolences and support, but I just couldn't accept it in that setting. It was putting major cracks in the box I had put all that sadness into for the school day. I couldn't handle it. It's like my tears have welled up to about my nose-level, and if I see someone who knows to offer sympathy it starts the waterworks going. I'm not quite at the verge of tears but as close to the verge as I can get. I'm on the verge of the verge of tears.
Overall, this compartmentalizing strategy is working out pretty well for me, despite the occasional near-misses. I have yet to cry in school. I have come close, but I haven't spilled over.
I discovered that I also compartmentalize in a different way. Today we had our follow-up appointment with our doctor to discuss both the surgery (while I am not doped up and likely to forget everything) and our plan to move on to our frozen cycle. We talked at length about what actually happened during my surgery, and I saw the entire series of pictures of my innards. I have one set, and I was going to post them here, but I thought it's possible they may be a bit traumatizing for those who aren't insanely interested in the inner workings of the body and who don't think it's cool to see what a uterus looks like from the inside. But I saw all of the pictures today. And I found out that I compartmentalize differently in my doctor's office. I feel almost a responsibility to be positive and good-natured and humorous about the whole thing there. I feel badly because we are STILL there, working towards our goal. My clinic is awesome and everyone is very caring and friendly and genuinely enjoys seeing us come in, although they'd rather see us leave pregnant. It's another case where kindness and sympathy can open up the floodgates and leave me a puddle, and if I'm a puddle then I can't focus on all the information I need to have about what happened to me and what is going to happen to me with the frozen. I need to turn off the sad, traumatized part of me so that I can be as informed as possible. So I am overly gregarious, instead. It's not like I'm not normally an animated, enthusiastic, silly person. (I actually had a company that I no longer work for tell me in a warning that I was "excessively goofy," which is hilarious since I went on to work for one of the most conservative workplaces in my area with no personality issues. I can be goofy, yes, but I'm always professional in the right context.) I would say that today I bordered on "excessively goofy" at my clinic, making lots of silly references and jokes and trying desperately to keep the mood light. Which took a hell of a lot of effort when seeing the photos of my surgery that I didn't see before. The ones of my tube and pregnancy excised from my body and on a surgical tray, specifically. My tear factory was threatening to go into overdrive. Because seeing it like that was incredibly sad to me. It was neat to see exactly how they removed my tube and the pregnancy, and all of the endometriosis that was removed (thankfully Stage One, so not extensive, but still another piece in our infertile puzzle), and how the surgery was performed with little instruments. But it was completely and totally devastating to see the blue-purple bulge of tissue that was what could have been my baby, trapped in a thin membrane of tube, looking like a tumor. Seeing that made it real again. So immediately I went right into a barrage of questions and jokes about how I can't focus on anything. Because at that moment, I really couldn't focus on what was in front of me. Because it made me so incredibly sad and I was in danger of completely and totally losing my shit in front of my doctor and the student that was sitting in. Poor student, witnessing our complete silliness and odd sense of humor about the whole thing (I wasn't alone...Bryce was also a total goofball at today's appointment). Part of it is real--if you can't laugh about this stuff, you really have no choice other than to lock yourself in a dark room and cry for days. But part of it was a diversionary tactic. A compartmentalizing away my sad self and displaying my happy-go-lucky self.
I'm not burying my feelings, which would be unhealthy. I'm just squirreling them away to another place so that I can safely feel all the sadness and anger and loss in the privacy of my home, or my car. And so that I can put it all here in writing, instead of verbally vomiting it onto unsuspecting coworkers. So that I can be the well-adjusted (if wacky) patient, and not the hot mess I really am on the inside, within my sad, angry little box.
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