The 2 Week Wait

TOUCHDOWN!

2012-02-08T14:37:00.001-05:00

First and foremost, I’m so sorry for the delay in updating the blog. The last week has been a rollercoaster of activity and emotions. HOWEVER, I’m happy to report that MJ is home safe and sound. As you can see from the picture, he went from the lone 8-cell embryo from my third IVF (to review, I had 13 eggs but only ONE embryo to transfer) to the beautiful baby you see next to the photo. It was important to me that the first picture I posted acknowledged infertility and/or IVF in some way as without it, I don’t know if I would have ever been able to hold a baby in my arms. Yaaay modern science!!!

Secondly, after the last sad, scared, worrisome blog posting, I wanted to share with you two little lighter moments in the last week.

1. The first night we brought MJ home, we had him in the bassinet portion of a Pack-n-Play. My husband, who clearly had other things on his mind what with both of us in the hospital, forgot to get batteries to make the Pack-n-Play vibrate. In a desperate effort, I found one of my vibrators (the Pocket Rocket to be specific, which I highly recommend) and tucked it away in the bassinet. I’m happy to report that it did the trick. I’m even happier to report that my husband, totally mortified by my “MacGyver-like-approach”, made certain to get the D batteries needed the very next morning.

2. I didn’t realize the nursing pads were supposed to stick to the bra so for a good week, I’ve been sticking them directly to my breast. Lord only knows what the nurses in the NICU thought when they saw this. Although this was NOT how they were intended and although I feel like a total idiot, I do feel I inadvertently stumbled on a new design as sticking them to my breast kept them from slipping. I’m an idiot genius.

The Readers Digest version of the last week goes like this: MJ was officially diagnosed with Persistent Newborn Pulmonary Hypertension. This is defined as the failure of the normal circulatory transition that should occur after birth (you can read more about it here). He was intubated, given proteins to help build up his lungs, closely monitored and he had both an arterial line and central line put in.

Since I got kicked out of the hospital, we booked the cheapest hotel room nearby and basically went back and forth from the hospital to the hotel. Although the hotel was not anywhere you'd want to steal soap or towels from, it was good for me as I could rest and recover when I needed to but be no more than a five minute walk away so that I could go visit my son whenever possible. It was REALLY F*CKING DIFFICULT to leave without him but I knew he was in good hands and more than anything, I wanted him to be where he could be given the best care.

His progress really started when one night, he peed a whole bunch and MJ’s doctors were super excited about this. They said that was him losing excess fluid from his lungs. Who knew peeing and lungs were at all connected???

Then, the next day, they took him off of the intubation (still giving him oxygen support to be safe) plus they also removed the arterial line. Luckily, he responded well. His respiration, heart rate and blood pressure all started improving so we then saw if he knew how to eat/suck from a bottle. After he passed that test, they removed all breathing support and we tried breastfeeding. Like any man, he was all about the boobs, so they removed the central line, which had been feeding him up until this point. After morning rounds on Sunday, February 5^th, we were told we could take him home.

Obviously, there’s more to share but at present, I’m in that whole, “Holy sh*t! I have a baby and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing phase”. Today is actually my first day with him alone and I hope it goes smoothly and doesn’t become something that he needs to talk to his therapist about.

I just want to say again how much I’ve sincerely appreciated all of your thoughtful, encouraging, kind posts and emails during this time. To be honest, I’m a little shell shocked from the past couple of weeks. Weeks? Who am I kidding! YEARS! Infertility, financial strain, emotional strain, a difficult pregnancy, a last minute C-Section and then the baby having to be in the NICU. I’m beginning to think I need an exorcism.

The thing is that you guys have been here with me through it all and for that, I’ll never be able to repay you. You’ve been my virtual form of Prozac and you have found my uterus as challenging and funny as I do. You are my kind of people and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Beautiful Baby. Empty Arms.

2012-02-01T11:04:00.003-05:00

I’m absolutely overjoyed and proud to share with you that our baby was born on Friday, January 27^th in the early afternoon. He weighs 6 pounds, 9 ounces and I swear to you – he really is beautiful. A perfectly round head that would give Charlie Brown a run for his money, deep blue eyes (from his father), dark brown hair (from his mother) and the meatiest most kissable legs you’ve ever seen. My mother said she’s never seen a baby with such cute knees! Who knew a baby could even be complimented on his knees??? Several of the nurses and doctors have even said that he is an exceptionally handsome baby and when I say, “I’m sure you say that to everyone!”, they promise me they don’t. Even if they are lying, I don’t care. I think he’s gorgeous.

The unfortunate news is that he’s been in the NICU since he was born. I was only able to hold him for approximately 20 seconds before having to hand him over. He’s been in this world for five days now and I haven’t held him again since. I can’t even begin to express how much that has hurt me. I’ve never known such torture.

Despite the fact that the baby was born at 37 weeks and is a good size, his lungs weren’t quite ready for the real world. He can breathe on his own but it’s a lot of work for him. He has both amniotic fluid and air pressure in his lungs so he’s been intubated (which scared the crap out of me but was necessary), he’s been given both medication and a protein to help him build up his lungs, he’s had a central line put in for nourishment (which also scared the crap out of me) and he’s being closely monitored 24/7.

I had hoped that my first post after having my baby would be nothing but a funny, happy one. I do have a few anecdotes from the day he was born as well as some of the events leading up to it but it feels wrong to share them now as the only thing I care about is getting my baby well and back in my arms.

After spending so long trying to get pregnant, many have said to me that infertiles appreciate their baby so much more because they had to work for it. I was also at a baby shower recently of a good friend who got pregnant after struggling as well and I heard a friend of hers say, “It makes sense that after all her struggling to get pregnant, she’s had such an idyllic pregnancy.” Considering those two statements, I can’t help but feel a little pissed off right now. I went through a lot to get pregnant and no one could appreciate or love this baby more than I do and even after all my struggling, I had a fairly difficult pregnancy filled with morning sickness, gestational diabetes, vertigo, a stress fracture, cholestasis and a rushed C-Section. I would have hoped that the universe would have seen it fit to spare me from now having to see my baby hooked up to a million tubes struggling to breathe. I've already learned the 'life isn't fair' lesson. Seriously… can’t any of this ever be easy? Just one part at least? When is enough enough? Yes, it’s a pity party but thanks to my husband who brings me food often, it’s well catered.

I do apologize if that at all seems ungrateful as I truly don’t mean it to be. Every time I see him or get to touch him, the word ‘grateful’ doesn’t even begin to cover what I feel. Nothing is more important to me than him. I have never known I could feel so much love for one little person and the slightest sign from him that he’s ok or that he knows I’m there is one of the greatest feelings I’ve ever known. It’s just that we all have our breaking point to how much strength and humor we can have… and I’m officially close to mine. It’s been a long, crazy road where there have been more than a few times where I’ve had to adjust my sense of what is “normal” and I was hoping to at least have the typical birthing experience where you hold the baby, have him sleep in your hospital room, learn to nurse and bond with your baby while the proud father takes pictures. Instead, I’m bringing people to a room where they see my baby and start to cry because it all looks so scary. I’m alone in my room at night listening to someone else next door comfort their baby. All my pictures of our son, he has a tube coming out of his mouth and he’s sedated. And the worst part, I have to be careful how I even touch him as they don’t want him agitated or it will affect his breathing.

I’ve waited so long for this and dammit, I just want my baby happy, healthy and home.

Many who have known what’s been going on have sent me links, emails, posts and texts about “kangaroo care” and that’s where the mother having skin-to-skin contact helps heal the baby. I just want to say now that BELIEVE ME, that’s not possible in this case. Even though I know people are trying to be helpful, the fact that everyone keeps bringing this up as a possibility just upsets me. The NICU my son is in is considered one of the top ones in the country. They are well aware of this care (which is more for preemies than full term babies) but they have advised me that it would be incredibly difficult especially with the amount of tubes and wires he’s hooked up to monitoring him. Right now, it is what it is and we just have to wait until he turns a corner. As soon as he does, I am going to hold him and probably won’t let him go until he’s off to college.

As of this moment, I’m about to go downstairs and see how he’s doing today. They have begun to lower his oxygen (which is a good sign), they say his lungs are healing and he’s breathing a little calmer so this is all encouraging. That being said though, I’m getting kicked out of the hospital today but he will have to remain here for an indeterminate time. Even though I’m immediately checking into a hotel nearby, I know I will have an emotional breakdown when I leave. Even as I type this, I’m beginning to cry as the thought of leaving without him is almost too much to bear.

So, this isn’t the post I had envisioned but if you’ve been following my blog for a while, this is yet again another challenge I didn’t want or expect but have to deal with. I will post pictures once he’s more presentable and in case you were wondering, we named him Michael Jay (the second name may sound familiar) and from what I’ve been told, all the nurses in the NICU have been calling him M.J. which I think is pretty adorable.

In closing, if you wouldn’t mind, please keep our son in your thoughts and prayers for a speedy recovery. It would mean the world to me. And as always, thank you, thank you, thank you for all your love and support. This has been a tough, emotional time and it’s a great comfort to know others are thinking of us.

The Son Will Come Out Tomorrow

2012-01-26T00:04:00.002-05:00

Tomorrow, on January 27th, we will finally get to see and hold the result of my third in vitro. Two and a half years, five timed cycles, three IUI’s, two failed IVF’s and finally, the third IVF that went from 13 eggs to only one embryo to transfer; in all that time, I never got pregnant and we had little hope. Tomorrow though… the baby we struggled for, dreamed of and wondered if we would ever be able to have, will be here. I seriously need to check my driver’s license as I can’t believe this is actually happening to me.

As I mentioned in my last post, my doctor was concerned that I had Cholestasis and in fact, I do. In these cases, they do not let the pregnancy go more than 37 weeks and I will be 37 weeks EXACTLY tomorrow. My doctor called me this past Monday morning to tell me the diagnosis, to immediately give me medication (Ursodiol for those who are interested) and to discuss our options. She said she could try to induce me on Thursday night but since the baby hasn’t “dropped” and that my cervix is hard and closed (much like my boss), she felt that there was more than a 50% chance that I would end up having a C-section anyway.

After a long conversation, we decided to skip inducing and just schedule a C-section for Friday. My logic was if the odds are we were going to end up there anyway, why torture myself (and possibly the baby) for 24 – 30 hours waiting to see if we could force my body to cooperate. My body has rarely listened to me in the past so why it would start to now is beyond me. Also, if nothing else, this makes me feel less guilty for dropping out of my birthing class.

I realize some of you may not agree with the decision to get a scheduled C-Section and I genuinely respect that. To me, even though the thought of surgery scares the bejesus out of me, given the circumstances, it’s what I feel the most comfortable with. Both my doctor and I agreed that if perhaps the baby seemed more ready to go or if there were any sign from my body that it was at least close to delivering, we’d opt to see what would happen with induction. However, since it seems like my son is perfectly happy where he is and has no intention of leaving anytime soon, and he unfortunately has to, this seemed the way to go. As I said to her before, I don’t need the experience of labor. I just want my baby safe and sound.

Given all of this, we went from thinking we had three weeks to prepare but quickly, it became whittled down to only a matter of days. My gestational diabetes diet and my soft cast immediately went out the window (I’ll just use an ace bandage and sometimes cupcakes can be medicinal) and I began cramming for parenthood. While I watched a DVD on how to breastfeed, washed baby clothes and Googled pediatricians in the area, my husband rushed to put various baby items together and get the car seat installed. It’s simultaneously funny and scary to me that there are things I put away in my changing table that I don’t actually know what they are or understand how I use them yet. I’m trying to comfort myself by remembering that other than diapers, a place to sleep, the car seat and my boobs, I have everything I need.

I’m sure a fertile person would currently be talking all about the nursery, or baby names, or the cute little outfits they have picked out but more than anything, I think I’m just so in awe that I’m having a baby. Years ago, I remember thinking, “The question isn’t if I’ll be a mom. The question is how I’ll be a mom.” Thanks to medical science and a huge amount of luck, that quote turned out to be very true. I may not have gotten here the usual way but I still got here… and I almost can’t believe it.

It’s important to me to add here and now that after my experiences and hearing others experiences, I can never flatly say anything quite like, “Don’t lose hope!” or “It’ll happen for you!” because I know the reality is that things don’t always work out like you expect. I even still contend that “hope” in general can be both a good and evil thing. However, I want to say specifically to those of you who are still struggling to be mom… if there’s anything to be learned from my journey (other than always get a second opinion, remember to talk to your husband about things other than your cervical mucus, bikini waxes are important and don’t use Icy-Hot on your private parts), it’s that even when you don’t have any answers (as we never had a diagnosis nor have we ever found out why we didn’t get pregnant the ol’ fashioned way), even when it seems hopeless and pointless and even when you think it’s impossible, you just never really know.

Ultimately, I’m not saying, “Everything will work out!!! Just relax!!!” What I am saying though is until someone says it’s impossible, there are still options and possibilities. As I said, if you desperately want to be a mom, it’s not if, it’s just how… and I truly, whole-heartedly want that for anyone who knows the pain of infertility. Once you know what that’s like -- how unfair, cruel, taxing and heartless it can be, you never forget. I seriously hold anyone who is still in the thick of it in my heart. It’s impossible for me to overstate how much I mean that.

When I announced that I was finally pregnant (see post here), I talked about how a positive pregnancy test was just “the second level” of my imaginary infertility video game. When I hold my baby tomorrow (who I desperately hope is happy and healthy), I will have reached “the final level” and I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for following my story, for continuing to read the blog, for finding my uterus as amusing as I do and for all the supportive comments and emails. I plan to keep writing and sharing both about infertility and life as an IVF Mom (so to speak) and I hope you’ll all be there to share in the next chapter.

So, today may very well be the last day I’m ever pregnant. I know I can’t afford to do IVF again so unless an unexpected miracle happens, this may be it. I’m thinking of even taking a home pregnancy test just to see “Pregnant” one last time. I’m going to get pre-op blood work, spend time with my husband and see if I can quickly teach myself how to swaddle, change a diaper and burp a baby. I promise to check in as soon as I can but for now, as always, I’m sending each one of you love and laughter.

My Body - The Enemy

2012-01-19T16:00:00.003-05:00

In medieval times, when a knight went into battle, he would put on layers upon layers of armor. There were the small metal rings called a chain mail, a linen shirt, a pair of pants (as well as heavy woolen pads underneath the metal-ringed tunic), a bucket like helmet, his shield, a sword and on occasion, a battle hammer, mace or metal ax (should it be necessary). This is exactly how I feel when I get up in the morning these days... like I'm going into battle with my many layers of armor.

One of the many things that was made ABUNDANTLY clear while I was trying to get pregnant for two and a half years is that my body and I do not get along. Whether it was fertility related (follicle count, uterine lining, egg quality, etc.) or my general state of health (a bad knee, migraines, thinning hair or my inability to lose weight after a diet consisting of air and communion wafers), we never seem to be on the same page. If anything, we’re in two entirely different books. I’m in “Chick Lit” and my body appears to be in “Science Fiction”.

In addition to vertigo and gestational diabetes, in the past two weeks, I have had a slight yeast infection (yes, we’re discussing this), an even slighter case of hemorrhoids (yes, we’re discussing this as well) and my foot started to kill me. One night, I took out Monistat 7, Preparation-H and Icy Hot Heat (all doctor approved by the way) and stood in the bathroom to apply everything.

Should you EVER find yourself in this situation, let me give you a suggestion: Apply the Monistat first, then the Preparation-H and THEN the Icy Hot Heat. It’s impossible to get the Icy Hot Heat off of your hands once you use it. I’ll spare you the details but trust me when I say that I don’t care what harlequin romances say: It’s not always a good thing to have your loins on fire.

A week after this crucial error in cream application, I went to see a podiatrist to figure out what really was going on with my foot. With my OB/Gyn’s approval, he did an x-ray and it turns out that I have a stress fracture. How did I do this you ask? No one knows. The podiatrist is guessing that it was the fact that my weight is more "forward" and I dared to attempt to wear cute shoes. I stupidly thought if Beyonce could walk all over town pregnant in heels, so could I. The reality is, as the song says, if you like her, you should put a ring on it. In my case though, if you like me, then you should put a soft cast on my left foot for the next two weeks.

And this brings me to the acid reflux…

I love my husband… but you know what I love more than him lately? Tums. So much so that I’m considering writing a whole post that will consist of a full “food critic like review” on the various different flavors.

The acid reflux is worse at night so I’ve been propping up my head when I sleep. Between those extra pillows and the ones on either side of me, there is no longer room for my husband as I look like I’ve encased myself in a fortress of solitude built out of white cotton.

Every morning, I get up, literally climb out of my bed, take a Tums, drink some water, locate an outfit that is clean and looks like I gave a sh*t, check on my cast, check my blood sugar, put on a special designated sock to cover said cast, put both the cast and sock in an even sexier walking cast, wash my hands, apply creams (again, in an appropriate order), put on contacts, deodorant, make-up, clothes, hair extensions, a Poise pad (ahem) and then I usually take more Tums for good measure. By the time I get my huge pregnant ass with my broken foot down the stairs to head for work, I’m exhausted and want to turn around and go back home.

Then… this past Saturday… I started to itch all over. It was mostly my hands and feet but then it spread to my stomach, back, legs and arms. Thinking that it was my body officially deciding it was allergic to me, I applied some Benadryl lotion and went to bed. Luckily, I had an appointment with my doctor a day or so later and I mentioned it to her. She said it could be hormones, that my skin is just stretching OR it could be something called Cholestasis. Cholestasis of pregnancy is a condition in which the normal flow of bile in the gallbladder is affected by the high amounts of pregnancy hormones. Doesn't that sound perfectly lovely? One simply doesn't hear the word, 'bile' enough! They took blood to check my liver functions and the preliminary results show a slight elevation. Of course it did.

So, this is where we are at: I’m 36 weeks pregnant as of tomorrow. The baby is doing well, my cervix is closed, the baby hasn’t dropped yet and he has no real plans to leave as of yet. However, we are doing repeat blood work next week and if my liver numbers continue to climb, I will be induced at 37 weeks. Am I nervous? A bit. Am I surprised? Not at all.

I can’t help but find this funny. After going through all of my many various fertility treatments, the fact that my body is still managing to dick around with me isn’t at all shocking. Seriously - if my arm just fell off for no reason or even if I woke up to find I suddenly grew a scrotum, I wouldn’t be remotely surprised. I’d laugh and say, “Oh Jay’s body! There you go again!!! You little prankster!!!!”

What’s been REALLY funny are people’s expressions when they see me. I’m 9 months pregnant, I have a huge cast on my foot, I’m limping and although no one would say anything, I’m pretty sure I smell as if I’ve been pickled from all the f*cking Monistat, Preparation-H, Benadryl and Icy Hot I’ve been using. I’ve been trying to overcompensate for my lackluster appearance with make-up, colorful outfits and a big smile but really, that can only take me so far. Most people look at me and say, “Oh my god! Are you ok? Why are you out of the house? You should be home… baying at the moon from your bell tower! Quick everyone! Avert your eyes!!!”

Until I get the final word from the doctor on what we’re going to do, I will continue putting on my many layers of armor whether it’s my air cast, my over-the-top bedazzled maternity shirt or a metal ax (should it be necessary). I know in my heart that as overwhelming, frustrating and comedic as this has been, when they hand me my healthy baby boy, I won’t mind it a bit. I've worked hard to get here and I'm going to be grateful even if I break every bone in my body. I just hope that my son has better luck with his body then I have had with mine...

Labor and Delivery: Do I HAVE To Be In The Room???

2012-01-04T19:19:00.002-05:00

Today is my first day back from my holiday vacation (which consisted of napping, eating and wearing no make-up, bras, pantyhose or anything that constricted me in any manner). Years ago, I used to fantasize about being rich and famous. These days, I fantasize about being able to lay in bed as much as possible and wear nothing but huge, comfy tarps. Perhaps that’sthe way to go in the New Year – keep your goals and resolutions super low.

What’s your goal Jay?

To lay in bed!!!

Incidentally, what is it about the maternity clothes industry that thinks it’s a good idea that the bigger you get, the bigger the patterns should be on the outfit you’re wearing? Early on, they have little polka dots on your baby doll shirt. Then, when you’re in the third trimester, they have huge geometric patterns on a moo moo. And why are there SO MANY maternity outfits with horizontal stripes?!? Thanks fellas! Make a pregnant woman look even wider! Good plan!

I'm back at my day job now after my holiday break and have not only resumed make-up, bras and pantyhose (I recommend Berkshires Maternity Light Support Pantyhose by the way), but I’m also wearing hair extensions and false eyelashes. The bigger I get, the more I hope to resist ugly maternity clothes and glam it up. I worked hard for this pregnancy and paid a lot of money for it that I’m going to wear it well if it kills me. Of course, if I get any bigger, I may have to start carrying around spotlights, smoke machines and background music to distract from my huge ass.

Putting aside fashion challenges for a moment, two things we did during our holiday break (in addition to the napping and eating) was to attempt to put together the nursery and try, once again, to learn more about the birthing process. We took a birthing class a month ago and quite frankly, we didn’t find it very informative. Truth be told, we even ended up dropping out of it. We liked the teacher and there was nothing dead wrong with the class… but we both felt that it was a bit too new agey and stressed natural child birth more than anything else.

To be clear, I’m not saying I’m against natural child birth. I’m just saying I’d rather get all the straight medical facts and all of the options first... then decide what I’d like to do.

There was one class where the teacher (who is a Doula) talked about using your placenta to create art. Apparently, you take your placenta, dry it out, dip it in paint or ink and stamp it on a paper. Now here’s the thing: That’s lovely but is this information going to help me when I’m writhing in pain? “Quick! The contractions are getting closer together! Somebody get my painting kit!!!” I don’t think so.

I genuinely have respect for Doulas. I think they are extremely knowledgeable and if you can afford one (or are friends with one), they can be a valuable asset to a delivery. That being said though, when the teacher (who, again, is a Doula) said that one of the best things about having a Doula is that she can give your husband a break, I couldn’t help but laugh.

Why should he get a break? I’m not getting a break. I’ve endured the brunt of years of fertility treatments, needles, shots, retrievals, etc. This will be the home stretch of feminine torture and I expect him to be there. My only request is if he’s going to pass out or steal focus from me in any way, he can leave the room. Otherwise, no Doula is going to let my husband off the hook. Besides, if I’m going to punch someone because of the amount of pain I’m in, it’s going to be him. I think that was even included in our wedding vows.

And for the record, the more I learn, the more I wonder if I even want to be in the room. I have DESPERATELY wanted a baby and I'm so incredibly grateful to finally be pregnant after so much... but... how should I put this? Me no likey pain. I wonder if I could give birth via Skype????

In lieu of a class, we bought a DVD on Labor and Delivery to see if we could get the plain facts but it also seemed to have a "natural delivery" slant to it instead of a broad cut and dry description. My favorite part was when they interviewed a couple who had agreed not to use any medication. They recounted their story explaining that some point during the labor process, the woman begged for an epidural but the husband refused to let her have one. In the interview, he said, “I’m proud that I stuck to our original plan and I’m sure she’s happy we did too!” The camera then cut to her and her expression was priceless. She said nothing, kind of gave a strained chuckle and had a look of, “You’re proud honey? That’s nice. Next time you’re in pain, I’ll be sure to stab you in the nuts.” I only hope that one day he gets a kidney stone and she tells the doctor not to give him pain medication. "Are you proud now honey??? Are ya???"

What amazes me is I JUST want to know about how far contractions should be apart before calling the doctor. What a contraction feels like. What a mucus plus looks like. Things like that. I have basic simple questions and I keep not getting them answered. What’s almost hilarious is I caught the last couple of scenes of KNOCKED UP this past weekend and I think I actually learned more from that movie than I did from my entire birthing class. Then again, as I said, I did drop out.

My doctor asked us this morning what our birthing plan was and we answered, “To get the baby out in the best healthiest way.” Really. I’m not opposed to anything if my doctor thinks it’s necessary. I don’t need the “experience” as much as I need and want my baby delievered happy and healthy. She actually thanked us for this response as she said it gave us a lot more options.

I suppose that ultimately, you can have all the information you want and all the plans you’d like but no one can predict how it’s going to go. Of all the women I’ve spoken to that gave birth recently, I think only one of them had things go exactly as planned only because it was a scheduled C-Section. In general though, it seems like a ‘fly by the seat of your pants’ kind of deal.

I'd be remiss not to mention that my Russian neighbor informed me recently that babies who are delievered via C-section suffer from claustrophobia. I have no idea where she got this information or if it's true but her conviction in passing on this "fact" was impressive. It reminded me of the time she told me that Gloria Estefan had Selena killed because she coudn't take the competition.

As for putting together the nursery, I don’t think I’ve ever heard my husband curse so much in his life. I also had no idea how long EVERYTHING would take to assemble, put batteries in or simply figure out. There were moments when our stroller/car seat combo was like a virtual rubix cube. There are
levers and buttons and zippers and snaps. It was like an 8^th grade boy trying to unhook the bra off of his date.

Overall, I feel like every day, between trying to look good, figuring out exactly what a nipple brush is and learning that a “bloody show” isn’t a television series on HBO, I’m winging it. We have (roughly) six weeks left to go and that will hopefully give us enough time to figure out what the f*ck we’re doing. If nothing else, I hope we figure out how to fold up the pack and play before then.

Infertile. Pregnant. Myself.

2011-12-14T16:20:00.007-05:00

In the last seven months, I’ve been fortunate enough to receive several generous compliments on how I’ve remained sensitive to those who are working towards getting pregnant even though I am now pregnant after my third in vitro. Although I have genuinely been mindful of what I write on this blog and who is reading it, if I’m being entirely honest (which I tend to be on my blog), the woman I've been thinking of the most whenever I write is my former self who I will call “Still-in-the-trenches-Jay”.

When I was that person, still in the trenches, I made several promises to myself about what I would do and not do if I ever became pregnant. Some of these promises are private but some of them, I’d like to share with you, BUT, LET ME BE CLEAR: If you or someone you know has done any of the below, it’s not that I think they are wrong or that I judge them in the least. This is just my personal list in reaction to the feelings I had when I was struggling to get pregnant. They were/are:

Do not post your sonogram picture anywhere.
Never talk or post photos about your nursery.
No over the top cutesy-poo nicknames for the baby.
Don’t make every post, tweet, status and conversation about your pregnancy.
Never, ever forget your struggle with infertility or the others who continue to struggle.

Again, if you have done any of the above – I totally understand. All of the things mentioned are a way of celebrating an incredible, life changing accomplishment that you have every right in the world to express and enjoy in anyway you see fit.

My personal gauge though has been how would my former self have reacted if I saw, read or heard about any of these things? Sonogram pictures used to sting, nursery decor talk used to depress me, and if and when I felt like someone forgot about me and my struggles as soon as they got pregnant, it definitely hurt my feelings.

So, still-in-the-trenches Jay (or SITT-Jay for short) is the person who has been standing behind me with her arms crossed reading over my shoulder whenever I post anything on my blog. Occasionally she’ll say something like, “Oh god! Don’t write that! Give me a break!” And I’ll respect her feelings, rewrite a sentence or take it out completely. I would never want to betray my former self.

And that's how it really has felt... like I have been living with these two sides to me: The “Still-in-the-trenches-Jay” and the “Pregnant Jay”. I like them equally, they both are funny, attractive (on a good day) and good hearted but their views on fertility, infertility, pregnancy and life are not always in agreement. Because of this, in the last few months, I’ve been wondering if Pregnant Jay could possibly say anything comforting to SITT-Jay, what would it be? What words of wisdom have I now gained being almost 31 weeks pregnant? What lessons have been learned, if any?

What has stunned me is as hard as I tried, I couldn't think of anything. Sure - I wish I got a second opinion sooner and I wish I spent more quality time with my husband while we were trying… but honestly and truly… I really think I did the very best I could under the circumstances. I may not have done as wonderfully as some people and I certainly won't win any awards, but again, I absoultely tried my best and you can't ask for more than that.

So, the only thing I ever came close to in terms of what I wish I could say to my former self was this: “You are not a failure. You’ve done nothing wrong so please, please, please stop thinking that. Infertility is a medical issue and not at all a reflection of who you are as a person, a sister, a daughter, a wife, a friend or a woman. Don’t be ashamed because I swear to you – infertility doesn’t make you any less of a person or any less deserving of happiness.” The truth remains though, although this is all completely true, I don’t know if SITT-Jay would have believed Pregnant Jay or quite frankly have even listened. SITT-Jay would think, "It's easy for you to say that. You're pregnant. I'm not. End of story."

I continued thinking about all of this when I started unpacking gifts I received at my baby shower which was about a week ago. Slowly, actual baby stuff has started filling my home and surrounding me. Right around the same time, I began feeling the baby move more and more and this has been very exciting. Then suddenly last night, for reasons unclear to me, something happened that was one of the most moving, powerful things I may have ever experienced. I don’t know if it’ll make sense but I’m going to try to explain it anyway...

It hit me (and hit me hard) all that my husband and I have been through… the surgeries, the procedures, the medications, the injections, the ups, the downs, the fights, each fertility attempt that failed, the days, the months, the years, the heartbreak, the finances, the tears -- all of it. And now, here we are. I’m really going to have a baby. Exactly this is what it's all be fore. This is what we dreamed of. This is what we hoped for and wondered if it was ever going to happen. In this moment of realization, SITT-Jay and Pregnant Jay unexpectedly became one person... and that one person is having a baby.

I started to cry uncontrollably... not because I was sad but because I was so overwhelmed with happiness. It was like a montage of all the struggling flew through my head and I realized that in a few weeks, I’d hold a baby boy in my arms. The two sides of me were on the same page and that’s when I finally knew what I would say to my former self and that was, “Thank you. Thank you so much for hanging in there. Thank you for not giving up. It's because of your strength and perseverance that we're able to be a mother. Please know it was worth it. Thank you so much for going through all of that. We’ve made it... we're almost there."

Again, I don't know if this all makes sense but what I wanted to say is that although I don’t know where you are in your journey to become a mother (trying, struggling, succeeding or holding a baby in your arms), the best person to tell you the words you need to hear may very well be you.

If you could say anything to yourself right now that you think you needed to hear, what would it be? Thank you? Hang in there? Stay strong? Don't give up? I urge you to take a moment and think about it. If you hit on what it is, it may be the comfort, inspiration or credit you need not to mention deserve!

As always, with hope, hugs and humor...

Missing: Memory, Sugar and Libido

2011-12-02T14:58:00.003-05:00

This morning, my boss asked me what the mysterious appointment in his calendar was. As it turns out, I accidentally put my upcoming OB/GYN appointment in his calendar and not mine. Perhaps, in attempt to make light of the mistake, I should schedule a breast exam for him as well.

This is the way my brain has been lately. My energy tank is beginning to really run low, multi-tasking has become more of a challenge and my memory skills are similar to Dory’s in FINDING NEMO. I ask questions over and over again (it’s not that I forget the answer… I even forget I asked the question to begin with), I look for my glasses while I’m wearing them and lately, I’ll walk through the office with no clue of where I’m going. The other day, I was thinking how not filling my lunch was… only to realize I forgot to actually eat the lunch.

I’m 29 weeks pregnant today. It’s the start of my third trimester and clearly, my brain and body are behaving like a thirteen-year-old girl who doesn’t want to do any chores. “Ummm, like, you aren’t expecting us to do anything right now, are you? Cause like I’m good here on the couch. TTYL!”

In addition to laziness, lack of organizational skills and memory loss, I’m also finding that sex is becoming less and less appealing to me. At the end of last week, I sat my husband down and told him to think of my sex drive as a store that’s recently lost its lease. We’re having an, “Everything Must Go” sale in the next week but after that, we’re out of business. That’s right – if you act now, you can get two hand jobs for the price of one! Snuggling not included.

What’s also not helping matters is I took my gestational diabetes test and I was, allegedly, borderline. I say ‘allegedly’ because I’ve been tracking my blood sugar since the diagnosis and I have yet to come up with even one remotely questionable result. So far, the special diet I’m on (what do you MEAN I can’t have pumpkin pie???) and the sticking my finger four times a day seems pretty damn pointless. And after going through IVF quite frankly, I think I’ve stuck myself enough with needless to deem myself exempt from any further torture. Really – I should have gotten a “Get Out of Needle” free card.

When I took the initial one hour test, the nurses actually forgot about me. When I reminded them of my existence an hour and twenty minutes after I drank that disgusting orange liquid they make you drink, they were like, “Ohhhhh. That’s not good. We have to take the blood exactly an hour after you finished drinking the drink. Otherwise, it’s invalid.” After threatening their lives and the lives of their children, they took my blood anyway since if I failed, I would have failed twenty minutes earlier anyway. If I passed though, I would have to take the one hour again to confirm that I did really pass. Between this and the anatomy scan I had to take three times (not to mention my three in vitros), I can’t help but feel it’s my lot and life to never get anything correct on the first try.

The next morning, when the nurse called to tell me I failed, I was excited since it meant that even though the test got screwed up, it didn’t affect the results. Needless to say, my enthusiasm about having to take the three hour test surprised my nurse. It’s not often you say to a pregnant woman, “You have to fast, stay here for three hours while we take your blood every hour and you have to drink more of that orange crap.” and have the pregnant woman respond with, “That’s great news! When should I come in???”

Something about having an overly positive response to the prospect of gestational diabetes cracked me up so I decided to keep this over-the-top enthusiasm throughout my three hour test. When it came time to drink the drink, I brought my own glass and put a paper umbrella in it. Every hour I had to get my blood drawn, I would say something to the nurse like, “Woo hoo! Take my blood you sexy thing!” or “I can’t wait to see how this hour turns out!” or "Pick a vein! Any vein!" or my personal favorite, “I’m going to put on make-up for our last hour in case we’re taking graduation photos!” I don’t mean to brag but the nurses said I was the most fun patient they ever had for glucose testing. I'm quite proud of this.

Again, the results came back as borderline so they hooked me up with a nutritionist and a glucose testing meter. I’ve managed to keep my humorously positive attitude about it as the diet really isn’t all that bad… it’s just the actual needle finger pricking thing that’s a bit of a drag… especially when it genuinely seems like I don’t have gestational diabetes.

Any which way, I do think the lack of some of my favorite carbs (macaroni & cheese… I’m looking at you) and not being able to indulge in cookies and cake during the holiday season is getting to me. This weekend is my baby shower…something I’ve literally waited my whole life for and I’m telling you now - I'm going to have a cup cake dammit! I know I won’t feel guilty about it though… mainly because I’m sure I’ll forget I even ate a cupcake within an hour.

The Story of My Uterus

2011-11-18T11:27:00.007-05:00

I recently got a call from one of my nephews. He said, “Daddy told me where babies come out. I don’t think you’re gonna like it.”

November’s ICLW is upon us (http://www.stirrup-queens.com/2011/10/icomleavwe-november-2011/) so I wanted to say hello to any new readers and give you a brief overview of me, my uterus and its scintillating history. Please forgive me if I don’t get too clinical in my descriptions (i.e. medications, doses, dates and details). I’d much prefer to tell you our story as if you and I were sitting having a cup of coffee… so here it goes:

I started trying to get pregnant in February 2009. After several months of romantic interludes slowly becoming more contrived and monotonous, we tried two timed cycles using the drug, Clomid (which in my mind stands by Comical Lady Overly Moody In Distress). Neither of those were successful so we tried three IUI’s (again using Clomid): the first was around Thanksgiving, the second was around Christmas and the last one was on Valentines day (we like our inseminations to be holiday themed apparently). None of them worked.

In April 2010 (which is why I have a picture of the month of April featured on my blog), we did our first IVF using Gonal-F (the F standing for… well… you know). We had eight eggs and three embryos. Not only did it not work, but I found out right afterwards that I had a rather large uterine polyp we lovingly named ‘Jackson Polyp’, that might have been guilty of c*ck blocking our efforts. We’ll never know though for certain.

In July of 2010, we evicted Jackson Polyp and due to lack of funds, waited until January/February 2011 to get accepted into a clinical trial with a different doctor at a new clinic. On this cycle, we used a mystery hormone (how fun is that to inject yourself with some unknown hormonal fluid??? Woo hoo!) that produced ten eggs but only one embryo. Yup. One lone embryo. My husband named it Rudy after the famous underdog who ended up playing for Notre Dame (See the movie RUDY for details). Leave it to a man to make a sports reference out of a fertility disaster.

When the trial failed and we still weren't pregnant, we went to our now third clinic, our third doctor to try IVF for the third time in May 2011. We used our entire savings account to pay for it and all of my medications were donated, so it looked like a potpourri of drugs in my bedroom for awhile: Follistim, Menopur, Progesterone in Oil, Gonal-F, Estrogen Patches and needles galore! I was like an infertile in a hormonal candy store!

Between both the financial strain and the emotional, physical and psychological strain of the past couple of years, my husband and I began to forget that we actually liked each other around this point. We went into our third in vitro never having gotten pregnant once and wondering if perhaps it was time to give up on ever having kids or ever having a date night that didn’t entail talking about my husband’s sperm count or my cervical mucus.

Because the universe likes to try my patience, for our third cycle, we had thirteen eggs but again, somehow only yielded one embryo. Rudy Two - The Sequel! To be clear, one embryo is better than no embryo but when you're infertile... not only do you feel like you need more but you freaking PAID for more. I'm just sayin'.

It was then that my doctor said she suspected that, even though nothing had indicated as such in any of my tests, I had bad eggs. Literally, as I was standing in my hospital gown about to do my transfer for the cycle I was still in, she suggested what she would do differently on the fourth in vitro (How cute is she for thinking we could afford a fourth in vitro??? Simply adorable!)

In June 2011, I had every PMS symptom that I would typically have. The night before my beta, my husband and I made a list of questions we were going to ask the doctor for our “WTF” appointment but as it would turn out, this meeting would never happen.

The next morning, I took a home pregnancy test in preparation to get a negative beta later that day... only to find out that it was positive. As of today, I’m currently 27 weeks pregnant with a little boy and oddly enough, I’m due around the exact date in February that we started trying to get pregnant in the first place.

So, although my nephew is both very wise and thoughtful to warn me, I’m up for the challenge! The thought of labor, delivery, pain in general and pushing something the size of a watermelon out my already exhausted va-jay-jay frightens me but we worked hard for this and I’m just so grateful that we’ve made it this far.

To those of you who are reading my blog for the first time: stop by often, hang out, say hello, share your experiences and please join me as I, a pregnant infertile, slowly make my way to the finish line!

And of course, to those of you who have followed my journey since day one – I can never thank you enough for sticking with me, cheering me on, making me laugh and supporting me throughout all of this. It has meant more to me then I could ever begin to possibly express. And hey -- it IS uter-us... and we're all in it together.

Speaking of which, I’ve been seriously considering starting our own infertility movement called, “OCCUPY MY UTERUS!” C’mon people! Who is with me????

You Spin Me Right Round Baby

2011-11-11T13:14:00.003-05:00

Do you ever feel like you’ve had a problem or that even your whole life is like a game of Jenga? You know that game – it’s played with wooden blocks. You take the blocks and build a sturdy tower. Then, the players start taking pieces out and moving them to other areas of the standing tower... all in the hopes that they don’t knock the whole damn thing over. Usually, the game ends with the loser unintentionally taking out that last key structural block thus causing the whole tower to collapse. Before you know it, you’re surrounded by blocks, your friends are laughing at you while you secretly wish you just played a drinking game instead.

As you know from my last blog post, my boss and I had an extensive conversation about my being out of the office quite often this past year due to my “medical issues”. These issues were for fertility treatments and now, my pregnancy. His argument was that when I’m not in the office (even for good reason), it affects him negatively. My argument was that they are valid medical issues and that he was acting like a douchebag (mind you – I didn’t tell him that last part. I just thought it really, really hard). He and I ended up talking it all out, putting everything down in writing where he wrote that he understands my health is important but my position requires I be in the office as much as possible and where I wrote that my occasional absences and lateness have been due to my pregnancy and won’t be an ongoing issue into the future… and that he was acting like a douchebag (Ok, I didn’t write that last part. But again, I just thought it really, really hard). We sent the document into human resources and all was right again with the corporate world.

Until…

On Saturday, October 29th, I got a migraine in the afternoon. This is not uncommon for me so I wasn’t alarmed. I took two Tylenol and laid down for nap. When I woke up, the pain had gone away but I felt dizzy. As the evening wore on, I went from mildly dizzy to having the spins (of course, I wasn’t drinking but that’s how it felt) and then, by Sunday morning, I felt like Amy Winehouse… the day she died. I couldn't open my eyes, the bed felt like it was flying, walking was near impossible and I felt this unnatural urge to put my hair in a beehive.

Due to the constant dizziness, my stomach eventually succumbed to motion sickness and literally every time I tried to move, I threw up. I’m not talking a little morning sickness kind of sick either. It was more like THE EXORCIST kind of sick. If people saw me, they wouldn’t say, “Hmmm. Jay is under the weather.” They would have said, “Holy shit –Give her the last rites!”

For the record, I never wanted to throw up in front of my husband. Never. It’s bad enough he’s seen me be an emotional hormonal wreck during the last few years of infertility treatments. Then, add the weight gaining hormonal wreck of a pregnant woman that I’ve been in the last couple of months. Now, on Sunday, in what I can only describe as my lowest moment in quite a while, he saw me laying on the bathroom floor wearing only a pajama top, sweating uncontrollably, non-bikini waxed and throwing up non-stop into our tub. If he ever wants to have sex with me again after all of this, it will be nothing short of a miracle.

After calling the doctor, we were told that I should head into Labor and Delivery at the hospital immediately. I was, of course, VERY nervous about both myself and the baby but really, my main thought was, “Please God… let this stop. I’ll do anything. I’ll go back to church, I’ll be nicer to my mother-in-law, I’ll even stop saying mean things about how ugly Jennifer Lopez’s kids are – just please make this stop.”

When we arrived at the hospital (which entailed me laying down in the backseat and throwing up some more. Again, very attractive), they immediately knew I was dehydrated. So much so, that they had trouble even finding a vein to put in an IV in to. They quickly also put a monitor on my belly to check the baby. They were concerned that they wouldn’t pick up anything as most of the women in Labor and Delivery are further along than me and… well… are in labor. However, through some sort of luck, they picked up our baby’s heartbeat and determined that not only was he totally fine but that they were also quite impressed how strong he was under the circumstances. I’m telling you – from only one lone embryo from a batch of 13 eggs right up until now, this baby has been a kick ass hard core fighter.

They gave me three bags of fluid that included anti-nausea medication and had me rest. As soon as the room cleared, the quiet kicked in and I lay on the hospital bed miserable, my husband said something I will never forget. After a minute passed, he said very matter of factly, “Today was the first time I ever heard you fart.” *sigh* Great. Yet another milestone in our marriage. Does Hallmark make cards for that?

By the end of my stay, the doctor on call guessed that I had something viral. He told me there was nothing they could do other than give me anti-nausea medication, send me on my way and hope for it to pass. And this is what I did for the next few days but when I saw it wasn't getting better, I phoned my neurologist who told me to come in to rule out a stroke. A stroke? Really? If ever there was a good reason to miss work, a stroke would definitely be a damn good excuse.

After a few tests, my neurologist said that I have an extreme case of vertigo (not the Hitchcock movie but the neurological affliction) which was probably set off by my initial migraine. He said I should continue with the anti-nausea medication, go home and rest as much as possible. This meant that I would have to be out of work for a total of two weeks. I don't know what's more amazing, that I was in yet another two week wait or that my brain apparently heard my boss complaining about missing a few days here and there and said, “Oh yeah? I see your complaint of a missed day and raise you two whole weeks. Suck on that!” It was then that my virtual Jenga tower collapsed.

To be fair, both my husband and a good friend/co-worker of mine spoke to my boss on my behalf and he has reportedly been very understanding. Still, I can’t help but marvel at the timing of this. I've spent more time than I care to admit in the past few weeks worrying about my job and now, I feel like this unexpected illness has just made things worse. In the words of Krusty the Clown from THE SIMPSONS, "This... I don't need."

Meanwhile, I did what I was told and rested. My husband dropped me off at my parents house so he could get back to work and I could get the constant care I needed as I have been unable to get around other than go to and from the bathroom. As soon as I got to my parents house, I was tucked into bed and my mother, for some unexplainable reason, started showing me her recent clothing purchases. I can only compare it to the movie, MISERY but in this scenario, I was James Caan and my mother was a very loving, well-intentioned woman who loves a good clearance sale at Talbots.

The BEST part of this dizzy fashion show though was when she showed me a pair of pajamas she bought for me. They looked a little like Vincent Van Gogh’s painting called “Starry Night”. “What is that?”, I asked.

She said, “I bought you these to have vertigo in.” Wow. Clearly, they DO make an outfit for every occasion. Vertigo pajamas. Yikes.

My father, bless his heart, kept forgetting I was upstairs and in bed. At one point, I sent him a text asking him if he could bring me lunch. It went ignored so I called him. The conversation went like this:

ME: "Hello? Dad?"
DAD: "Hello? Who's this?"
ME: "Dad - it's Jay."
DAD: "Ohhhh, hi! How are you?" (As if he hasn't spoken to me in months)
ME: "Uhhh, I'm ok. Can I have lunch?"
DAD: "Sure! How's peanut butter and jelly? It's all I can make."

Twenty minutes later, while wearing my vertigo pajamas, I ate a peanut butter jelly sandwich that looked like it was sat on. I didn't critisize though. I was just so grateful to have food.

I’m happy to report that I’m feeling better but it’s been a very slow, difficult process. I’ve spent a lot of time lying in bed thinking. I can’t really watch television (as I’ve been too dizzy), I’ve had trouble walking and up until today, the computer was completely impossible. In order to stay sane despite feeling like ass, worrying about work and dealing with my parents care taking skills, I would occasionally recite anything I’ve ever memorized: The Pledge of Allegiance, the Lord’s Prayer and a monologue I had in my second grade play (I played a cavity).

What really kept me from totally losing my mind though was how often I felt the baby kick. Anytime I’d worry about losing my job, or that I was never going to get better, or when I had a crying fit over how crappy I felt, the baby would kick as if to say, “Hang in there! I’m here!” It’s corny and perhaps a little crazy but I swear that it felt like he was cheering me on.

That’s one of the many things I’ve learned in the last two weeks: The timing of this has sucked and being this out of commission has been scary and frustrating but I’m pregnant… and that’s all I ever wanted. No matter how many virtual Jenga towers I knock over, I at least have that... and that means the world.

I've also learned that I can now freely pass wind in front of my husband. I’m just sayin’. The barrier has been broken.

Infertility + Pregnancy = Pissed Off Boss

2011-10-28T15:33:00.005-04:00

Literally on the morning I received the “Neena Comment” (see here for the blog post), I had my "End of the Year Review" with my boss. It’s amusing to me that in the same morning, both my boss and a total stranger would somehow bring up how much unhappiness my uterus has caused them. Take a number people… take a number.

As some of you may remember, I started the year off informing my boss that I would be doing a clinical IVF trial in February, which would entail me having to miss a few days of work (see here for that blog post). He was not only less than understanding but as memory serves, he actually physically backed away from me when I told him about my infertility issues... as if it were contagious.

Of course, the clinical trial failed and I eventually went on to IVF 3 around the end of May, which also required taking a few more days off from work. Given the current state of the economy and the overall job market, my “infertility trilogy” (which was definitely not as entertaining as ‘The Godfather’ trilogy) wasn’t looked upon kindly. And now that I’m pregnant and have regularly scheduled doctor appointments, I suspect my boss might have been rooting for my infertility to win. Sure, this would have meant I’d remain childless… but much to his happiness, I would also never have had any reason to leave my desk (except possibly to pee).

As you may or may not know, I’m a freelance writer and an occasional stand-up comic (I’m currently on a break from performing to avoid either throwing up or falling asleep while on stage). Even though I get steady writing jobs, it simply does not pay the bills... let alone for three in vitros. Therefore, I have a day job Monday through Friday where I use my B.A. in Theatre to portray a woman who finds expense reports, photocopying and meeting planning as exciting as an orgasm. I’m sure many of you can relate. It’s truly a rare thing to get paid for what you actually enjoy doing. I think Drew Carey said it best when he said, “You hate your job? They have a support group for that. It’s called everyone. They meet at the bar.”

So, until I figure out a way to collect paychecks without working, I have no choice but to remain a corporate ho. Perhaps if I were a REAL ho, I could not only get paid, but I could lay down for a bit during the day… which admittedly… would be nice.

Getting back to my review though: My boss pointed out that I’ve missed work due to several appointments and/or medical issues (the medical issues being infertility and pregnancy). Going forward, he stressed that he needs me to be in the office as much as possible. In theory, I really do understand. My ovaries and uterine lining have had their own timetable this past year and they know nothing of my boss’s schedule. I can totally appreciate that my reproductive trials and tribulations have often cut into work time. However, the fact remains that I am finally pregnant and this means, like it or not, I do have to take time away from work. I mean, I consider myself talented in many, many areas but I’m simply not capable of giving birth in my cubicle without attracting some attention. If that’s what it comes down to, I’ll at least have to make sure I put out a tip jar. Why not?

The thing is even when I have been out of the office after various retrievals, for my polyp removal surgery, while I’ve been on various bed rests and most recently, right after my amnio, I’ve always plugged in to work from home… even when I was still waking up from anesthesia (which explained the very unfortunate email I sent to the Chief Operating Officer of my company telling him how many eggs we got).

My point is that even though I have missed time here and there, nothing has ever been dropped, I’ve gotten my work done and I’ve made every effort to do everything I can to balance both my fertility and my job. And I swear - if he had any idea what it was like to go through infertility treatments, an abundance of hormones and worst of all – negative betas, all while trying to work and appear normal, he’d not only be shocked that I’ve shown up to the office at all but that I've managed not to attack fertile co-workers with my pencil sharpener.

I just can’t help but wonder if perhaps I had never taken time off for the infertility treatments in the first place, whether he might have been more patient about the pregnancy itself. There’s just nothing I can do about that now though. If only in addition to maternity leave, companies considered infertility time. Or how about just a mental health day? Something! Throw an infertile a freaking bone Corporate America!

For now, my focus is on trying to schedule early appointments before work and resist the urge to staple things to my bosses head. Hopefully soon, somehow, my boss and I can start 2012 in nothing but a positive, happy place where he and I never again discuss what is and isn’t coming out of my birth canal and how it affects my day job.

Lastly, I did want to briefly acknowledge the overwhelming response to the Neena Post from last week. I have no idea if she ever checked back or if she read any of your many entertaining, humorous, blunt and hard core responses but I personally was blown away by how insightful they were. I also want to thank you for so many kind, encouraging words. It meant a great deal to me – truly. It was ‘Exhibit A’ that many who read my blog are supportive, generous, thoughtful, funny as hell, good people. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Calling All Infertiles: I Want to Hear From You

2011-10-18T14:19:00.002-04:00

This morning, I received the following comment from “Neena” (I didn't correct any of the typos... I'm literally cutting and pasting exactly what was written, how it was written):

You should change your blog name from the Two Week Wait - because it is misleading. You are not in that place, and you stop pretending to be "one os us". As one of your comments said "Welcome to Mommy World" - you and all like you should be honest and say "Thank the fuck I am out of that Infertile World" - you have now joined "The Club", that the rest of us are still excluded from. Enjoy it and leave the rest of us to our grief for goodness sake. Oh and by the way, 3 IVFs and you are pregnant - GIVE ME A BREAK! Try 5 IVFs, numerous operations and surgical investigations and a dead baby "born" at 20 weeks and THEN tell me your "boo-hoo-but-yeah for-me" story. Vy the way you adopted and find for your treatments - I assume that you will have the decency not to have a fund for your new baby? I totally sympathise with the person who sent you the "horrid" comment - s/he is hurting like the rest of us and frankly when we first came to read your blog it rang "true" - now it is just bogus, and supercilious, because frankly, you should now be blogging as you truthfully are - thankful to be pregnant and away from the hell of infertility. You may think that you still have the right to write about infertility - I personally think you should keep your patronising "I'm going to be a Mommy" drivel to yourself - but heh, what Mommy-to-be EVER keeps her patronising drivel to herself these days. I am totally surprised that you did not post up your sonogram - that would have been more honest. Oh, and as for you writing to your relative - SHAME ON YOU. You had no right to appease yourself at her expense - you can NEVER understand what she has been through unless you have been there too (and I have, and even I would think thrice about writing to her!)and luckily for you, you have not .....YET.

First and foremost, Neena – I’m very sorry to hear of your loss at 20 weeks. No one should have to go through that and I wouldn’t pretend for one second to know what that is like. More than anything, you have my deepest and sincerest condolences.

As for my response, I could attempt to address each of your accusations, criticisms and frankly, some of your seemingly hate filled statements but would it change your mind? Probably not. I can only say this: It’s clear from your comment that you’re hurting and angry. And frankly, after five in vitro’s and a loss at 20 weeks, no one would ever blame you. However, the thing that’s also very clear from your comment is you absolutely don’t know me, who I am, what I stand for or what I care about in the slightest. If you did, you would know how truly off base and incorrect what you wrote about me is.

That being said, I do appreciate you sharing this very strong opinion. I have no doubt that others who have read my blog may feel exactly as you do. This is why I wanted to dedicate today’s post to your comment. I hope you will check back, read what others say and then, I'd strongly recommend you stop reading my blog. You seem like you'd be much happier if you simply don't read what I write and went on on to read some one else's blog you can better relate to.

So, let’s talk about it, shall we? Readers, commentors, infertiles, pregnant infertiles, new mom’s and anyone else who stops by and reads my blog, what do you think? I want to hand this over to you. If you also have "only" had three in vitros, did you not really suffer? If you get pregnant after dealing with infertility, should you never speak of it again and pretend you no longer care about people still going through it as Neena suggests? Is Infertility a “whose pain is worse?” contest? And most important and most seriously, even though I’ve asked this before, I’ll ask it again, should I retire this blog and just start a new one? Thoughts? Feelings? Suggestions?

And don't worry regular readers -- no matter what the future holds for this blog, I promise at least one more post that will be fun, funny, possibly include the word 'penis' and will return to my regularly scheduled life. I just thought this was worthy to open up for discussion, debate and comments.

As always, sending you all back love, light and humor…

Pregnant and Hated?

2011-10-12T12:57:00.003-04:00

Since I’ve been pregnant, I’ve noticed a very slight increase in angry comments and pissed off emails and an even slighter decrease in blog followers.

Losing followers is one thing. It’s to be expected and frankly, I completely understand it. When I was in the thick of trying to get pregnant, reading blogs about others who were pregnant, even if they struggled, were not always my cup of tea. It really depended on where I was at emotionally and where I was at in my journey. If I was gearing up for an IVF, I found these blogs inspirational. If I had just received word of a negative beta and saw my savings account was down by a couple of thousand on a “wasted” cycle, my joy for others was not as enthusiastic and genuine as it could be.

Let me just say that if reading my blog upsets you, annoys you or doesn’t help you while you deal with infertility, then dear god – please feel free to stop reading. I will miss you terribly and I’d certainly hope you’d consider coming back at some point to say hello but I would never want to make anyone unhappy. Infertility is f*cking hard and if reading what’s going on with me doesn’t help, then I’d hope you’d do what you need to do to feel better. Any which way, with all my heart and soul, I wish anyone and everyone who reads my blog to have their happy ending… whatever and however they can get it.

Now, as for the angry comments and pissed off emails, getting those have not been what I would describe as a good feeling. It’s one thing to choose not to read the blog. It’s entirely another to go out of your way and actively express your hatred for me or for something I’ve said. (Example: Please see here)

I do try to remember that it’s not personal. Mind you - I don’t mean to diminish the fact that I’ve clearly said things on my blog that have upset people or perhaps have even gotten them to hate me on some level but at the end of the day, they don’t really know me. They wouldn’t even recognize me if they saw me on the street. I almost want to say to these people, “Hang out with me. Let’s have a drink! THEN, you can hate me if you want!” Truly - if you meet me and think, “I just don't like Jay. And can you believe what she said about Jennifer Lopez’s kids being ugly? How rude!” I just don’t understand why someone would go out of their way to tell someone they don’t even know, that they haven’t even met that I’m a bitch who deserves to die a miserable death soley because I mentioned that having morning sickness isn’t a sexy feeling.

(And a quick side note – I don’t blame Jennifer Lopez for her kids being… well… not the most attractive. I don’t want to name names but let’s just say that I think its someone who's name rhymes with Shmark Shmanthony’s fault.)

Anyway, I could be wrong here but I never got such emails or comments when I wasn’t pregnant. It’s since I’ve been pregnant that I seem to so easily tick off people. One thing that seems to irritate people the most is when I have the audacity to say anything negative about being pregnant... and at the risk of pissing off more people, I’d like to quickly address that:

A) Being pregnant doesn’t mean that they automatically revoke your “Sometimes I Need to Vent Card”. Of course, if all my blog posts were about how much pregnancy sucks, that I hated every minute of it, that I was disappointed in whatever the sex of my baby is (so you know, I would have been thrilled even if the baby were a hermaphrodite by the time I did my third IVF) or if I was endlessly bitching and moaning, I’d more than agree with people being for annoyed with me.

However, if I occasionally complain about being embarrassed about throwing up on a street corner in front of strangers, after almost three years of trying to get pregnant, I believe I've earned that right. Hell, if anything, I paid thousands of dollars to express the rare complaint if I want to!

Also, on the flip side, if I did nothing but marvel at how wonderful it is to have hemorrhoids, how getting an amnio was more fun than a trip to the Bahamas, told you how much I enjoyed my nipples changing colors so often that they were like mood rings and wrote non-stop about how pregnancy was an orgasmic cake walk of happiness, sunshine and lollipops, not only would you seek to have me committed, I’m pretty sure I’d get even MORE hate mail than I’m already getting now.

B) If and when I do occasionally have a complaint about being pregnant, that doesn’t mean I’m not grateful. That is one I’ve heard a lot. The fact that I’ve pointed out a few difficulties I’ve had while being pregnant doesn’t mean that I’m any less grateful. It’s like anyone who complains about their husband when they are happily married. You love him (hopefully) and you can’t imagine a life without him but when he uses all the toilet paper and doesn’t replace it, like it or not, it’s annoying.

I’ve worked very hard for this pregnancy. I’ve dreamed of being pregnant for as long as I can remember and to finally be here after going through so much and after beginning to think it was damn near impossible – trust me – I’m grateful. Actually, I’m more than grateful. I’m an emotion that hasn’t’ even been invented. I’m grateful, humbled, respectful, appreciative and thankful all rolled into one. I’m grahumresativeful.

Another thing that has bothered me the most as of late though was when I received an email from some anonymous person chastising me for daring to contact a relative of mine who recently lost her baby. Her issue was that I had no right to do so since I’m pregnant and having a pregnant person sending an email to someone who just lost their child is morally reprehensible.

On the surface, I understand the point and this person is more than entitled to their opinion. The problem is we’re talking about a woman who I’m related to. She just lost her baby and the fact that I’m pregnant doesn’t mean I don’t love her any less or that I don’t care. I can’t even imagine not acknowledging that she’s just experienced a heartbreaking loss and if the roles were reversed, I can't imagine a relative, pregnant or not, not reaching out to me. (This was discussed on the blog here and here).

The same goes for a few of my friends beyond the blogging/Twitter world that I know personally who are dealing with infertility. I love and cherish these people. To not send them an email or call them to say, “I want this for you”, “Are you ok?”, “Is there anything I can do?” or “I’m so sorry” to me is not only not being a good friend but it’s unforgivable. Seriously – If the fact that I’m now pregnant stops me from reaching out to people I care about when they are suffering, how big of an asshole would I be? I simply can't imagine doing that to anyone.

That being said, if they don’t want to talk to me or if they say, “Jay – I can’t deal with you now or your pregnancy”, I would completely respect that, abide by their wishes and do whatever they asked me to if it would help. That’s their right to take some space from me. But for me to automatically eliminate myself from their lives or their problems because I’m pregnant doesn’t feel right to me. Rest assured that I've expressed all of this to the friends I'm referring to, that they can tell me to F-off at any time and so far, none of them have.

That’s the other thing (and here’s another point that I’m sure will annoy someone): Now that I’m pregnant, it doesn’t mean that it automatically erases all the feelings I had over the last couple of years of struggling. I have no money in my savings account, I’ve attended baby showers and felt like a failure, I’ve done timed cycles with Clomid, I’ve done three inseminations, I did three in vitros and I’ve felt the pain of infertility as much as anyone else who has gone through it. I haven’t forgotten that. I have tremendous respect for anyone who goes through infertility and I would never intentionally want anyone to think anything to the contrary.

So, to sum up, I’m not saying you can’t agree with me and I also don't mean to give the impression that I'm whining that people don’t like me as much anymore. The only thing I’m trying to do with this blog entry is vent about the extra flogging I’ve been taking lately and to attempt to respond to some of the things that a few readers have brought up.

But putting all of that aside for a moment and to end on more of a happy note, the majority of people who read my blog have been nothing but gracious and supportive. For every poopy email I receive, I’ve gotten at least five lovely emails from people either fighting the good fight or who also have found themselves recently pregnant. For those people, I’m genuinely eternally grateful.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Pregnant or not, infertile or not, pain is pain. We need to help and support each other and if it’s a choice between being angry and hateful or understanding and kind, I’d choose the latter every single time.

In closing, to those of you who are about to write me a negative comment or critical email, you do what you have to do. This is my blog and I’m just trying to express where I’m at and how I’m feeling in the most respectful manner. If that offends you, I sincerely apologize as that’s never my goal. If you feel you can’t read my blog or if you have decided you don’t like me for whatever reason, please know that in return, I wish you nothing but the best. We can’t please all of the people all of the time.

And no matter what – I still think Jennifer Lopez’s kids are ugly.

Boy, Oh Boy!

2011-09-20T12:52:00.005-04:00

First, the big news is that I found out I’m having a boy. That’s right – a little, tiny penis is growing inside me. I can’t even believe it. Before I got married, I was single for so long and spent so many years trying to understand men. Now, here I am about to have a little man. I hope and pray I can understand him!

Apparently, the baby can start to hear around twenty weeks so starting week twenty, I’m going to say these two statements to him over and over again:

1. No one will ever love you more than your mother.

2. If you say you're going to call a woman, you’d better f*cking call her.

The woman doing the sonogram asked my husband and me if we wanted to know the sex of the baby and we both said yes. She said that if she was able to see anything, she’d let us know. Five minutes later, she went, “WHOA! You still want to know the sex???” We knew immediately that it had to be a boy with that reaction. I mean really? Who says “Whoa!” to a vagina other than perhaps Joey Lawrence? Man, what a crappy catch phrase that was, huh? Damn you writers from BLOSSOM. Damn you straight to hell.

Right after the appointment, my husband made a list of all the things he can't wait to do with his son: Go to a baseball game, play catch, show him STAR WARS, etc. He also turned to me and very seriously said, "And think! You'll probably catch him masterbating when he's thirteen!" Uhhh, thanks? Frankly, I'd rather go to a baseball game. Yikes.

I’m also happy (and relieved) to report that the family member I spoke about in my last post (see here) did eventually email back. She thanked me for acknowledging her recent loss, she shared how she’s been dealing with it and she was generous enough to wish me only the best.

One thing she shared with me that I feel I MUST share with you was that when she returned to work after her loss, almost all of her co-workers avoided her and in some cases, wouldn’t even look at her. This absolutely breaks my heart as you know it wasn’t because she did anything wrong as much as it was that they didn’t know what to say. In my last post, where I debated whether or not you should acknowledge when someone loses a baby, I still think it’s a case by case basis, however, to totally avoid the person is unconscionable. Seriously – on what planet do people honestly believe that’s the best response? “Oh look… there’s that person who recently had a heartbreak. Quick! Let me run in the other direction!” Nice.

And I did end up getting an amniocentesis. I know so many of you were against that and it amazed me how many Tweets, emails, comments and even advice I got from people I work with about not doing it. To be extra clear – I was just as concerned and hesitant as many of you. I had three lengthy conversations with my doctor, I went to a genetics counselor and asked a million questions, I spoke to my husband and therapists about my feelings on it, and I went online and did as much research as possible before agreeing to do it. So, trust me when I say a lot of thought and energy was put into deciding to have it done.

A few things I learned on the subject was that when the "powers that be" initially said there was a 1 in 400 risk of complications from amnio, that was when they were doing these tests WITHOUT use of a sonogram. This absolutely blows my mind. Basically what they did was stick a needle in blindly and take a sample. If that’s the case, I’m surprised the statistics weren’t worse! Nowadays, it’s more like 1 in a 600 risk and the chance of miscarriage was a 0.5%.

Also, when they put a needle in the amniotic sac, it is not like a balloon that pops. I'm sure you all knew that but in my head, that's what I imagined. It turns out that it’s more like sticking a very small needle in your skin that starts healing as soon as the needle is removed. It's not as fun as a vacation in Bermuda but most of forty-five minutes for the amnio is taken up by doing a sonogram, sterilizing and prepping. The needle is usually in for no more than 60 seconds. For some, it doesn't hurt. For me, it pinched a little and I had a slight back pain afterwards but that was the worst of it. They have you on bed rest afterwards to help the healing process along… and in my case, to help me catch up on some serious crap television.

The main reason I decided to do the amnio wasn’t that I thought I would ever terminate the pregnancy, but it was more that if something was wrong, I would much rather be prepared and have the time to research Down Syndrome and find the very best way to raise the child.

Let me be EXTRA clear here though, I am in no way saying that what I did is the “right” or “best” choice. It was the choice my husband and I felt the most comfortable with. I don’t want anyone to ever think that I’m telling them what to do because whether to get an amnio and what you would do with the results are nobody’s business but your own.

That’s what kind of stunned me about the whole experience. On Twitter, I had asked people what their experiences were with amnio but I never asked, “Do you think I should get one or not?” However, I received tons of responses urging me not to get one. I don’t take offense to that at all since really, if anything, I think they cared enough to give me their opinion. Again though, I think it’s close to impossible to tell someone what to do in those circumstances. You have to do what's right for you.

As I mentioned earlier, even people at work, when I told them I would need to work from home because I was getting an amnio, openly shared their opinions. I had three different people say, “Oh don’t do that!” and I had four people tell me they had it done and it was no big deal. Again, who can say what’s right or wrong? Different things work for different people.

Any which way, we did the amnio this past Thursday and I got the results on Friday saying that everything was ok and that the baby was healthy. They also confirmed that the baby is a boy which I appreciated. A friend of mine was told she was having a boy and then the week after, she found out that she was actually having a girl. Apparently the person who did the first sonogram mistook the umbilical chord as a penis. Whoa indeed. That would be one hell of a big penis!!!

All in all, things are good. I now have to learn about all things boys. I haven’t had a lot of experience in the boy genre so I’ve got to bone up on sports, trucks and army toys. I would describe myself as a girly girl and if I were having a daughter, I had anticipated make-up lessons and pink fairy dresses. Unless this baby is a drag queen, I’m pretty sure those things are out now. Dresses or trucks, I’m just so grateful that our baby is healthy.

Facebook, Family and Freaking Out

2011-09-09T12:55:00.001-04:00

In the past few weeks, I’ve been waking up more often in the middle of the night and going to the bathroom. My husband, who never did this before, has started asking me, “Where are you going?” Usually, it’s four in the morning so I want to talk as little as possible but I’d love to say to him, “It’s four in the morning, I’m wearing an extra large t-shirt with no underwear, I have my mouth guard on and I’m heading to the bathroom. Where the hell do you think I’m going???” If he asks me again, I may answer, “I‘m heading to Nepal to climb Mount Everest. Don‘t wait up.”

This new line of questioning in the middle of the night I’m going to take as my husband being more protective and concerned about me now that I’m seventeen weeks pregnant. I can’t really blame him as I’ve been just as nervous and cautious. I even bought one of those home fetal heart beat dopplers. I must mention that my husband has often used it to sing to me with it. It’s like his own portable microphone. It’s cute and annoying all at the same time.

I try to limit myself to one night a week where I check the baby’s heartbeat. One night last week though, I couldn’t find it and I freaked me the f*ck out. Now, I majored in theatre, I have no medical background and to put it bluntly, I don’t really know what the hell I’m doing. Frankly, it makes sense that I can’t find the heart beat every single time as I‘m not the most qualified person for home health care. I also wouldn’t be surprised if our baby is like, “Dude! Can you leave me alone! I‘m gestating here!” and has turned away from the microphone for some privacy. Either that or the baby has heard it’s father’s singing and hides in shame.

Rest assured, the next morning, not only did I throw up on a street corner in the city (I assume that was the baby’s way of saying hello) but I found the heartbeat again later that night. Since this incident though, my husband has hid the Doppler. He did this to keep me from driving myself nuts and to perhaps rehearse a new number.

Now obviously, we all know that I struggled desperately to get pregnant. We also know that the more you connect with people in the infertility community, the more you hear horror stories of what people have gone through and all that can go wrong. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’ve had my share of heart break but I know so many who have had it profoundly worse and for that, they have my undying love and respect. All of this makes me especially cautious when it comes to this pregnancy… but there’s also another factor that I haven’t mentioned before that has also put me on edge.

Without going too into detail out of respect for the person involved, a family member of mine lost her baby somewhat around the point of where I am now in my pregnancy. We are not terribly close but the fact that this loss was not only sudden but also remains unclear as to what went wrong or why deeply upsets me. This also happened the same week I found I was pregnant and I have thought about it every single day since then. Come to think of it, I think that’s what prompted me to buy the Doppler in the first place.

Recently, we decided to announce my pregnancy on Facebook. I was very hesitant to but I was getting pressure from friends, family and even my husband. I get that this is the new age we’re living in but I can’t help but feel a little uncomfortable with it. Facebook pregnancy announcements tortured my sorry ass for two and a half years (I even nicknamed Face book ‘Fertilitybook‘) and I’m amazed at how this has become such an important part of letting people know you’re pregnant. The importance of Facebook in society in general is beginning to concern me. I’ve had two friends change their ‘married’ status to ‘single” and then receive hundred of posts asking, “Oh my god! What happened?” Do you really want to discuss the demise of your marriage on Facebook? Then, a month ago, someone posted that their father passed away but he lived eighty-five wonderful years. Do I click ‘like’ saying that it’s nice to hear he lived a long life or would it seem more like I’m happy he’s dead?

Anyway, we ended up posting something funny and not overly mushy about our pregnancy news. Still, after I hit ‘post’, I immediately thought of my family member. She’s on Facebook and although I believe a mutual relative had already told her the news, I couldn’t help but wonder if seeing the announcement upset her.

And here’s my question: When someone has a miscarriage, do you acknowledge it or not? My whole family, including myself, sent her cards and/or flowers when we first heard the news but beyond that, there has been no discussion of it. In the infertility community, I’ve heard different reactions to this. Some want to forget about it and move on. Others are deeply hurt when people stop talking about it as if it’s never happened. Everyone is different and I’m certain there’s no one way or even a right way of doing things but that’s almost the trouble. You don’t always know how the person going through a loss wants to handle it.

Still, for me, after our Facebook announcement came out, I felt I had to write her some sort of email acknowledging the whole situation. I basically said that I have been thinking a lot about her, that I sincerely hope she is hanging in there and that if my Facebook posting upset her, then I was truly sorry. I closed by wishing her nothing the best. I didn’t talk about my pregnancy (other than the announcement), I kept it short and just tried to let her know that she’s still very much in my thoughts. That was over a week ago and I haven’t gotten any response.

I can't help but feel this was a huge mistake sending this email. I had the very best of intentions and sincerely thought I was doing the right thing but the more I think about it, the more I think that if she hadn’t reached out to me to begin with, I probably should have just left it alone. I just hope I didn’t say anything overwhelmingly stupid or unintentionally insensitive. Again, it’s just so hard to know.

Meanwhile, I continue to worry, obsess and freak out over my own pregnancy. We got our second blood test results back and the risk of down syndrome is even higher. Mind you - it’s still not horrible and it looks like now we have a 98% chance of everything being ok but we’re seriously beginning to consider doing an amnio just so we can know for sure instead of worrying till February (which let’s face it, I’m sure I’ll worry till February anyway).

I’m terrified and lost on what’s the best thing to do. I was practically sawed in half several times to finally get pregnant and the thought of doing anything to hurt the baby or the pregnancy beyond scares me. Also, I myself have never had a miscarriage. Anytime I’ve heard of one, it has of course disturbed and upset me… but now, being 17 weeks pregnant and knowing first hand what it feels like to connect with my baby; well now I’m even more gut wrenched at the thought. And thinking about what happened to my family member makes me that much more scared the same thing will happen to me. How I would deal with it and what in the holy hell would I put on Facebook after already posting an announcement? It's a stupid, silly thought but one that has occurred to me.

So, there’s a lot in today’s blog post and I have this eerie feeling that I’m going to get the most anonymous, “You’re a twat” emails in response to this blog entry than anything I’ve ever posted on here before. I’m not sure why. Maybe because despite my best efforts, I didn’t handle things well with my family member. Maybe because I’m freaking out and that tends to annoy readers who find it ungrateful (which, to be clear, I could not be MORE grateful to be pregnant) or maybe because there’s someone out there who thinks Facebook is the most brilliant form of communication and I’m a big poop for making fun of it.

The plan over the next week is to talk to a genetics counselor, figure out our options, try to not worry more than necessary (if that’s possible), hope my family member doesn’t think I’m a big douche bag and let my husband ask me questions in the middle of the night and occasionally sing to me. Oh, and keep my sense of humor… I must ALWAYS keep my sense of humor.

The Pregnant Infertile

2011-08-20T21:44:00.006-04:00

If you read my blog often, you may have read my most recent post called, “But I Can’t Complain”. The post was about how I feel guilty for complaining about my morning sickness after going through years of fertility treatments. So many of your comments were incredibly kind, supportive and generous; especially those of you who are still working towards getting pregnant. I sincerely appreciate it.

That being said, I did receive one anonymous comment on that posting that said the following:

“Boo hoo... you pee and throw up. At least your pregnant you mindless twat. Some of us would kill to feel that way and your complaining. I guess you forgot what it's like, just like every other so called infertile who gets a BFP. Whatever.”

Putting grammar, punctuation and the sentiment of the comment aside for a moment, I do want to acknowledge that this is not only the first time I’ve ever been called a “twat” (at least that I'm aware of) but it’s also the first time I’ve included the word “twat” on this blog. I even wrote it down in my baby book (8/19/11 – First time Jay was called a twat!). I’d like to thank the poster for introducing the word into my blog because let’s face it: 'Twat' is a fun word.

When you get a comment like that (which is almost always anonymous by the way), the debate is whether to publish it or delete it. Some feel you’re rewarding them by acknowledging it and others feel it gives you the chance to respond. I get both sides of that argument and I went back and forth on what was the appropriate way to handle the comment.

It was when someone on my Twitter account asked me, “Is there anything to be accomplished by publishing it?” that things became clearer for me. It’s a damn good question. I don’t think the poster wanted to accomplish anything other than expressing her frustration at her own infertility and that she pretty much f*cking hates me for what she perceives as my ungrateful attitude, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t something to be accomplished. This is why I decided to include it in today’s post.

Now bear with me for a moment… do any of you remember Pedro Zamora? Zamora was on MTV's reality television series, The Real World: San Francisco in 1993. He was openly gay and publicly discussed being HIV-positive. This was groundbreaking television and it was before MTV became the big pile of crap that it is today. Snookie – I’m looking squarely at you.

On one episode, Pedro did some sort of motivational talk to a group of people about what it was like dealing with AIDS. He said (and I’m going on memory here), “I am not dying of AIDS. I am living with AIDS.” When he said this, it blew me away. By changing a few words, he conveyed that even though AIDS was not his choice, it was a part of his reality and he was living with it as best he could.

This quote in a weird way reminds me of how I feel about struggling with infertility and now being pregnant. Of course, there is a huge difference between AIDS and infertility and I don’t mean to compare the two directly. It’s more that I’m not just your average pregnant woman. I am a pregnant woman living with infertility. I’ve taken Clomid, progesterone, various hormone shots, estrogen patches, done three inseminations, three in vitros and suffered through embarrassments, disappointments, physical pain and both financial and emotional strain. Being pregnant, at least not for me, doesn’t erase what I’ve endured and here’s the thing: I don’t want it to.

I’ve begun telling people that I’m pregnant and nine times out of ten when I tell someone, I include either that we had a very difficult time getting pregnant or I tell them point blank that we got pregnant through our third IVF. Granted, I’ve gotten some odd comments when I tell people this. My favorite was a co-worker who said, “How do you know it’s really your embryo?” Really? We’re going to discuss this over the photocopier? And who asks this???

Anyway, I’m sure my therapist could give you various reasons why I feel the need to add our infertility struggles to my announcements, but if you ask me, I’d tell you that it’s because I’m proud of it. I didn’t just get knocked up by my husband sneezing on me one night. I worked my mother f*cking ass off for it. A fertile woman gets pregnant. Zip-a-dee-doo-dah. An infertile woman gets pregnant and she earned it through blood, sweat and tears. LITERALLY.

Plus, not for nothing but going through infertility has introduced me to the MOST amazing women ever that I’m forever grateful to have met. Whether it’s Facebook, Twitter or this blog: I’ve connected with people that have enriched my life. I'm as grateful for them as I am to be pregnant... and that's no bull sh*t.

Recently, I got my blood work back from my NT scan. In terms of the Down syndrome, they said for a woman of my age (which is 37), it SHOULD be a 1 in 142 chance. My blood test results however came back as a 1 in a 109 chance. Technically, that's a little less than a 1% chance but they asked if I wanted to do amniocentesis.

Again, a woman who gets pregnant easily might say, “Sure! Throw it on my tab!” But for me, I don’t know if I can do that. Although amnio is a very common procedure, there is still a risk of miscarriage. Because I am an infertile pregnant woman, I can’t even consider doing anything that might possibly harm this baby. I’m too terrified. We are going to do repeat blood work in two weeks to see if the odds have changed at all and we’ll talk to the doctor and see what she thinks, but this is another great example of what being pregnant after dealing with infertility can do to you. You worry. You obsess. You know how difficult it was to get here and you know how easy it could be to lose it.

So, getting back to my anonymous commenter. This is what I would like to say to her: Although I can’t say I relish your comment and although you may not believe me, I know EXACTLY how you feel. If I’m being honest, I know I’ve even thought that about other pregnant women in the past (well, minus the twat part) but the difference is I didn’t contact them about it.

However, you’re obviously hurting and I knew that particular post might elicit that response from someone. I even mentioned that in one of the last paragraphs of that post… that I was sure some of you would want to strangle me for bitching about throwing up.

Regardless, even though some may say I’m rewarding you or egging you on by saying what I’m about to say, I’m going to say this anyway: If you’re struggling with infertility and you’re having a difficult time, then I truly am sorry that my complaining about morning sickness upset you. I’m also sorry you’re going through this as no one should.

In short, the mindless twat is sending you back love and hope. :)

But I Can't Complain...

2011-08-08T16:30:00.002-04:00

My mother, who I adore, has a habit of saying, “But I can’t complain…” The trouble is she usually says this after a half hour of complaining.

Lately, I feel like I’m turning into my mother.

This Friday, I will be thirteen weeks pregnant. I still can’t believe it. Every time I get a sonogram and see someone in there literally waving at me, I’m amazed. After two and a half years of seeing nothing but blank empty space, it just never gets old. I love my OB/GYN, our NT scan went well, the baby seems to be healthy (we get the NT blood test results this week) and so far, things are going along as they should.

When you’ve struggled with infertility and you want nothing more than to be pregnant, you can’t imagine ever being bothered by even the worst symptoms of pregnancy. I find myself in the position now where it doesn't just feel ungrateful but it feels so incredibly sh*tty to complain. I worked so hard and spent so much money for this pregnancy that it isn't just that I can't complain, I feel like don't have the right to!

When I was nauseous the first week or so, I actually thought it was adorable. The next week, when I couldn’t eat anything that wasn’t beige (toast, crackers, bananas, etc.); I said to myself, “Well, you’ve spent good money on this nausea! I might as well enjoy it!” When I started throwing up one to two times a day during a heat wave in New York, I desperately wanted to whine but instead, I renewed my commitment to not complain. I just started to bring water, gum and plastic bags with me and vowed to keep my sense of humor.

Then, one time, when I threw up and peed on myself, I began to stop laughing. I was kneeling down on my bathroom floor over the toilet and I peed right on our bathroom area rug. The frog embroidered on the rug still smiled but I knew he felt degraded. I immediately took the rug, soaked it in hot water and took a shower. The trouble is when I stepped out of the shower, because there was no rug, I slipped. Luckily, I didn’t completely fall but both my pride and feelings of attractiveness went down the toilet right along with my flavorless mashed potato dinner. You don’t know how humiliating it is when your husband asks you what happened to the bathroom rug and you have to tell him, “Ummm, yeah. I had an accident.” I’m sorry to say this wouldn’t be the only time this would happen.

When your wife is throwing up and peeing on a daily basis, it’s a mood killer. My husband loves me but to say he backed off from me physically is an understatement. I can’t blame him though. The only way these fabulous new traits would EVER be a turn on would be if you were into German porn.

Over the course of the past few weeks, I’ve thrown up in pretty much every bathroom in a ten mile radius of my home. I would be remiss if I didn’t add here that if you’re ever in this situation, do all that you can to avoid throwing up at the bathrooms in Penn Station, New York. The smell alone will not help your cause.

Almost impressively, despite my inability to hold on to much food these days, I’ve also managed to gain seven pounds. My doctor says that this is actually common with women who deal with morning sickness as they tend to eat more carbohydrates. After years of infertility treatments, hormone injections, progesterone and now pregnancy, I have become a permanent version of a bloated dying Elvis.

Adding to my already poor body image, my mother bought me some maternity clothes from the Salvation Army. I tried some on this past weekend and there were quite a few that made me look like I was a sugar mamma wearing a moo moo by the pool at my condo in Miami Beach while hitting on the pool boy.

I feel unattractive, I miss seeing color in my food, my underwear is tight and I feel like I’ve had the stomach flu for two solid months now. Every morning, my mantra is, “Just try not to throw up on anyone who decides what your year end bonus should be.”

I hate writing all of this and I’m sure there are some of you who are following this blog and who are trying to get pregnant who want to now strangle me (that is if you actually made it through this sad, whiny post). Here’s the thing though: I WANT TO STRANGLE ME TOO. I am annoying myself as I truly am over the moon about this pregnancy. I am grateful, humbled and deeply appreciative of every milestone and every second this pregnancy has brought me.

The fact remains though that I have genuinely tried every trick, every rationale, every pep talk and every wive's tale to get through this morning sickness that lasts well past the morning and it still sucks total ass. My doctor said that it usually eases up anywhere in between twelve to fourteen weeks and dear god, I really hope that’s true.

But really, I can’t complain…

The Infertile Sleeping Beauty

2011-07-22T15:15:00.002-04:00

Whenever you watch a movie, there is typically a clear resolution at the end of the film, the soundtrack kicks in and the credit roll. Well, ok. I should say most movies. Physiological thriller like INCEPTION or BLACK SWAN are exceptions to this rule. With those two movies in particular, the audience not only had no clue what the resolution was but typically, they would turn to each other and be like, “Uhhh, does anyone know what the f*ck just happened???”

Getting back to my point though… if you take romantic comedies for example, the hero gets the girl or the couple gets married or they have a family. It’s a general happy and conclusive ending where they live happily ever after. End of story. Cue the sappy Celine Dion song.

When you’ve been struggling with infertility for awhile, the happy ending is you get pregnant and go on to have a healthy baby. That’s what you’ve been working towards, struggling with and wanting more than anything. What I’m realizing though is that a positive pregnancy test doesn’t automatically mean that everything you’ve endured while trying to get pregnant is now completely fixed and happy again.

My husband and I have been through so much in the last two and a half years. We’ve had medicated cycles, inseminations, in vitros, financial strain, debates on how to proceed, periods of depression and our own separate feelings of failure to contend with.

It's like our relationship is a country. Our country has been under attack for the last few years. We’ve been hit with Clomid bombs, estrogen grenades and financial ruin. However, the attack appears to be over and the President is currently assessing the damage. Our country still stands but frankly, it kind of looks a little like sh*t right now.

Now, I don’t mean to "over metaphor" you to death but I need to add one more. Lately, I’ve been feeling like the “Infertile Sleeping Beauty”. I’ve been in a hormonal, depressed coma for over two years and just now, I’m waking up. I’ve behaved badly. I’ve whined and put Sam in a position more often then I would like to have to take care of me. I complained about our lives, our infertility and often pushed aside what was good about us and our relationship. I have not been myself. Not the real me and now that I’ve “come back”, and even though I know in my heart that I handled things the best I could, I can’t help but be slightly mortified at my behavior. “Who WAS that chick? What a lunatic!”

I don’t know if Sam will ever fully understand what it felt like to be on one medication after another; hormonal, upset, physically tortured (in a sense) and worst of all, feeling like a total colossal loser as a woman. We all know on paper that having fertility issues does not make you a failure… but that’s simply not how it feels. Of course, this doesn't excuse my two and a half year long tantrum. It’s only meant to try and explain it. No matter the reasons, I feel terrible about my reign of terror and I have apologized to him often.

In the thick of it though, while I was off having my prolonged mini-depression, I think it’s safe to say that Sam felt abandoned. He gave me space but that space slowly created distance and in that distance, we appear to have created different coping skills. Sam began playing online video games and took up photography. I turned to the online community (which has been enormously helpful) and started reading the most mindless chick lit books I could get my hands on. More and more, we had our own little lives and our own ways of dealing. It was like, “I need to decompress… I’m going to this side of the apartment… you go to yours… I’ll just see you at the next retrieval.”

I don’t mean to give the impression that Sam and I are desperately unhappy. We absolutely love each other, he is still very much my everything and we’re beyond grateful to be ten weeks pregnant. It’s more that we’ve created some counterproductive habits, our relationship has been strained and we aren't on the same exact page as much as we used to be. Luckily though, we're in the same book... and possibly even the same chapter... so there's hope!

Any which way, this is the time, more than ever, to come back together and rebuild. We have to become reacquainted with one another and develop new habits and strategies to work together. It’s not, “What can I do to get through this?”. It’s “What should we do to help each other out and plan for the future?” I realize we should have been doing this all along, but as many of you know, when you’re in the hell of infertility, you really do what you need to do to just get through the day.

We’ve been making an extra effort to spend more time together and we’ve been going to couples counseling more frequently. There are things he feels like he can say to me that he couldn’t say to me before (when I was in my Infertile Sleeping Beauty state) and I am way more together now to actually hear him and express myself in a coherent manner. We’re figuring out how to reconnect, to better communicate, to decide what type of parents we want to be, where we want to live, how to work out the financial future and how, most importantly, to be one big happy family unit.

It’s a process and I know now that I was naïve to think getting pregnant would magically fix the damages of the past few years. It takes work. I just hope that when the baby is born and the credits begin to roll, Sam and I are starring in a Romantic Comedy with a happy ending and not a physiological thriller where everyone is like, “Was that a happy ending? Did they dream it was a happy ending but it’s not? Where am I? Whose underwear is this?”

I guess we’ll see...

Crazy Little Thing Called Love

2011-07-13T13:53:00.001-04:00

My husband and I were laying in bed the other night when he said to me, “Listen. I love you and I’m not trying to be difficult but I really don’t think I can “handle” diapers. I’m sorry, I’m just being honest.”

In response, I said, “That fine… as long as we’re clear that I don’t think I can “handle” performing oral sex until you’re able to “handle” diapers.” We’ll see what happens…

This past Friday, we heard the heart beat of the baby (now allegedly the size of a raspberry). It was 175 beats per minute and it sounded like the fetus was a pro-boxer hitting a punching bag. My Reproductive Endocrinologist also remarked that the baby had grown quite a good amount since our last ultrasound. I can only assume that the baby has inherited my curvy genes.

I told my RE that I had made an appointment with an OB/Gyn in two weeks. I added, “Not that I’m breaking up with you yet though…”

She smiled and said, “Well, that’s ok, because I’m breaking up with you. It’s an amicable break-up.”

When I asked her what she meant, she said, “This baby is officially too big to be here.”

Now, I’m not an overly emotional person but for some reason, that made me cry. It was a happy cry but one where I couldn’t even talk or collect myself. It’s safe to say that I think I threw everyone in the room for a loop. I was just so overwhelmed that I was finally graduating from a fertility clinic… and that for now; the baby was strong and healthy. I had to check my driver’s license to make sure this was actually happening to me.

So, for the next two weeks (again, another two week wait), I’m in between doctors. I’ve been relying on friends, the internet and books for advice while I notice new symptoms and cravings. For example, I’ve noticed I’ve been listening to more Queen music. Does this mean I’m having a boy, girl or an English flamboyantly gay rock star?

I’ve also been getting more and more morning sickness (although in my case, it’s pretty much all day). I have a friend who, whenever she was pregnant, would do a running commentary on Twitter of how many times she threw up in a day. She'd even go into horrific detail including what meal preceeded the event. Even before I had fertility issues and became a super snarky sourpuss times ten, this used to annoy the sh*t out of me. Who wants to read about any activity involving you, a toilet and any kind of bodily function? I don’t care if it’s only 140 characters. It's disgusting!

So obviously, I could never sit here and whine about throwing up. Aside from the fact that it’s for a good reason, one that I’ve wanted my whole life, I can never forget that I paid $15,000 for this. I’ve spent good money and I want all the bells and whistles!

However, I do feel the need to say a few things on this subject. Hopefully I can do so without being too graphic and without making any of you want to hurl:

I am now living off of toast, bagels, crackers and ginger ale. Picasso had his blue period. I’m currently having my beige period.
I have mastered the art of cleaning my toilet while using it. Martha Stewart would be so proud.
My respect for bulimics has grown exponentially.
Yesterday, I dry heaved so hard that I peed at the same time. This, my friends, was not my sexiest moment.

I’ve tried saltine crackers, ginger ale, smaller meals, Tums, ginger candy and preggie pops. Many have suggested I try medication but my doctor “doesn’t believe” in giving anti-nausea medication in the first trimester. I can respect that and in reality, this should only be going on for a few more weeks. As long as I can avoid having to wear Depends and as long as I don’t throw up on anyone at my job who decides my bonus, I should be able to get through it.

As I wrap up today’s blog, I received an email from the Baby Center. The subject line was, “Baby poop guide: What you need to know!” Wow. They are sending this early! Perhaps I should forward this to my husband to give him time to prepare… and to decide which it’s going to be.

Doesn’t ANYONE Want to See My Vagina?

2011-07-06T14:00:00.002-04:00

I had no idea how difficult it would be to find an OB/GYN. I’m not talking about one I like. I’m talking about one that takes my insurance and is accepting new patients. So far, they either don’t take insurance at all, they aren’t accepting new patients, they don’t do deliveries anymore, they’ve moved out of the city or in the case of one doctor someone recommended to me, they are currently in the middle of a messy lawsuit. Oy.

As you may remember, there was a doctor who actually takes my insurance, who is affiliated with the fertility clinic I’ve been going to, and who specializes in high risk pregnancies. He was my holy grail. Wait, no. He was more like my holy speculum.

Anyway, allegedly, he was reviewing my case to see if he would take me on as a new patient. If they requested I also write an entrance essay, it wouldn’t have shocked me in the least. “What My Uterus Did This Summer” by Jay.

After waiting a little over a week, I called his office back and got a receptionist on the phone. After explaining that I had called twice already but hadn’t heard back, I added, “I feel like I’m single again and I’m sitting by the phone waiting for 'him' to call.” Luckily, she laughed and said, “Ok, for that – you have my undivided attention.” She confided in me that he’s actually been on vacation (not sure why that would be a secret exactly but whatever) and she’ll go ahead and schedule an appointment. I'll see him in a few weeks.

Although I’m thrilled to have “got in”, I can’t help but be slightly annoyed that I had to be Shecky Green in order to get someone to pay attention to my va-jay-jay. My private area doesn’t need an opening act. It needs love and attention!

And on that note, in one of my many, “You’re Pregnant and Don’t Know What The F*ck To Do” books, on the subject of oral sex, they advised, “If your partner performs oral sex on you, be sure they do not blow air into the vagina.” Beg your pardon? I didn’t want that when I wasn’t pregnant. Why in the holy hell would I be interested in that now? Seriously – that doesn’t stimulate anything but my need to punch my partner. Furthermore, it’s a vagina. Not a balloon for crying out loud.

What’s super scary is you know this must have happened enough times that someone needed to put this in the book. I see the writers sitting around going, “We’ve REALLY got to make sure we address that blowing air in the vagina thing. It’s become such an epidemic!” And all the others nod in agreement. “Oh yes, we should have a whole chapter on that!”

Also, continuing my “what food, animal or mineral” is the baby this week, the baby is currently the size of a blueberry. Maybe it’s just me but this immediately makes me think of WILLY WONKA AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY when Sam Beauregarde (the father of Violet Beauregarde) says, “Violet! You're turning violet, Violet!” after she eats the incomplete three-course meal gum and subsequently starts swelling up to the size of a Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon. As Sam is escorted to the juicing room, he says, “I've got a blueberry for a daughter...” Any which way, at least it’s not the size of an oompa loompa or a snozberry. Who’s ever heard of a snozberry???

This Friday, we have another appointment with my reproductive endocrinologist at the clinic to see the baby again and actually hear the heartbeat for the first time. I’m so excited and of course, nervous. I am hoping with all my heart and soul that everything looks good, that the baby is healthy and the heart beat is nothing short of fabulous. I’ll keep you posted. For now though, I’m just so happy someone will be checking things out without me having to do a stand-up routine and especially without blowing any air up my wah-hoo.

Food, Mineral or Vegetable

2011-06-24T14:06:00.000-04:00

This morning was our first ultrasound and I’m thrilled (and relieved) to report that it went well. The doctor was pleased, we saw the baby (well, as much as you can see) and we saw the flickering of a heartbeat. And what was the very first thing I said when I saw all this? “It’s so cool to finally see something in there and not a big ol’ empty space!” Maybe not a phrase you'd see in a Hallmark card or embroidered on a pillow but that was the first thought that came to mind.

We go back in exactly two weeks from today to hear the heartbeat. Yes folks. I'm in yet another two-week wait! It's like the universe WANTS me to keep writing on this blog and not start a whole new one! :)

Last week, I told my niece and nephew that according to the Baby Center, the baby (then at five weeks) was the size of a sesame seed. I told them that that very morning, I had a sesame seed bagel, grabbed one of the seeds, showed it to Sam and said, “Look! It’s our baby!” They found this utterly hilarious. I’m so pleased they find their Aunt Jay’s warped sense of humor amusing.

According to Baby Center this week (6 weeks), the baby is the size of a lima bean. When Sam and I saw the ultrasound today, we confirmed to one another that the baby does, in fact, look like a lima bean. Not only can we now not stop ourselves from calling the baby lima bean but we can't dare eat any legumes anymore.

I promised myself I would not give a nickname to the baby. I know many do and that’s totally fine if that’s what you feel comfortable with but for me, I just didn’t feel right doing that until we were at least past the first trimester. I’m not buying anything for the baby, I’m not changing my twitter name and I’m not telling the public at large until we’re at least past the first week of August. Of course, I’m already emotionally attached so none of this will necessarily make things any easier if something were to go wrong but still, I feel the need to wait until we're in somewhat safer waters.

Also, if I’m being honest, despite being someone who named her uterine polyp, Jackson Polyp, I was never very comfortable with the overwhelming cutesy-poo factor of naming your fetus something like “sugar kitten or “lil’ angel muffin” or something like that. I say that with the sincerest respect to my fellow pregnant friends who have come up with nicknames for their babies. I promise - I'm not saying that all nicknames are bad or nauseating, I’m just saying that there have been a few that have been so sweet that the mere mention of them have given me a cavity.

Now that we’re calling it lima bean (at least this week), does that mean that I’m going to start calling the baby whatever noun, fruit or vegetable the Baby Center sends me from week to week? I sincerely hope not. That seems too fickle and strange. “I’m so in love with our little cumquat!” Or “Our little baseball is getting so big!”

I’m either going to have to resign myself to just calling our baby “the baby” or coming up with a nickname that doesn’t make me feel like it’ll induce eye rolling or gagging every time I use it.

And speaking of gagging, I asked my doctor if using deodorant/ antiperspirant was ok as the organic Tom's Deodorant has been making me gag from how bad I smell. She said I should really try to use “aluminum free” deodorant. Dammit. I’m going to have to start looking into other brands… and I have a feeling I’m going to go through a whole lot of them before I find something effective.

I’m warning you now – don’t be surprised if pretty soon, I write a blog entry called, “The Many Smells of Jay”. Oy.

For The Love Of Macaroni and Cheese

2011-06-23T12:08:00.003-04:00

First and foremost, I’m starting a campaign to make Macaroni and Cheese a food group. This is a cause recently taken up by my stomach that seems to want nothing else but macaroni and cheese. To appease my guilt, I’m hoping to get it added to the food pyramid in its very own category. Go with me on this people…

So, as of today, I’m 6 weeks pregnant and tomorrow will be my first ultrasound. I had planned on posting a blog entry after the ultrasound tomorrow but then this morning, I received an adorable, thoughtful email from a reader of mine, Linda, asking for an update. Actually, she said she AND her co-workers wanted an update so thank you Linda and co-workers for checking in on me! By the way, maybe it’s just me but I think LINDA AND CO-WORKERS sounds like a modern day office band. Their first hit single could be, “Photocopy My Love”. What? Why are you all looking at me like that?

Last Friday, my beta was up from 220 to 1894 (which I hear was a very good year) and although it’s been hard to resist, I managed to only pee on one stick this week. Any which way, I’m still amazed that I’m pregnant. Me: The person who never got pregnant. It’s still crazy to me.

I’m still working out what to do with this blog in particular as I sincerely don’t feel entirely comfortable talking about my pregnancy when so many have discovered my site because they are themselves in a two week wait. It’s like starting a website about your dating adventures and then you continue writing on the same site about your marriage. It just feels wrong to me on a certain level. I don’t know though – I go back and forth on it constantly.

And speaking of dating, my quest to find an OB/GYN that takes my insurance and deals with High Risk pregnancies has made me feel like I’m back on Match.com looking for some love (although in this case, it’s clinical love). My insurance company referred me to their website but a lot of the information listed are either out of date, or the doctor’s don’t do deliveries anymore or they moved offices entirely. Then, anytime anyone recommends this “amazing” doctor, I call and they don’t take my insurance.

Two days ago, I found a doctor who met all the criteria: Takes my insurance, is an OB/GYN, is actually in the same city as me and specializes in high risk pregnancies. I called, told the nurse that I was thirty-seven, that I got pregnant after my third in vitro and that both of my sister’s pregnancies were difficult ones so I wanted to have a doctor who dealt with high risks. She said they would review my case with the doctor and he would decide whether or not he’d like to take me on as a patient. So, much like my single days, I’m sitting by the phone hoping he’ll call.

It occurred to me after the fact that I should have mentioned I’m also slightly overweight. I said to my husband, “Do you think it’s weird if I call back, ‘Can you also tell the doctor I’m fat?’” Sam talked me out of it. The ONE time I could use being overweight to my advantage and I forgot to mention it! Sh*t!

Meanwhile, I’m learning a few little things that I never knew before about being pregnant (and don’t worry, this list is not a touchy, feely, cutesy poo list).

1. Lately, if I don’t return my mother’s calls in a two hour time span, she freaks out.

2. The smell of flowers apparently makes me nauseous these days. Flowers people. How lame is that? I guess no picnics or botanical garden for me this summer.

3. PMS symptoms and pregnancy symptoms are the same. This is something I was in denial about but now that I’m pregnant, I have to admit it – they so f*cking are. I HATE saying this as I think it prolongs the torture for many of you in the two week wait but sadly, it’s true. Whichever entity came up with that really needs to be bitch slapped.

4. Even though I’ve gotten the elusive “BFP” ('big fat positive' pregnancy test), I still need and deeply appreciate the love and support more than I can say.

5. Finding a good parking spot suddenly makes me emotional.

6. Just because I’m pregnant doesn’t mean that I’ve forgotten for one second how insanely, unfair and painful struggling with infertility can be.

7. I still get annoyed when I see pregnant women (figure that one out!)

8. Aluminum-free organic deodorant does NOT work. I smell like vanilla sweat these days.

9. I have maintained my sense of humor… but now I do so with slightly bigger boobs.

Overall, it’s still so early and I’m definitely nervous (especially about the sonogram tomorrow) but despite the occasional nausea, feeling tired and my fears of all the things that can go wrong, I feel damn good. I’ve worked hard for this and dreamed of being pregnant my whole life, so even though I can’t predict how this pregnancy is going to go, even though I haven’t found an OB/GYN yet that wants to make a commitment, and even though I stink (thanks to my effort to only use organic products), I am very much in the moment. Today, I’m pregnant and I’m happy. I’m also about to have more macaroni and cheese.

Now, Linda and Co-Workers – Get back to work! :)

Speak Softly And Carry a Pee Stick

2011-06-16T16:00:00.003-04:00

I came home from work to find my husband sitting on my couch looking at me very seriously.

“Jay?” my husband said. “Can you sit down for a moment?”

As I was putting down my purse and getting comfortable, I tried to rack my brain figuring out what I had done.

“Honey, you have to stop peeing on so many sticks.” He said. “I almost brushed my teeth with one this morning.”

Yes. It was a Pee Stick Intervention. Clearly, I’m still shocked that I’m finally pregnant.

On that note, I want to sincerely thank all of you who commented on my “Level Two” post. The comments were so gracious, sweet and in some cases, downright hilarious.

I was also touched by how many of you got annoyed with me for not getting to the point sooner. I love that we’ve grown so close that you feel comfortable to be like, “Way to drag it out lady!” I found it both adorable and touching. Maybe it’s because that’s how my family talk to each other. My dad just said me the other day, “Your mother told me a joke so long and convoluted that I thought I was watching THE LORD OF THE RINGS all over again!”

Believe it or not, not announcing the good news straight away was a very conscious choice on my part. It wasn’t that I wanted to build tension or keep you guessing as much as it was fulfilling a promise that I made to myself, that if I ever did get pregnant, I would write a blog entry in the same format and style as any of my other blog entries. I’ve struggled too long with infertility to get cocky and write a simple, “I’m pregnant! Let the good times begin! Wah hoo!” entry.

One thing that's been on my mind lately is that I’ve always had a hard time when I found a blog that had an infertility title and/or description of someone struggling to conceive only to visit their site and see that they are now pregnant. I TRULY don’t mean that in a disrespectful way to any of my fellow fertility challenged blogger friends. I’m a firm believer that anyone who gets pregnant after struggling with infertility earned it and can write about it anyway they want. It was more about me and my feelings. I would go to their blog, see that they were pregnant and this would in turn remind me that I wasn’t. Feelings of sadness and the strong need for sushi and alcohol would soon set it.

I know many people have discovered this blog because they were in their two week waits. Now that I’m pregnant, I feel a little like my site has become a bait and switch. “Oh look… she’s trying to conceive too! Wait a minute, the bitch is pregnant! What the fuck???”

This was my point with the “Level Two” entry. I’m at the very beginning of this pregnancy, there’s still so many hurdles to jump (not that I’m jumping much these days) and although I’m thrilled, I’m in no way feeling a hundred percent secure. Hence, the mountains of home pregnancy sticks scattered about my home.

What’s ironic to me is technically, I’m sort of back in a two-week wait right now. My first beta was last Friday and it was 90. I had my second beta this past Monday and it was 225. My next is tomorrow and then the week after that is my first ultrasound. So, in between this past Monday’s beta and next Friday’s ultrasound is… drum roll please… two weeks! Ta da!

For now, I’m going to keep writing until I figure out what the best thing to do is. I’ve been debating starting a separate blog called, “The 9 Month Wait” (already got a blog address for it) so that way, this space here will be solely dedicated to trying to conceive/infertility and the new space would be solely dedicated to being pregnant. More than anything, I desperately want to be respectful of those who are still trying to conceive. If you have any thoughts or suggestions on the matter, I'd love to hear it.

And for obvious reasons, the piece I wrote back in October 2010 has very much been on my mind lately. It was called, When Your Infertile Friends Leave the Nest: http://the2weekwait.blogspot.com/2010/10/when-your-infertile-friends-leave-nest.html

Meanwhile, I told my husband I would chill out on the home pregnancy tests. In reality though, I’ve just gotten better at hiding my dirty habit. Perhaps I should give them out as party favors the next time I have a get together. Better yet, I could use them to decorate this year’s Christmas tree as one online friend suggested. “Jay? Why does the tree smell like urine???”

Wordless Wednesday

2011-06-15T17:09:00.000-04:00

Whether it's follicles, embryos, your bank account, or your sense of hope, this picture is perfect for Wordless Wednesday...

I'll write a proper blog soon but in the meantime, I'm sending each one of you a buttload of love & happiness!

Level Two

2011-06-11T21:19:00.008-04:00

I’ve often likened the journey of trying to conceive when having fertility issues to that of a video game. Every video game has different levels. For example, in one level, you will need to kill a few dragons, jump over a few motes and find a secret key to unlock a door so that you’ll be allowed to enter level two for the next series of obstacles and hopefully, rewards. Ideally, with patience and luck, you’ll get to the highest level and win the game.

In the Infertility Video Game (which really needs to be invented), an early level would perhaps entail scoring some ovulation prediction kits, jumping through insurance coverage loop holes, and finding a Reproductive Endocrinologist that will help diagnose your issues.

Other levels could be having your husband’s sperm fight off antibodies, slaying hospital bills, finding the money to pay for an in vitro and then, hopefully, getting pregnant. Getting pregnant would then lead to another series of levels, such as getting through the first trimester, having an NT scan and making it through the labor and delivery without causing bodily harm to your husband. Really, as far as I’m concerned, the game isn’t completely over until you hold a healthy baby in your arms.

For the record, I’ve never been good at video games. I’m always the one who gets disoriented in the very first room and who can’t figure out how to even use her controllers. I truly suck at it. We have Nintendo Wii and while my husband can sail through Lego Star Wars with his eyes closed, I stick mostly to games like Wii Music where there are no levels. They are just entertaining games that involve little skill other than being able to recognize where the television is in your living room.

This past Thursday night, June 9^th, was the night before my beta. It had been an extremely difficult week as I had been getting pretty much all of my usual PMS symptoms (cramps, moody, bloated, migraines and that oh, so familar feeling of wanting to punch someone in their face). The migraines especially have always been the death knell. Whenever I’ve gotten a headache, my period is always sure to follow. That’s how it’s been for the past twenty years I’ve been getting those bastards. I actually almost wrote an entry last week called, “Between a Rock and a Headache” but I was simply too depressed that once again, this cycle looked like a total clusterf*ck.

At one point last week, despite the fact that I’m a grown woman, I cried hysterically on the phone with my parents. We had a bunch of bills that had come in from the clinic, I had my signature knife-in-the-brain-like-migraine and I was convinced we’d have to do a fourth IVF. I was stressing about how we’d pay for it, that we would still have no guarantees, that maybe we should just give up altogether and whether my marriage could take much more.

My parents were comforting and my dad said that if push came to shove, they would help me pay for the fourth in vitro. It would be my birthday gift, Christmas gift, and my inheritance all rolled into one if I needed it. This offer made me cry even harder to which my dad responded with, “Ok, you’re making me cry now so I’m hanging up.” *CLICK!*

So, on Thursday night, as tensions grew over the impending beta test/results the next morning, I wrote out a list of next steps I would take in preparation for yet another negative (join a gym, overdose on chocolate, buy a huge bottle of wine, take a writing class, schedule and cancel an aborted suicide attempt, etc.) and what questions I wanted to ask the doctor at our inevitable next “WTF Appointment”. I even wrote out an email I would send to the friends and family who knew we did another IVF. In it, I thanked them for their support and told them that we had no choice but to take a break for a while.

As I finished the letter, my husband asked to speak with me. He sat me down and for the first time ever, he told me that he didn’t know if he had the heart to do a fourth in vitro. He seemed so sad, beaten down and simply done. He talked to me about how bad things have been; financially, emotionally, sexually and physically (as if I needed him to point this out). He suggested we should not think about this for the rest of the year and start thinking about adoption as clearly, we can’t seem to produce more than one embryo.

I let him talk as I could tell he needed to. It’s not that anything he said was dead wrong; I just didn’t think I felt the same way. I ended up telling him that this is something we needed to talk about but not tonight. He quietly left the room and went off to watch television in the living room. It felt like there was an entire ocean between us and I went to bed that night thinking, “Hello rock bottom! My name is Jay!”

The next morning, I woke up and on the advice of a few of my friends, I grabbed a home pregnancy test. Since I would be getting the results of the beta when I was at work, I wanted to be prepared for bad news so I grabbed a digital Clearblue easy test, peed on it and fixed my hair while I waited for the result. I glanced over at the test, saw it was done, picked it up and saw the word, “pregnant”.

I froze and stared at it confused. I flipped it over to look for the “not”. I have seen “not pregnant” every single time I’ve used this test in the past two and a half years that I was in shock. It was only one word and yet I read it over and over again convinced that I was wrong or that this was a very odd and cruel pratical joke. "We've secretly replaced an infertile woman's urine with a pregnant woman's urine. Let's watch and see what happens!"

The last two and a half years flashed through my brain… my uterine polyp, Jackson Polyp, the pre-ivf bikini waxes, the sperm sample my husband produced in a Starbucks bathroom, Rudy – the lone embryo, the dog downstairs almost eating my estrogen patches, the tears, the drama and all the money I could have used to buy a house with. But now here it finally was: I'm pregnant.

When I woke my husband up, it was 5:45am and told him the news. He was so shocked and confused that he looked at me like I was a modern art painting that he couldn’t make out.

The beta results were 90 (anything over a 25 means pregnant) and what I love is all this time, I’ve been getting these sad disappointing calls from one clinic or another that I was so excited to get a happy call from them for once! However, the woman who called me was so blasé about it. “Hi. This is Dawn from the clinic. The test was positive. Any questions?” She sounded like she was ordering a pizza. “I’ll take pregnancy with a side of pepperoni please… extra anchovies”

After I got the results, I called my parents who both topped my hysterical crying from the week before. They told me how overjoyed they were, that this was the news they hoped for and my father added, “Plus, this saves me $15,000!”

I’ve never been pregnant before and I’ve got to tell you, after trying the old fashioned way, three inseminations and three in vitros with dissapointing fertility reports, I seriously began to think that my trying to conceive efforts were similar to my video game skills: I’d be trapped on level one forever.

Many of you who read this blog are like me; fertility issues, financially challenged, hormonal, frustrated and feeling like you’re stuck in purgatory. I’m sure that although you are happy for me, it may be also difficult as perhaps you feel I’ve “crossed over to the other side”.

The thing is though, I’ve just cleared level one. I’m not yet “home free”. There are so many more levels ahead of me and I can’t imagine doing it without the readers I’ve connected with through this blog.

I started writing 'The 2 Week Wait' to share my journey and frankly, you’ve all become a part of it. I know this will be difficult for some of you to read that I’m now pregnant but you have my word, I will never, nor would I want to, forget all that it took to even just get to this point. I will continue to be funny, snarky, resentful of the fertile world at large on occasion and on a personal note, it would mean so much to me if you could just stick with me through the first trimester as I truly don’t know what the f*ck I’m doing.

For now, no matter what you may be feeling about this news and more than I can possibly say, I’m so happy to be sharing this first milestone with all of you. I hope there will be more to come, that this truly is the little embryo that could and that we have a happy and healthy pregnancy ahead of us.

And yes, I'm still totally stunned and have peed on more sticks in the past two days than I thought possible.

Thank you… thank you… thank you…

Now on to level two.

There Will Be An Answer

2011-06-04T13:21:00.004-04:00

This week, I’ve felt a lot like a boxer in the ring trying to fight the good fight. Whenever I’ve gotten hit hard or I feel like I’m losing, I’ve run to the corner hysterically crying (which I’m pretty sure Mohamed Ali never did) and either my husband, my family, my friends, my blog readers, my Twitter or my Facebook folk gives me a pep talk and then sends me back into the ring to kick some ass.

Actually, I’ve either been given a pep talk or some cookies or brownies. All of the above have been helpful.

Also helping to keep me sane has been the week off, good weather and my deck in the backyard. I’ve never been good at mediating (I always start making a mental to do list instead which defeats the purpose) but for some reason, lying on my lounge chair looking up at the sky has been therapeutic. We live somewhat near an airport, so there are planes that fly over almost every ten minutes. It’s not very loud which is good and there are all different sorts of planes that I’ve enjoyed watching. I wonder where they’re going, who is on them, if they are headed on vacation or to a family obligation. Not only do I find this relaxing but it may be the closest I come to a vacation given our financial situation.

“What did you do on your vacation Jay?”

“I got a needle in my vagina and watched planes fly over my house.”

I really should have taken pictures of either of these events to show my co-workers when I go back to work next week.

Another thing that has somewhat helped my husband and I is that we’ve been listing five things we’re grateful for every day. To be honest, I don’t think this has made a tremendous change in our attitudes but it’s been fun and a positive way to end the day. Things on my list have been my friends, this blog, how comfy our bed is and that I’ve not worn a bra or make-up for a whole week. My husband’s list has included that I’m his wife, his recent haircut, the show ALIAS, and how much he loves a cup of coffee.

The progesterone in oil shots have not been as bad as I thought they would be. I also have enjoyed telling random people that my husband gives me a shot in my ass every night and then not elaborating on what I mean. Its a little way I’m amusing myself.

Of course, I’m sitting here typing this with a painful lump in my left butt cheek so it hasn’t been all sunshine and roses. For whatever reason though, my right butt cheek is hanging tough and taking the injections without complaint. Perhaps my right butt cheek is a bit of a masochist and my left is a bit of a pussy (well, as much as a butt cheek can be a pussy).

I’ve also been thinking a lot about my life as lord knows I’ve had the time this week. Oprah on her final show said that we all have a calling. I love and respect Oprah and she certainly has accomplished a lot but let’s be honest, we can’t all live our calling. I wish we could but we can’t. I can't imagine that the woman who cleans the bathrooms at Penn Station thinks, "Yes! This is what I was meant to do! This is why I've been put on earth!"

As for me, I would love to be a successful author. I would love to help people. I like making people laugh (even when my ass is sore & my spirits are low like they are now) but I can’t seem to figure out how to make any of that happen. A publisher recently told me he loved my writing but the topic of infertility is depressing. Ok but so is war, the holocaust and Snookie and yet they all have books about them, so why not an amusing book about infertility?

I’ve been pursuing stand-up comedy off and on for many years now but unless you’re Jerry Seinfeld, it doesn’t pay well, it’s almost impossible to move ahead at it and it certainly doesn’t offer insurance. Most comics I know are constantly struggling with money. I suppose it’s a good thing they can have a sense of humor about it… otherwise, they’d really lose their minds.

For a time, I was thinking about becoming a Life Coach but classes cost almost a thousand dollars each and I’ve just spent my savings on my dreams of becoming a mom. When I was telling my mother about this and what Oprah said about following your calling, I said to her, “What do you do if you can’t afford to follow your calling?”

My mom answered, “Then you find a new calling.”

I just don’t think it works that way. I can’t see a person wanting to be a nun saying, “You mean I can’t be a nun? Ok. I guess I’ll be a blackjack dealer in Vegas.”

I realize this is a glib snarky attitude but that’s me: Glib and snarky. Maybe that’s my calling? Can you get paid for that? If Bill Maher does, why not me?

Obviously, I’ve had a tough time lately, I’m a little lost and it goes without saying that I really want this cycle to work. I want to be a mother… that’s always how I’ve seen my life. I also want to be someone who does what they were meant to do (and hopefully get a sh*t load of money for it). I want to wake up in the morning and say, “Yes. This is the life I ordered.”

I’ll share something with you that I’ve never said to anyone; not my therapist and not even my husband. Almost every morning, the second I wake up, the first thing I think is, “One day, this is all going to make sense.”

It’s not the most genius statement and I don't know why someone as glib and snarky as me believes it but without consciously deciding to think it, I just do. It’s just got to make sense at some point. There will be an answer to the endless question that is my life. I don’t know when or how or frankly, if I’m even right about that but it’s a nice thing to think; that there will be a time when I’ll look back and think, “Wow. I get it now.”

I know I’ve said this before but honestly, I can’t say it enough: Thank you so much for all your comments, emails and for reading this blog. I only hope I’ve given to you a fraction of the humor, support and love that you’ve given to me. Many of us our strangers in life but our struggle (be it with infertility or just life itself) bonds us. We can relate to each other’s pain, disappointment and success (whenever we’re lucky enough to have one either big or small).

I may be a big poop but I still believe in the power of people. When you say you’re thinking of me, I know that you are and that isn’t bullshit. I can’t thank you enough for that. I hope we ALL have our happy endings, that our lives will all one day make sense and that we ALL find our callings.

(It would also be nice if we all could have as much money as Oprah but that’s a whole other matter.)

Sending you each love, light and laughs.

No Cheese. Just Whine.

2011-05-31T12:55:00.003-04:00

This past Sunday, we got the call that the embryo transfer would be on Monday, Memorial Day and that we still had just the one embryo. The three immature eggs they tried to fertilize were unsuccessful so all our hopes, dreams and money were now riding on the Rudy, the Lone Embryo (the sequel). Are there such things as Memorial Day miracles? Anyone remember any television specials on the subject?

The nurse I spoke to didn’t know the quality of the embryo. She just said, “Be here tomorrow at 11:30am unless we call you and tell you otherwise.” And I knew what that meant. It meant that calling me and telling me otherwise would mean that there were no embryos left to transfer. For the remainder of that day and the next morning, I hoped that my cell phone wouldn’t ring. This is the exact opposite of how I was when I was single but obviously, things were different then.

When Monday morning arrived, we headed to the clinic and despite the fact that I hadn’t received any calls to the contrary; I was still terrified that more bad news was to come. When I spoke to my parents on Saturday night to bring them up to speed, my dad said, “You really can’t catch a break, can you?” I know he said this out of frustration for me, which I appreciate but that sentence has echoed in my head over and over ever since he said it. Probably because it feels that way: I can’t seem to catch a break and when I do, it feels like it just prolongs the torment.

It only takes one… but I paid for more.

At 11:30, we walked in and I gave the receptionist my name. She put a bracelet around my wrist that had my name and birthdate on it. I figured if she was doing that than we must still have something to transfer. As she fastened it, she looked at me for a second and said to me, “Why do you look so sad?” I was completely taken aback. My first though was ‘Is she f*cking kidding me?’ Where to begin? I’ve been trying to get pregnant for two years! I’ve just spent all my savings. The odds of this working are close to none. This nightmare feels like it’s never going to end. I had an entire laundry list of reasons that I didn’t feel all smiley at that moment. However, instead of telling her all this and risking having a crying fit in the waiting room, I responded with, “I’m Catholic. We’re always sad.” She laughed as I quickly backed away from her and found a seat.

After a few of us changed into our gowns, we were told to follow the receptionist to a separate waiting room that’s outside the procedure room where the transfers were to happen. As we were walking, a nurse called my name and told me to stop. I turned around and she was standing there with a phone in her hand. “It’s for you.”

Of course, I thought it had to be either someone calling to tell me that I had nothing to transfer or it was the president calling to give me instructions on a secret mission. Really – this call seemed so dramatic and bizarre, I had no idea what to expect. Shockingly, it was my doctor who was the last person I expected to hear from simply because I haven’t heard from her at all this entire cycle.

With regards to the clinic I’ve been going to, you go in, you get blood work and you get instructions through a nurse later that afternoon. Then, when you start getting sonograms, you get whoever the doctor is on call. The same goes for the retrieval and the transfer. As it happened, my doctor wasn’t there for any of that. I have no doubt she’s been involved behind the scenes and making decisions here and there but truth be told, this phone call was the first I ever actually spoke to her since we started this round of in vitro.

Her first sentence was, “Well, the fertility report wasn’t what we had hoped.” Gee, there’s an understatement.

She continued, “You do have a beautiful 8-cell embryo though and I’d rather have one 8-cell embryo than two 6-cell embryos’s any day of the week. All in all though, we’re going to hope this cycle works but if not, I think its clear there’s an egg quality issue that we’ll need to treat and there’s a few ways to do that.”

I must point out that I’m standing at the nurse’s station in my hospital gown right as I’m about to go into my transfer and I’m being told that I have one great embryo, shitty eggs and if this cycle doesn’t work (you know… the cycle that I’m still currently in), I’m going to need to spend thousands of more dollars I don’t have. Not to criticize but I’m not sure if this is the ideal time to be having this conversation.

I said to her, “You realize that you had me to the estrogen priming protocol and you added Menopur to my stims and it didn’t do anything to help in the least. We had the same exact response as I had with my clinical trial, which wasn't even tailored specifically to me... and was free by the way. Also, I’m happy to hear you have other suggestions as to what we can do going forward, but I don’t have any money. I just spent it all on this. We have absolutely nothing in our savings account.”

Her response? “Well then I guess this one has to work.”

Ummmm, yeah. That would be nice, wouldn't it? If only one of us could make that actually happen.

We made some closing statements to our call and I hung up completely dumbfounded, pissed off and as always, hormonal. I walked into the hallway and there was the receptionist who had asked me why I looked so sad earlier. She handed me a cap to put on my hair and she said to me, “Look. Take a deep breath. You wouldn’t be here if they didn’t think there was a chance this could work so try and think positive.” It was at that moment, I burst into tears. So much for having a positive attitude.

I appreciated her pep talk (or at least her attempt at one) and I know that when it comes to infertility, this is how it is. It’s emotional, expensive, and more than anything, there is no logic. Really. I’ve heard stories of women having tons of amazing embryos that never get pregnant and then I’ve heard stories of women who had only one halfway decent embryo that went on to have healthy babies. You just never know and you have to hang in there. The trouble is I’m all out of pep and I’m fresh out of hope.

No more money. No more insurance. Three IUI’s. Three In Vitro’s. No pregnancies ever. And now, if my eggs have been determined as crap, we have to figure out how to handle that. Yes, I know there are donor eggs, but they cost $4000 and even then, even if we could afford that, we STILL have no guarantees it’ll work or that we don’t have yet another undiagnosed problem. If my life were a VH1’s Behind the Music, this would be the point where I started a cocaine habit.

I’m going to follow the instructions, do whatever I can in this two week wait that I think might help and hope for a downright miracle but this, my friends, it the lowest I’ve ever been. I’ll get through it, as we all do, but today, at this moment, I honestly don’t know how.

Déjà Vu All Over Again

2011-05-28T13:26:00.003-04:00

When bad things happen, I find there’s no other way to break them to people other than just saying it. So, here’s the deal…

My fertility report was as follows:

13 Eggs (the most I’ve ever had)

10 Eggs Mature

1 Embryo

Yes. The same thing that happened last time has happened again. Rudy – The Sequel (http://the2weekwait.blogspot.com/2011/02/rudy-lone-embryo.html). Good amount of eggs – one embryo. After an entirely different protocol, switching to a new clinic & a new doctor and after many additional tests, we have the very same result. The only difference between this cycle and last cycle though is I’ve just spent my entire savings account.

When I heard we had 13 eggs yesterday, I had learned my lesson from last time and did not get excited or enthusiastic about it. My mantra was, “I’ll wait and see what the fertility report says.” I’m glad I did this as obviously, the outcome was the same. Mind you, keeping my feelings in check doesn’t make this any easier but I’m pleased that I at least went into this realistically.

I even had dreamed last night that my doctor called, told me the report was a disaster and yelled at me about it. “What did you do? Did you follow my instructions?” I woke up shaken and nervous. As soon as I got the call today and I heard the tone of voice the nurse had, I knew it wasn’t good. Frankly, right now, nothing with me ever feels good these days. I just can’t believe I’m now getting charged so much to feel like a failure. “Well Jay, this is the second time this has happened so it’s got to be you. Now give us $10,000.”

A doctor from the clinic (not my doctor but the doctor who did my retrieval) called me minutes later letting me know that they are going to try “immature ICSI” on the 3 immature eggs. Basically, they are going to try to still fertilize the 3 immature eggs and hope that something comes of it. That would be nice but am I hopeful? Nope. Not really.

Obviously, something is going on if this has happened two separate times at two separate clinics. Will the doctor’s ever know why? Probably not. They’ll probably just tell me it was bad luck again. I guess I’m just lucky in an unlucky way. I am a negative miracle. Go me.
Yesterday, before the retrieval, they gave my husband a piece of paper with instructions with regards to him giving his sperm sample. The paper told him to take a shower before heading to the clinic and to “Be sure to wash your penis, anus and scrotal area.” When I broke the news to him today that we only had one embryo, we just sat there looking at each other. Even though neither of us cried, the pain in the air was palpable. After a few solid minutes of this, we tried to work out what to do or how to feel. In an effort to break this tension, Sam said, “Well, at least I have a clean anus.”

When a clean anus is your only source of comfort, you know things are bad.

I was also supposed to talk to one of my closest best friends today. I describe him as the Will to my Grace. We’ve been friends since college and yes, he’s gay. I mention this because I texted him this morning that I wasn’t able to chat this afternoon. I told him what was going on and he said he understood. My final text to him was, “Only straight married men should be subjected to crying hormonal women.”

So, let’s just quickly review: One uterine polyp, two years of trying, three inseminations, three IVF’s (the 1st had the least amount of eggs (5) with the most amount of embryos (3), the second had 10 eggs, 1 embryo and this one had 13 eggs (the most so far) with again, only one embryo) and absolutely no pregnancies of any kind.

Oh… the trying to conceive humanity.

Many of you have been reading my blog for a while. So many of you have been so beyond lovely with your time, emails, comments, texts and especially with your medication donations. Even recently, I came home to find a package filled with two chocolate bars and super nice soap. I don’t know who sent this as there was no note or return address but I REALLY appreciate it. You’ve all been generous enough to share with me your stories, your experiences and at times, your hope. You’ve supported me and laughed with me. I will never, ever be able to thank each of you enough. So, this may sound crazy but I need to say this to you: I’m so sorry I don’t have better news. This story deserved a better ending for all of us.

Yes, we have one embryo (so far) and I know it only takes one. Trust me – I know this as we all said this the last time this happened. The trouble is I’m out of pep talks. I am searching to find the enthusiasm I mustered for the first Rudy, the lone embryo and it’s beyond difficult. We’ve been exactly here before and it didn’t work. Nothing has worked and at this moment, it feels like nothing ever will.

Throughout this whole journey, I’ve always tried to see the humor in things. However, this is one of the few times I’m struggling (although I did make an anus joke so you’ve got to give me some credit).

I know in my heart I’ll get through this and I think in times like these, that’s all you can cling to. You can’t have hope or faith in what you can’t control but you can have hope and faith in yourself. I’m hurting desperately (as if it isn’t obvious) but I know, somehow, I will get through this. I haven’t figured out how yet (other than chocolate, alcohol and endless crying) but it’ll happen.

So, as I end today’s sad little blog entry that is clearly bereft of hope, I again want to thank you for being there. I know we don’t know each other personally but your presence in my life has been immeasurable. I promise to keep you posted.

In the meantime, if it isn’t clear, my diet is so the fuck out the window.

Infertility Football

2011-05-17T18:58:00.009-04:00

If you were to go deep into my subconscious today, you’d see a football game. The weather is overcast and the people in the stadium are not happy to be there but they're still interested in the outcome. The band is warming up and the cheerleaders are working on their cheers. "We're number three! We're number three!" They look at each other disapointed in how lame their chant is. They are all wearing “IVF” on their sweaters… as they have for the previous two games.

I take the field wearing an adorable football uniform (that has Spanx built in) and get into position. Suddenly, the head cheerleader bounces over to me and says, “Ummm, Jay?” She flips her hair. “So… the girls and I were talking to the band and ummm, well, we just can’t do it. I’m sorry.” She hands me her pom-poms. “Good luck though, kay'?” The band packs up their stuff, the cheerleading squad gets on a bus to go home and I stand alone on the field.

That’s how I feel about In Vitro Number three. I’m about to play another game and my inner cheerleader and her friends have blown me off. No music and no “Go team, go!” Just me, holding an infertile football, two deflated pom-poms and several Gonal-F pens with little hope and even less enthusiasm.

Tonight, we start stims (Gonal-F and Menopur) and for the first time in my fertility journey, I have such low expectations that it’s almost embarrassing. When I paid the majority of my IVF this morning and saw my Savings Account diminish to almost nothing, I didn’t think, “Here’s hoping this works!” Instead, I thought, “Well, there goes my savings. Maybe next time, I should just set my money on fire.”

You know how they say all of a cocaine addict’s money goes up their nose? Mine appears to be going up my uterus and so far, it’s yielded no results. At least with cocaine, you are productive and lose weight. With estrogen, you cry over missing a subway and become as bloated as a dying Elvis. It’s simply not attractive.

Today, when I told my mom how I was feeling, she said, “I’m so sorry you have to spend your money on this. You could be using it to travel, to buy new furniture, a new vacation or even a down payment on your own home.” Although I truly appreciate her attempt to empathize and I know in my heart she meant well, she basically gave me a list of all the things I now can’t do or can't have thanks to our unexplained infertility. I swear, sometime her pep talks are downright depressing. It’s a good thing she never worked a suicide hotline.

Adding to the fun, one of my dear online friends sent me boxes of Ganirelix. Unfortunately, the person who delivered this package of goodness proceeded to put it on the radiator in our building... thus compromising its effectiveness. As you may remember, a few weeks ago, the dog downstairs ate a package that was sent to me… and now this. You must all think I live in a cardboard box in Times Square. Next week, I'll be telling you an homeless man ran off with my progesterone. Rest assured - I plan to address this. I’m going to have a serious chat with both the mailman and the dog. Four letter words and hand puppets will be used in each conversation to make my point clear.

As a side note, it goes without saying that if any of you kind blog readers have any extra Ganirelix lying around that you could spare, I’d sincerely appreciate you letting me know. I promise no one will eat it or cook it this time.

Now, getting back to our unexplained infertility… my husband and I got all our additional test results back this past Friday and we’re fine. No autoimmune diseases, no blood clotting disorders, no fragmented sperm: Nothing. Zip. Nada. We’re healthy. This is technically good news but it’s also frustrating as we still have absolutely no reason at all as to why I haven’t gotten pregnant after two years of trying, three inseminations and two IVF’s.

On top of this, it occurred to me recently that the fact that I’ve never been pregnant might be a bad sign. As far as I know, I've never even been pregnant for 5 seconds. I’ve had friends who have had miscarriages and/or chemical pregnancies. Mind you – I SO don’t mean to make light of either. I can't even imagine what that's like and for any of you who have gone through it, I'm truly sorry. The thing is, I can’t help but almost feel jealous that at least these know they are capable of getting pregnant.

And how sad and insane is that? I’m now officially jealous of women who have had miscarriages. What the HELL is wrong with me? I long for the days when I was just jealous of women who had great hair.

So, to sum up: Unexplained infertility + no pregnancies = Why should I believe this is ever going to happen for me? This is my fertilty theorem.

It really isn’t that I’ve lost hope (or my sense of humor for that matter) but this is my third time playing this game and frankly, I’d like to win for once. It sucks showing up to the same field over and over again being the losing team. I have become the infertile Charlie Brown and I have no doubt that Lucy is going to pull the ball away again at the last second. Why? Because that’s all I ever known so far. I only know what it’s like to miss the ball. I only know what it’s like to lose the game.

The one major positive is that at least I’m still in the game… and it starts tonight. Even though I’m not gung ho, even though the band and the cheerleaders have left and are probably splitting a pizza somewhere gossiping about who is sleeping with who and even though the odds are against me winning, I’m suiting up and plan to play the best I know how. Here goes nothing… WE'RE NUMBER THREE! WE'RE NUMBER THREE!

* Please also check out my piece this week on Fertility Authority called, "HOPE IS A FOUR LETTER WORD" at: http://www.fertilityauthority.com/blogger/jay-bronte/2011/05/19/hope-four-letter-word

The Places You’ll Go To Give a Sperm Sample (Dr. Seuss Style)

2011-05-12T11:49:00.000-04:00

By most standards, “Estrogen Priming” is when you’re asked to wear a patch containing estrogen to down-regulate your Follicle Stimulating Hormone receptors before an IVF.

To me though, “Estrogen Priming” is when you decide to spend the week before you start your latest IVF by watching movies such as Thelma & Louise, Four Weddings and a Funeral, Bridget Jones's Diary and The French Lieutenant's Woman.

Since we’re currently on “Estrogen Overload” at our house right now, I thought we’d do something a little testosterone related on the blog. That’s right -- this one is for the fellas and the women who love them (and their sperm counts)!

I’m very proud to say that not only is the below written by my very funny and talented husband but it’s also about the many places you’ll go to produce a sperm sample. Even better, it’s written as a Dr. Seuss book! Why you may ask? Why the hell not! When it comes to struggling with infertility, there’s no reason not to get all ‘Cat on the Hat’ on its ass!

So go to the kitchen, make yourself some green eggs & ham and enjoy!

Oh, the Places You’ll Go! (To Give a Sperm Sample)

Oh the places you’ll go!

Most of you will never know.

Just to give a sample,

One that is ample.

One that will do the job,

One that will get you a boy named Bob,

Or Judy, or Rudy

Or Harry, or Larry

You’ll give a sample in the lab,

Maybe in the back of a cab,

Perhaps on the train,

Possibly in the rain.

You’ll give a sample to a nurse,

Carry it in a purse,

And I have a hunch,

You’ll give one at lunch!

Maybe two at night?

You know I’m right.

You’ll do it on the spot,

You’ll do it when it’s hot,

You’ll do when it’s cold,

You'll do it to porn that’s old!

You won’t believe what it can take,

For the baby you want to make.

In a coffee shop or a diner,

Even in North Carolina!

If you want to give a sample at home,

Just make sure you unplug the phone!

It could be your Mom or Dad,

Which would kill any mojo you had

So do what you can,

To step up and be the man.

Give it your very best,

Just don’t make a mess.

You won’t believe the things you will do,

To give a sample of you...

Mothering Myself

2011-05-07T09:06:00.001-04:00

Last night was the end of a LONG day. It was around 9:45pm and I was standing backstage at a show I was hosting in the city. I leaned against the wall, closed my eyes and started to think about how happy I’d be the instant I got home, took off my heels, control top pantyhose and the bra that makes my boobs look fabulous, but at this point in the day, were slowly strangling me. Beauty and comfort don’t seem to go hand in hand, do they?

In addition to dreaming about putting on sweats and never taking them off again, my mind wandered to what I’d eat for dinner that night. When you’ve been dieting for a while, fantasies are no longer about winning the lottery or having sexual relations with your favorite hot actor. They are about food. Last night, I was picturing cheese cake. What toppings I’d put on it. Would I eat it plain? Would it be American or Italian style? Oh, the things I’d do to that cheese cake! “You like that cheesecake? I bet you do…”

When I got to the part of showing my imagined dessert who was boss, I was interrupted by the next performer reminding me that I needed to bring him onstage in a few minutes. My imaginary cheesecake quickly morphed into a plate of grilled vegetables. Dammit.

“Any big plans this weekend?”, he asked.

I almost told him that I was going to start estrogen priming on Mother’s Day for my third IVF but as I studied this 21-year-old hipster who had a t-shirt on that read, “I’m not a proctologist but I know an asshole when I see one!”, I was pretty certain he wouldn’t appreciate my plight nor the irony that I would begin estrogen priming on Mother’s Day so I responded with a simple “Not really.”

He then went on to give me what felt like a four hour dissertation on his weekend. I sensed he asked me about my weekend solely so he could tell me about his. Eventually, he got to how he was sending his mom flowers for mother’s day. As he blabbering on about how pissed he was about how much money it cost, I thought to myself how great it would be if we had a “Mother-in-Law’s Day” where instead of sending flowers, we sent poison ivy.

As I pictured my mother-in-law scratching her hands and smiling to myself, Mr. Hipster asked me, “So... are you a mother?”

I was in no mood for this question and without much though, I responded with a snarky, “Does a funny mother fucker count?”

He chuckled briefly and then stared at me with a confused and somewhat afraid expression. I’ve been getting this look a lot lately.

Last month, I saw an interview with Oprah on the OWN channel where she talks about the universe trying to communicate things to you. She says it starts as a whisper and the more you ignore it, the louder it gets. I turned to my husband and asked him, “What do you think the universe is trying to tell you?”

“The universe is telling me to change the channel. The game is on.” he answered.

Now although I don’t know if I completely agree with Oprah’s theory (lord knows my husband doesn't), I do feel like I may have recently experienced the point she was trying to make.

In the last year of our trying to conceive, I’ve heard stories here and there about the effect autoimmune diseases have had on women trying to get pregnant or various anecdotes of women who have done multiple in vitros and then after the third, fourth or fifth one, they finally get a test that explains what the issue has been this whole time.

It’s because of this that every doctor I’ve gone to, I’ve asked if they could do autoimmune testing and every single doctor has said they don’t think it’s relevant and/or that they don’t “believe” in it. This cracks me up. I realize that finding something may not always help or that data on autoimmune diseases may be up for debate but to totally not believe in it? It’s not Santa Claus people. It’s a blood test for crying out loud. If you can test for something, then it exists.

So, what seemingly started as a whisper, in the last couple of months especially, became louder and louder. I started hearing more and more stories on this subject. Several found out they had a blood clotting disorders well into their trying to conceive efforts. Others found out that they had an autoimmune issue that created implantation problems. A few found out through a laparoscopy that showed one thing or another standing in the way of conceiving. I was reading about it on Twitter, on other people's blogs, in emails I was receiving and in people I was talking to.
In fact, this past Thursday night, the night before I hosted the show that wouldn’t end, my acupuncturist told me a story about a client of hers that had done five in vitros and who was about to do her sixth when she went to a doctor who did autoimmune testing. Previously, she had gotten pregnant three times through IVF but they all ended in miscarriages. When her recent blood work came back, they found out that her body was attacking any of the embryos they would transfer so they addressed the problem; she ended up getting pregnant naturally and is due in two months.

After acupuncture, I headed home and started thinking about this story. I thought about how they still don’t know why I haven’t gotten pregnant. That there aren’t even any real concrete theories. I started to think about how much I’m not looking forward to this third in vitro. That the term “estrogen priming” sounds like something you do with a pump and that Mother’s Day was this weekend and the thought of it was almost too much to bear.

Then, in the middle of the night, something happened that I can’t remember ever happening to me. I was dreaming about one thing or another (probably another kind of dessert I wish I could eat) when I woke up in a panic. It was like my subconscious was screaming at me. “Jay! You’ve GOT to get more blood work! Insist on getting these tests! Do it now! NOW!”

I’ve been known to worry. I can even obsess if I’ve got the time but this was different. This didn’t feel like I was scaring myself needlessly. This felt like I couldn’t be comfortable proceeding with this next in vitro without having additional tests done. Actually, it was stronger than that. It felt like my body was yelling at me that if I didn’t get this done, this next in vitro would be sure to fail. Obviously, this may not be true at all… but that’s not how it felt. I was a woman possessed.

I sat and stared at the clock waiting for it to be 9am. As soon as it was, I immediately called my clinic and left the following voice mail, “I know my doctor doesn’t feel autoimmune testing is necessary but I want it done. I also want any tests for blood clotting disorders. I’m about to spend my entire savings on this in vitro and I need to make sure we are covering all our bases. I don’t care how much it costs or when we do it, I want it done. Thank you very much.” Short of asking for a pony, a hug, and a slice of coffee cake, my message was clear: I wasn’t taking no for an answer.

I'm happy to report that at 1pm yesterday, I got all the blood work I requested. I also got that same look that Mr. Hipster ended up giving me later that night but frankly, I don’t give a shit. I don’t care if the whole clinic thinks I’m crazy. I had to have this done. I just had to.

Even though the rest of the day, I felt like crap (they took A LOT of blood), even though I did an entire show with a big ugly bruise on my right arm from where they drew the blood, even though these tests may not show anything, even though they are still more tests I could and maybe should do and even though this third in vitro may be the death of me, I’m still relieved I got them done as it’s that much more we can cross off the “Why the fuck can Jay not get pregnant?” list. And if they DO come back with something, anything that might help, then I’ll be that much more insanely relieved.

After the show, I was on the subway home and thought about the “Are you a mother?” question. I thought of a few more colorful answers like, “I’m a fairy godmother” or “I am a mother but I just don’t have kids yet.” or “Isn’t obvious? I’m a sexy mother fucker! Awww, yeah!” and then, out of nowhere, I had a thought that’s a tad silly but it brought me comfort.

I thought that, in a way, by insisting I get these tests done, I was my own mother. Of course, I have a mom. One that thinks I’m cursed (thanks mom!) but one who I’m close with and love dearly. Still though, right now, I’m mothering myself. I’m looking out for my best interest. I’m making sure that I’m getting the attention I feel I need. Hell, I’ll even give myself milk & cookies on the days that I need it! With regards to my fertility issues, I am my own mom and that’s actually kind of nice.

One quick final note, if you’re someone who is struggling with infertility, I wrote an “Infertility Contract” for the Fertility Authority this past week. It’s a contract you make with yourself in an effort to keep yourself sane during this insane time and I recommend you check it out: http://www.fertilityauthority.com/blogger/jay-bronte/2011/05/03/infertility-contract

And of course, if you’re someone who is a mom or soon to be a mom, then I truly wish you a very happy mother’s day. I am living vicariously through you and hope that you’re good fortune will rub off on us all!

The War Begins At Home

2011-04-20T20:00:00.002-04:00

Today, I went for a walk on my lunch hour with a friend/co-worker of mine named Sharon. Sharon gave birth to twins approximately six years ago through her first in vitro so she’s become a sort of “IVF Sponsor” of mine. Nothing like having a friend you can go to during your work day and ask, “When you were taking progesterone, did you ever feel like punching someone dead in their face?” and having them completely understand.

We were walking through a park in Manhattan when a woman pushing a stroller tried to push past us and basically ran directly into Sharon. Instead of apologizing, she looked at Sharon with exasperation, sighed and said, “No, really… you go ahead.” Sharon moved out of the way and the stroller lady pulled out in front of us.

Now, because I have my period, because I’ve been trying to get pregnant for over two years, because I’m preparing for my third in vitro, because I’m worried about how much all of its going to cost, because I’m not relishing shooting progesterone oil in my ass, because I’m a bitter sourpuss about all of the above and because I truly am protective of my friends, I turned to Sharon and said the following snarky statement: “Just because you have wheels doesn’t mean you automatically have the right of way!” This was intended for Sharon’s ears only and was an attempt at a joke regarding her almost being mowed down but unfortunately, the stroller woman heard it and did not appreciate it.

The stroller woman yelled something at me at first that I didn’t quite make out and then even better, her friend who was also pushing a stroller came up from behind us and must have asked stroller woman #1 what happened. Quickly, the second stroller woman turned and yelled at Sharon, “Do you think it’s easy for us to push a stroller with babies in it? You obviously don’t have any clue!”

I immediately stopped the woman and said, “Hey wait! I’m the asshole without kids so go ahead and yell at me.” I motioned to Sharon and said, “She has twins at home so don’t yell at her.” I then turned to the first stroller woman and said, “Look, I’m sorry. Ok? Let’s drop it.”

The second stroller woman seemed taken aback for a second that she was yelling at woman with twins. She thought for a moment before yelling at me, “Um, ok but she’s the one laughing!” while pointing angrily at Sharon.

Sharon and I, without discussing it, mutually decided to just walk away from the women. I mean, I had already called myself an asshole and said I was sorry, so other than handing them my currently used maxi pad while explaining that I sincerely DON’T know what it’s like to be pushing a stroller and I might never know what it’s like, there wasn’t much else to say.

As we walked away though, the second stroller woman shouted after us, “Fine! Walk away but you should show mothers more respect!”

I wanted to yell back, “And you should show infertiles more respect!” but I kept my mouth shut since it had already gotten me into enough trouble today and let's be honest, I did act like an asshole and didn't have much of a leg to stand on at this point.

Next week is National Infertility Awareness Week®. Well, actually, for me, Infertility week is every f*cking week but for the rest of the fertile world, it’s just from April 24th – April 30th. It has been described as a week to bust myths and clear up misconceptions about the disease of infertility. As I returned to my desk after this altercation though, I couldn’t help but ask myself, “How can I bust myths and create understanding of infertility with the fertile community at large when I can’t even bust myths and understand infertility with myself!”

I try and fight the good fight and not play the victim to my situation. During most hours of the day, one could even describe my attitude as realistically positive. I also manage to maintain a sense of humor throughout all the painful procedures, disappointments, friends and families baby announcements and financial losses. Sure, I have my good days and I have my bad days but I do try, not always successfully, to be hopeful and humorous. However, all of my best efforts obviously failed me today when confronted with the “stroller women” (or as Sharon now calls them, “The Stroller Nazi’s”).

The Stroller Nazi’s (TSN’s for short) did not appear to be women who had a job. It was a sunny day that they could enjoy, not on their lunch hour, but all day long if they wanted to. They had their super duper high tech strollers, striking tans, beautiful blonde highlighted hair, top of the line warm up-suits and they were wearing fancy shmancy sunglasses. They also had babies. They represented everything I want but can’t have.

I need to work. I also look fat in warm up suits, my sunglasses are from Walgreens, I burn in the sun easily, blonde highlights would look more like stripes on me and I can’t seem to have a baby let alone a stroller to put them in or run people over with. In moments like that, when I’m confronted with just how very infertile and inadequate I am, I lash out. Why? Because in that instant, everything feels like it’s my fault. I am the failure while they are the successes. I can’t do the simplest thing like get pregnant like a normal person. I suck. Why do I even bother coming down from the bell tower and mingling with common folk? I should hide in the shadows with my hump and bay at the moon.

I swear - if I heard someone saying some of the things I say to myself, I’d be outraged. If I wouldn’t let someone treat a friend that way, why do I allow myself to treat me that way? I am the Ike Turner in the Tina Turner/Ike Turner relationship but with myself.

And really, how many times have we all done that? Said to ourselves that we are failures? That we are losers? That we’re ashamed? That we can’t do anything right? When are we going to forgive ourselves despite the obvious fact that we haven’t actually done anything wrong in the first place?!?!

More importantly, how can we expect others to show us respect when we can’t show ourselves the respect we so deserve?

We are amazing, strong, resilient, supportive women. We subject ourselves to physical and financial strain without any guarantees. We are expected to rejoice for everyone pregnancies without question when so few people go out of their way to support our losses… but we do it. Often. We smile. We buy presents and we hide our pain. We willingly go through hell at the mere promise that we may have a child of our own. We wake up every day, get dressed, function in society no matter what hormones we’re taking, how we’re feeling or what bad news we’ve just been delivered. And yes, we occasionally yell at women pushing strollers but that just means we’re human. We get jealous and resentful but we pick ourselves up over and over and over again and keep going. We are unsung heros who even in our weaker moments show more strength and courage in one cycle than most people do in an entire lifetime.

Whether your friends and family know you struggle or have struggled with infertility, whether you make a scene about it or not, can we all agree that we are worthy of acknowledgement and respect even if it’s just the acknowledgement and respect we should give ourselves?

So, during National Infertility Awareness Week®, there are many different events you can attend if you choose to and are able to. For me though, I think I’m going to make it a week where I finally, for the love of god, let myself off the hook. After all, I may be an asshole but I still believe I'm an asshole with a good heart.

Infertility Greeting Cards & Random Thoughts

2011-04-13T14:42:00.004-04:00

As I’m sure many of you know, in the blogging community, they have something called “Wordless Wednesday”. It's when all over the internet, bloggers post a photograph with no words to explain it on their blog. I’ve ALWAYS wanted to participate in this but frankly; it’s rare that I’m ever without words. The last time I was rendered speechless was when my grandmother told me that if she grew up in a different society, she would have never gotten married and just hooked up with as many men as possible. It's years later and I still can’t think of what to say to that. “Too bad Grandma! You would have made a smashing trollop!”

Yeah, I don’t think so.

Since it is Wednesday and nothing major is going on at this moment other than the “trying-to-save-money-still-infertile-getting-ready-for-my-third-mother-f*cking-in-vitro-while-staying-sane” thing, and since I could never be without words, I thought I’d declare today “Wacky Wednesday” and post some random stuff I’ve been wanting to either say or share but couldn’t figure out when or how. So today is a potpourri of sorts. A mix of infertility madness! A collage of uterine humor! A smattering of silly!

First, here are some random thoughts that have popped into my head recently:

* They should make an Infertility Credit Card where instead of earning points towards air travel and buying products, the points can go towards your next fertility treatment.

* Today, I ordered a book on Amazon that had “Unexplained Infertility, Miscarriage & IVF Failure” in the title and Amazon asked me if I wanted to add it to a Baby Registry. Really Amazon? Really?

* Barbie is technically infertile. Aside from the fact that she’s physically not able to carry the weight of her own boobs much less a child, Ken has no penis. Trust me. I’ve checked.

* In light of PETA’s recent insensitive “Give Your Dog a Vasectomy in Honor of National Infertility Week Contest”, I’m starting a group called PETI: People for the Ethical Treatment of Infertiles. Click here for an extended bitch session on this topic: http://www.fertilityauthority.com/blogger/jay-bronte/2011/04/11/peti-people-ethical-treatment-infertiles

* Is it possible to cook with progesterone oil? A pointless question and yet every time I look at a vial, I think about it. Perhaps I’ll make a fertility stir fry…

* Tori Spelling, Natalie Portman and Rachel Zoe: I didn’t realize that I’d get pregnant if I stopped eating and looked like a human version of a lollipop (big head, teeny body).

* I wish my Aunt Flo were more like Betty White.

* I want to create a T-Shirt that says, "I'm Infertile. Don't Ignore Me."

A few months ago, my dear online friend, @MyLazyOvaries (her blog is: http://slackieo.blogspot.com/), suggested we start a line of Infertile Greeting Cards. This led to an hour of me coming up with the below. It not only distracted me from worrying and otherwise obsessing but it cracked me up. Here are just a few. Hopefully, they'll make you smile:

(Just a joke folks...)

Roses are red,
Violettes are blue,
I'm sorry you're infertile,
I'm pissed off for you.

All of your friends want you to know tonight,
that we're thinking of your cervical mucus
And hoping it's egg white.

Hear you're trying to conceive.
I wish you all the luck.
Whether it's through insemination
Or a really good f*ck.

Heard Aunt Flo showed up.
That really does suck.
Sorry you spent all that money.
Guess you're sh*t out of luck.

Infertility: The Sitcom!

2011-04-07T16:31:00.008-04:00

Yesterday morning, I met with my nurse to go over IVF #3. Have I mentioned that I can’t believe I’m doing this again? The shots, the patches, the money, the stress. Oy. It’s not that I think I’m above it or anything. It’s more that I’m simply over it.

I always think of my life as a sitcom. I have wacky downstairs neighbors, the sarcastic yet adorable husband, a gay best friend and at times, if you listen carefully, you can even hear the faintest laugh track… especially after the failure of my first two IVF’s. Sometimes, even though I’m alone at the time, I’ll even turn to look into the camera and say, “Infertile! I’d rather be out-fertile!” before we cut to a commercial break.

This week’s episode included an incident with the wacky downstairs neighbor’s dog. She’s an adorable puppy who is, to put it nicely, a total pain in the ass. She jumps on everyone, poops in the hallway, and most recently, she’s taken to eating our mail. Despite how incredibly cute this dog is, I hate her. She’s well-intentioned but ultimately, she is a hassle I really don’t need right now.

As you may know, I’ve been on the hunt for some fertility medications in the hopes that it could save us some money. For the past few weeks, a few generous souls have been sending me estrogen patches, Menopur, etc. So, this past Friday, when I came home to find the dog looking guilty surrounded by shreds of a fed ex box with my name on it, I feared the worst; that she had eaten one of my fertility related medications. My first thought was, "If this dog gets pregnant before I do, I may shoot myself." Luckily, it was just a moisturizer I had ordered but for one second, I seriously thought this dog ate my estrogen.

If we do end up having to order some of the medications I need, my insurance company said they will fill the prescription and will even ship it but they made it clear they won’t cover it. That being said, I sincerely don’t think they will respond well if I ever have to tell them, “A dog ate my hormones.”

Another amusing part of this week’s episode was my mother calling me at work to inform me that I’m cursed. When she called, thinking it was a client, I answered the phone and said, “This is Jay. How may I help you?” Without even saying hello, she said, “I think you’re cursed.” If it wasn't for her New Jersey accent, I would have thought this client was an asshole.

Apparently, she had Googled what signs there are of someone putting the “evil eye” on you. She advised that the only way I could undo this curse is to forgive the person (my “curser” I suppose) through Jesus Christ.

First, if I don’t know who put a curse on me, how do I forgive them? Should I randomly start asking people, “Hey there, did you happen to put a curse on me recently? If so, I forgive you through Jesus Christ.”

Second, for the record, I don’t know if actually would forgive the person who put a curse on me. In fact, I think I would wish that a swarm of angry hornets took up residents in their anus. I'm just saying.

Third, I pretty certain Jesus Christ isn’t going to take my call. If he and I were in touch, I’d be the mother of two kids at this point and I'd be ignorant of what it's like to worry about my uterine lining.

When I told a friend of mine this story expecting her to crack her up, she laughed appropriately but then quickly added, “That IS crazy! The reason you’re not getting pregnant is because your chakras are blocked!” I have blocked chakras? Is that the equivalent of being spiritually constipated?

Then, when I told my acupuncturist this series of events, she also laughed and said, “I hear what she’s saying but really, you're not cursed and you I don't think it's that your chakras are blocked. It’s that your chi is stagnant."

So, to review, someone has put a curse on me that has blocked my chakras creating stagnant chi. This is shocking to me as none of the three reproductive endocrinologist I’ve been to at this point mentioned it! I'm sure at least one of these things would have come up in my sonogram, right?

Like a sitcom, there is a story arc. Characters progress, plot lines develop and at the end of each season, there’s either a cliffhanger that’s resolved next season or a happy ending that will satisfy you for the summer. My sitcom however is stuck in the same f*cking storyline: Funny (and cursed) woman who can’t get pregnant keeps doing IVF’s while trying to keep animals from eating her hormones.

If I were a viewer, I’d have stopped watching by now. It's a good thing I suppose that my cast of characters are so endless entertaining.

Any which way, it looks like mid-May, we'll be doing another IVF. No, it's not a rerun. It is new episodes but with the same story line. Hopefully this time though, we’ll have a happy ending for sweeps week.

Small Side Note: I had written an article for the Fertility Authority this week that I'm particularly proud of. It's called "Infertility Etiquette" and it's an amusing little list of things to send to friends and family of an infertile to help them know what to say and what not to say. And no, the woman in the picture included in the article is not me. She's perfectly lovely, but I'm sure she's more fertile than I am. Anyway, if you'd like to check it out, please go here: http://www.fertilityauthority.com/blogger/jay-bronte/2011/04/04/infertility-etiquette

Confessions of an Infertile

2011-03-31T10:55:00.013-04:00

When talking to friends, family or pretty much anyone on the subject on my fertility issues, I sometimes feel like my answers are ones I would give if I were being interviewed on Oprah. They are well-written responses that have been given careful thought in what I want to convey. It would go something like this:

OPRAH: You’ve been trying to get pregnant for two years with no success. Do you ever think ‘Why me?’

ME: That’s an excellent question Oprah! Sure, there have been moments where it’s frustrating but the more I’ve dealt with this, the more I realize that there is no logic to it. It’s an issue many women struggle with and the only thing to do is to think positive and move forward. Incidentally, can you loan me $10,000?

It’s not that the above answer is bullshit (especially not the part about asking Oprah for money) but if I really said what I’m thinking and feeling on the subject of my infertility (which changes on an hourly basis some days), people would think I’m either insane, a bitch, selfish, masochistic or an occasional saint. The saint part would be on my good days when I would say such things as, “I’m happy for absolutely everyone who is blessed with a baby! Who cares if they are in an unhealthy relationship and broke! A baby only needs love!”

This reminds me of something that happened this past week. I had just gotten a saline sonogram. My new doctor wanted to check things out before even discussing a third IVF and that made total sense to me. The sonogram went well (although I still think they should throw in a pedicure to make it more bearable) and I was given the all clear: no polyps or fibroids. Just a uterus. A lonely, empty uterus. Perhaps I should put a sign in there that says, “Space Available For Rent”.

I was standing at the nearby subway station waiting for the downtown train leaking saline (I felt like a water balloon), when I saw a homeless woman sitting cross legged on the subway station floor holding a sign. It said, “Seven months pregnant and homeless”. I don’t know what shocked me more: That at that moment, I was jealous of a homeless woman simply because she was pregnant or that I seriously considered asking her if I could have her baby when she gave birth. It’s a good thing the A train arrived when it did as it saved me from both an awkward conversation and dripping saline water on her cardboard sign.

That night, I had a therapy session and we were talking about IVF 3, the last two years, and how I was feeling. Obviously, with my therapist, I tend to be more honest with her than I would be with Oprah. Also, when it comes to therapy, it’s her that’s usually asking me for the $10,000. Mental health doesn’t come cheap these days. Who am I kidding? Nothing comes cheap these days.

For whatever reason, something just snapped in me when talking to my therapist this particular session. Out of nowhere, I said something that I often think, that I know isn’t logical or accurate but how I feel. I never like to say it out loud but it’s there. It’s in my head every time I see a pregnant woman, every doctor's appointment I have and pretty much every time I talk to anyone about my fertility issues. I said out loud, “I’m a failure as a woman.”

Again, I know this isn’t true. Not having children doesn’t REALLY make you any less of a woman unless you let it. You’re still a person. You still can be sexy, or maternal or well, a woman. It's just that despite my boobs and cellulite, it doesn’t feel that way all the time.

This mini-incident made me think about all the things that are in my head that I don’t say either because I judge myself for it, because I know it’s not nice, because I’m embarrassed or because I don’t like to admit them to myself. However, after saying my horrible little statement to my therapist, it inspired me to make a list of things I think and feel that are what I consider my dirty little secrets. I want to share them with you as I’m hoping putting them down on paper (or more accurately, on Blogger) will help set me free. They are:

~ Sometimes, I’m really not all that happy for people when they are pregnant. Sometimes I truly am... but yeah... sometimes, not so much.

~ I’ve hated the last two Christmas’s. Aside from the fact that it’s all about family and gifts for kids, it reminds me that even a virgin can get pregnant while I can’t.

~ I wake up almost every night at 3am and think, “It’s never going to happen for me."

~ I still have crushes on attractive male celebrities (no matter the age). Jake Gyllenhaal, Robert Pattinson and Ryan Reynolds... I'm looking in your direction.

~ I listen to Aretha Franklin & Mary J. Blige and pretend I can sing like them (Yes, there is a African-American Fertile Soul Singer in me dying to come out).

~ When I see pregnant women, I get so jealous of them that I hate myself for it.

~ I feel guilty for even thinking the previous statement.

~ I’ve started to avoid good friends who have children simply because they don’t understand what I’m going through.

~ I’ve considered moonlighting as a phone sex operator to make extra cash. I voted it down as my husband would hate that and I wouldn't want to get an ear infection or anything.

~ I could eat cheese for every meal. Cheddar, Swiss, mozzarella, brie, etc. Every. Meal.

~ I swing back and forth between blaming my husband and blaming myself for being childless.

~ I hate, yes, HATE, any celebrity who is pregnant regardless of whatever issues they’ve had. They have money, they are attractive, and they could have a baby any way they want: surrogate, 100 IVF’s, adoption or a time-share kid if they so choose.

~ I can’t even watch commercials having to do with diapers, pregnancy tests, baby products, or toys.

~ The mere existence of babies and children at restaurants depress me.

~ Sometimes it feels like I am doing my best to act “normal” almost 75% of the time these days.

~ Songs that used to inspire me before past fertility treatments (JUST HAVEN’T MET YOU YET by Michael Buble or NOBODY IS GOING TO RAIN ON MY PARADE by Barbra Streisand), I now can’t even listen to as they are associated with failed cycles.

~ I ask myself ‘Why me?’ more often than I can count.

~ I know I should like I LOVE LUCY, THE HONEYMOONERS and SEINFELD but I just don't.

~ I feel like I’m being punished.

~ Sometimes it scares me how angry I get at the entire world.

~ I hate what I look like naked.

~ I’m mad at myself for not majoring in something more lucrative.

~ I always wake up with the thought and hope that I will stay strong and positive and some days, I fail miserably.

It’s important to remember that feelings are not facts. It’s also important to remember that I don’t feel these things all the time every day but they do float in my subconscious and perhaps admitting them to myself, you, friends, my therapist and Oprah (if I ever meet her someday) will put them out on the table where I can see them. Having them in front of me, I can address them and say, “It’s ok to feel these things. Having these feelings doesn’t make them true and it doesn’t make me a bad person.”

I think I just need to get to a point where I acknowledge that I’m human and I sometimes think shitty thoughts. Thinking shitty thoughts and acting on them are two different things. I’m not a failure. I know in my heart I’m not… I just still feel like one more often than not some days. It’s like a mental arm wrestle and sometimes one side is stronger than the other.

To try to make this post somewhat positive (which is not easy after a list of evil, negative thoughts), I guess I’d have to say that admitting we’re not perfect and admitting that we don’t always have a positive attitude makes us strong. It’s like what they say about being courageous: It’s not that you’re not afraid. It’s that you ARE afraid but you face whatever it is anyway.

With me, to admit that I’m not perfect, that I don’t always have my act together is being honest and vulnerable. There’s courage in that, isn’t there? There's GOT to be. I mean, how is it courageous to say, “I’m practically perfect in every way and I love everyone at all times!” That’s not strong. That’s fucking Mary Poppins.

In many of the comments I’ve gotten on the blog, people have often said they’ve appreciated my humor and my honesty. Continuing to be honest with you and myself is the only way to get through all this. I guess it’s just that it takes a while for all the ugly truth to come out. It comes out one negative thought at a time. It almost leaks out… much like the saline water after my sonogram.

The Kindness of Strangers

2011-03-27T13:10:00.009-04:00

I’ve wanted to write this particular blog entry for a while but I couldn’t figure out how to avoid it sounding like a LIFETIME movie. It’s not that I don’t enjoy their “Made-for-TV” movies. The Betty Broderick Story featuring Meredith Baxter is a personal favorite of mine. I just don’t want to be make it so touchy-feely, estrogen laden that you’d all get yeast infections from reading my entry.

I also don’t want to be over-the-top and come off like Lou Gehrig’s speech at the end of THE PRIDE OF THE YANKEES. “Today-ay-ay… I consider myself-elf-elf… the luckiest infertile in the world-world-world.”

Here’s the thing though: Even though I would never have elected to be part of the infertility crew, I really, truly, genuinely am grateful I’ve gotten to connect with so many generous, kind, thoughtful, amazing, funny human beings.

In the last couple of months in particular, I’ve received so many acts of kindness that despite going on my third invitro, being financially strapped, still processing how sad I am about my struggle to become a mom, I’ve actually felt kinda lucky. I’m part of a community where if I have a question about cervical mucus at two in the morning, someone will respond to it in minutes. The people I’ve connected with take their providing emotional support very seriously.

As some of you know, I'm on the hunt for some medications as they cost so effen’ much and I want to save money wherever I can. Last week, @Le_Barren (her Twitter name), came to a show of mine and slipped me a brown paper bag of Gonal-F. We both laughed that if anyone saw “the exchange”, they would have thought it was hard core street drugs and not hormones.

Then, yesterday, @AdventuresInIF (also her Twitter name) and I went to the movies. During the previews, instead of buying me a bucket of popcorn, she gave me a box of Gonal-F. She also gave me a quick lesson in what needle to use when giving progesterone in oil shots. I’m sure when the man behind us bought his ticket to see JANE EYRE, he didn’t know that in addition to a seeing a romantic classic, he’d hear about how badly your ass can get bruised from giving yourself an injection.

It seems that almost every day lately, either my husband or I have come home to envelopes filled with Menopur or estrogen patches from such Twitter friends as @StolenEggs, @prncssbttrcp70, @Kat_Cushner, @pregnantjust, @LeLeIsMe, @Jennandtonica, @sassyNtubeless, @tiggsintxmama, @Laura129 and @IVFLondonUK. Lord only knows what the mailman must be thinking when he sees the words “Baby Dust!” written on these packages!

I’ve even gotten incredible, generous, BEYOND appreciated financial contributions from Lee, Lillian, and Carmel. Again, I can’t thank you enough for that. I’d offer sexual favors in return but Brad Pitt never returns my calls…

In addition to the necessities, I’ve also received such fun, thoughtful gifts as “fertility socks” from Christina and Lori Green LeRoy (@inadeconception) sent me her book, “The Inadequate Conception” (http://theinadequateconception.blogspot.com/) which I not only found relatable, but it made me laugh out loud which is impressive!

I’ve also received touching, funny and sweet emails from Amy, Melissa, Miranda, Jessica, Meg, Sabrina, Bessie, Susan, Meenakshi, Jevon, Stephanie, Naomi, Carolyn (just to name a few) and of course, from my very dear Canadian friend, Jaycee, all encouraging me and sharing with me their experiences.

There are also the many direct messages of support I've gotten from @MyLazyOvaries whose blog you can find at: http://slackieo.blogspot.com/. Both her humor and support have been relentless.

Then, there are my MANY Twitter and Facebook friends which are too many to list. If I did, it would sound like a modern, cyber, f*cked up version of Romper Room. (And yes, I know only a few of you are going to get that reference. Man, I’m getting old!) Twitter especially has provided me with endless love, support, humor and interaction with fellow infertiles (many who are now pregnant) that I'm incredibly grateful for. I'm honored to know them and exchange meaningful 140 characters with them.

I also must give a shout out to my Infertile Brunch Crew for being an outstanding, giving, honest and understanding group of women. They have also provided some of the best breakfast meals one could hope for:

@SecretSloper - http://parkslopepurgatory.blogspot.com/

@AdventuresInIF - http://adventuresininfertilityland.blogspot.com/

@madampumpkin - http://plantingapumpkinpatch.wordpress.com/

@thisispersonal - http://thisismorepersonal.tumblr.com/

@TheIFDoula - http://www.infertilitydoula.com/

And then there are all of YOUR comments. Some of them have made me laugh, some have made me cry and all of them have been more appreciated than I could ever possibly say without sounding like an overemotional, hormonal Sally Field accepting an Oscar. Whenever I’ve felt silly, you’ve laughed with me and whenever I’ve felt like I was drowining , you’ve thrown me a lifeline. I can’t thank you enough.

Infertility sucks. There's just no way around it but all of these people and many, many more have made this dark room I’m currently trapped in fill up with light more times than I can count be it by flashlight, candle, or fireworks. I honestly don't know what I've done to deserve such kindness but I'm profoundly humbled and honored. What moves me the most right now is that if I ever do actually get pregnant, what started as a project between just my husband and I, has become this huge collaborative effort.

My point is that if I do ever have a baby, this kid already has a massive list of thank you cards to write!

As always, with hope and humor,

Jay

Disco Infertile

2011-03-20T17:15:00.001-04:00

I’ve spent most of the morning thinking of titles of infertility themed Disco songs. Why, you may ask? It could be one of two reasons:

1. I like annoying my husband by singing, “Someone Left the Clomid in the Rain”.

2. I’ve gotten some funk back in my life.

Who am I kidding? It’s both.

This past week, we went to see a new doctor for what would be our third opinion. Whenever I think of the word “opinion”, I always think of the quote, “Opinions are like assholes. Everybody's got one and everyone thinks everyone else's stinks."

I love and hate this quote. I love it because it reminds us that an opinion is just that: a judgment call by one person that you can either accept as truth or reject as subjective. I hate it because it makes me think of people’s assholes and that’s an image I could do without.

Just as a brief recap for those who are new followers of my blog: I’m a writer and sometimes stand-up comic who has been trying to get pregnant for exactly two years. We have no clear reason for our fertility issues (other than the universe is entertained by our torment). In addition to unprotected sex & Barry White music, we’ve tried three inseminations using Clomid. All three of these inseminations somehow were around national holidays: Thanksgiving, Christmas and the last one was on Valentine’s Day. They all failed. So much for having a Christmas miracle. Feliz Big Fat Negative.

Then, we did my first invitro last April with the same doctor who did all of our inseminations. I produced 5 eggs and 3 embryos. Not only did the IVF not work, but after everything was said and done, we found out that A) this doctor was probably not our best option to go with and B) I had a uterine polyp (a.k.a. “Jackson Polyp”). It became clear that both Doctor #1 and the polyp needed to be removed from our lives and my uterus.

Most recently, I just did my second IVF (a.k.a. “IVF 2 – Electric Boogaloo”) with Doctor #2 through a clinical trial. That produced 11 eggs, 10 mature (the 11th egg apparently wanted to play video games while crashing on his dad’s couch), but we only had one embryo to transfer. We lovingly referred to it as “Rudy” after the football player, Daniel "Rudy" Ruettiger who is famous for wanting to play for the Notre Dame Fighting Irish football team. Needless to say, Rudy fumbled big time and failed to score a touchdown and I got my period. When we had our WTF Meeting with Doctor #2 after the clinical trial, we were given no explanation as to what went wrong other than, “Wow. It sucks to be you!”

Ok, not his exact words but close enough.

So, with one polyp, two years of trying, three inseminations and two failed IVF’s behind us, we were left with no answers, explanations or suggestions other than we should try another invitro. This time though, we would be paying for it entirely ourselves and the thought of spending money on something that hasn’t worked for us so far just felt wrong. It was nagging at me so much that despite the fact that I still think that Doctor #2 has done nothing horribly wrong, I decided to seek out yet another opinion.

A few people thought this was overkill as how many opinions can you get? Still, when it comes to my uterus, I’m interested in almost everyone’s opinion. You never know what a pair of fresh eyes can bring to your case and frankly, if I’m using my entire savings account to fund something, I want to feel good about it. The main thing that was haunting me was when I asked Doctor #2 after the clinical trial, “What would you do differently with IVF #3?” and he answered with, “I would do my standard protocol.” Standard? Really? We haven’t learned absolutely anything from the past two years that we would do differently? Really?????

Look – I’m no doctor. I’ve never even played one on television but one thing I do know is I’m not standard. No one is. One size does NOT fit all when it comes to fertility. I want my invitros like I want my mouthguard: designed specifically with me in mind.

So last Tuesday, we went to Doctor #3 thinking we would keep an open mind and see what she has to say but ultimately, we weren’t expecting much in the way of explanations. We told her our history and she went through all our records. As my husband put it, it’s not that she gave us answers, but she gave us ideas. Because my follicles grow at different rates, she suggested I start an estrogen patch (of some sort) before we even begin our next invitro as this would make things grow at the same speed. This would hopefully give us more eggs for IVF #3. She also said that because I’m thirty-seven, she’d highly recommend I use Menopur (another infertility themed Disco song: “It’s Raining Menopur”). She said that it doesn’t seem to help much if you’re under 35 but if you’re over 35, it can do wonders. I’m not sure how or why... nor do I care. If it helps a woman at my age, then I’ll do it.

She also felt that my husband’s sperm was an issue. Even though it’s considered normal, it’s still on the low side. She confirmed that in putting all of this together, another invitro was definitely the way to go. The last two suggestions she had was for both of us to lose more weight (which I’ve been doing anyway) and that I get a specific test that takes measurements of my uterus so that they will better know where to place future embryos.

Now THIS was a plan. These were all things no one had suggested before and these suggestions were specifically for us based on our history. It didn’t explain why we hadn’t gotten pregnant but it tweaked what we had one in the past, added ways we could do things better in the future and it just seemed more personalized to us. And just like that, we decided to switch doctors.

As I took a shower that night, I thought about the money we’re going to spending on this. It still sucks and we’re still several thousand short but I feel so much better about spending my money on this plan than the “standard protocol”.

As I rinsed the conditioner out of my hair, I realized something else: I was proud of myself for getting another opinion. After our experience with the Doctor #1, I was glad that I learned from it. I don’t want to ever look back again and think, “I should have done more.” It’s true that this new plan and new doctor comes with no guarantees but at least I feel like we’re using what has happened in the past and applying it to the future. Dammit – I need to feel like we’re moving forward and not just doing the same ol’ shit over and over again! With the addition of a new test, an estrogen patch, Menopur and even progesterone oil shots (I’ve only ever done suppositories before), this is different and in the words of Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, “Anything different is good.”

And speaking of praise, I thought about how I was after our latest invitro failed. The clinical trial was all consuming. It entailed daily blood work, sonograms, injections with mystery hormones and the extreme disappointment of not only producing one embryo but that the one embryo didn’t implant. It occurred to me recently that the day after we found out that we were not pregnant, I got up, got dressed and went to work. That week, I made lunch plans with friends, I did several stand-up shows, I got back on Weight Watchers, I went to social events and I got on with my life. Those who read my blog regularly know I don’t say this often but I’m proud of myself for that. It hurt tremendously, I still complained and I definitely had a few, “I’m going to stay in bed and cry” moments but overall, I didn’t lie down and die… even though I wanted to.

I don’t deserve a medal or anything like that but we all need to take a moment and acknowledge when we show some serious strength. When it comes to infertility, we focus so much on what went wrong, or how we wish we could do this, that or the other thing better, that we forget what we did right, you know?

Since so many of you have been regular readers of my blog and have always been so beyond incredibly supportive, I want to thank you by suggesting two things:

1. If you’re struggling with any medical issues (fertility or non-fertility related), please, PLEASE get another opinion if you’re not happy with what you’ve heard so far. Don’t settle when it comes to your health especially if you have insurance and get a consultation covered. You never know who will shed some light on your situation and it’s so important for you to be your own advocate.

And 2. Please take a moment after reading this entry and give yourself credit for something you did recently that you’re proud of. I don’t care what it’s related to or what it is. Even if it’s, “I managed not to strangle my mother-in-law today”. Find something that you know you did a good job with or that you showed courage in. Please even feel free to post it here in my comments. Be proud and post loud!

I leave you with two Disco songs that already have appropriately named titles: Gloria Gaynor’s, “I Will Survive” and Michael Jackson’s, “Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough”.

There’s also “Boogie Oogie Oogie” by A Taste Of Honey but other than a funky baseline, I’m not sure how motivational it is.

Lord of the NuvaRing: Fellowship of the Infertiles

2011-03-14T16:42:00.002-04:00

Last week, I emailed the clinic we’ve been working with about IVF #3. For the record, I never thought I’d ever need one invitro let alone three. My reproductive saga appears to have become a trilogy: Lord of the NuvaRing.

The subject line of my email was “IVF Financial Breakdown” and it was to inquire how much a third invito would cost since this time, we would be completely financially responsible for it all. Oy, I say. Oy.

I received a response that said sonograms, doctor visits, retrieval and transfer would roughly be around $11,000. If we did ICSY, which the doctor already told us we’d have to, that would add on a little over $2000. Then, there’s the cost of all the medications and anesthesia. The more I read, the more I realized that what I wrote in the subject related more to my impending emotional state. I was on the verge of having an actual IVF Financial Breakdown.

We have been putting money aside for awhile now but we estimate that we’re still $5000 short. The more I thought about that, the more I wished I could have given up infertility for Lent.

Just a quick related side note: A girlfriend of mine said to me recently that they like when celebrities who have had fertility issues end up having kids because it makes her more hopeful. To be clear, I deeply respect when any celebrity is open about their struggles to conceive. It lets the ignorant fertile world know that this is a real issue that many people struggle with. So, of course any time anyone who has struggled with infertility is able to have a happy ending, I’m happy for them. However, saying that their success story provides me hope isn’t necessarily accurate as let’s face it -- they can AFFORD hope. They can pay any price to see the best doctors in a timely manner. They have the money to do seven invitros in between record albums. They can pay for the best lawyers to do a quick adoption from the country of their choice. They can hire a woman to carry their twins all while they walk the red carpet. Me? I currently can’t even afford the super nice digital ovulation predication kits.

Anyway, I emailed the clinic back and included my doctor, his assistant and the billings manager. I thanked all of them for giving me the financial information and I explained that we simply couldn’t afford it at this time but I’d be in touch as soon as we got the money. After I hit send, I made a list of all the relatives I have that may have money and who seemed sick the last time I saw them. I made a note to call the select few to tell them how much I’ve always loved them. Hey – don’t judge.

One good thing that came out of my IVF Financial Breakdown was it prompted me to schedule what will now be our third opinion. Sam and I figured that if we’re going to spend our entire savings on something that hasn’t worked for us so far, getting yet another opinion couldn’t hurt. Luckily, the doctor we’re seeing not only came highly recommended but she takes our insurance for the consultation part. We’re seeing her tomorrow morning.

This past weekend, I had a lot of time to think about all of this; the money, getting a third opinion, the last two years, etc. I was on the road and there isn’t much else to do but listen to some music, stare out at the highway ahead of you and wonder what the f*ck is wrong with your uterus.

As some of you know, I perform stand-up comedy from time to time. I haven’t performed for several months now to focus on my reproductive pursuits but when I knew that our last IVF failed, I though some comedy was in order. What better way to get over a recent disappointment then to complain about it to total strangers while they enjoy a two drink minimum?

So I booked a whole bunch of shows and my husband and I drove from one town to another. As I zoned out and looked out the window, images flashed through my head. I saw me on the side of a road looking homeless with a cardboard sign that read, “Will work for hormone shots”.

I remembered the warning label on my progesterone cream that said, “Keep out of reach of children”. Umm, if I HAD children, I wouldn’t need the effen progesterone cream.

I wondered if they’ll ever come out with coupons for fertility. “Clip this coupon for a free HCG shot!”

And strangely enough, I thought about one of Jim Carrey’s costumes in the movie, BATMAN FOREVER. It’s a green body suit with question marks all over it. That’s exactly how I feel these days: One big ol’ question mark (although in reality, I’m shaped more like the number ‘8’.).

I don’t know why I can’t get pregnant. I don’t know where I’m going to get $5000 from. I don’t know what went wrong with my most recent IVF and I don’t know if I’m ever going to have kids. My whole existence feels so unclear that I’d actually wear this “question mark body suit” except for the fact that I’d look more like an infertile pickle then The Riddler.

Here’s the thing: I think we all go through periods of denial when dealing with infertility. We think ‘This can’t go on forever! I mean, this is going to work out, right? This is me and I’m fabulous! Of course this is going to end wonderfully!’ And we keep hope alive because we have to. Well, I guess we don’t have to but we do it because we should but if my blog seems a bit more whinier lately (is ‘whinier’ a word?), it’s because I think my denial is wearing off. It’s finally hitting me that this whole ‘getting pregnant thing’ isn’t going well (in case you haven’t noticed). Lord knows I’ve complained about it enough and I’ve certainly had times where I’ve considered what life would be like if I never became a mother but this past weekend while in the car, I found myself thinking, “Jay – You genuinely may not be capable of having children. This may never happen for you.”

Now, as depressing and heavy as that thought is (true or not) and as much as my quest to get pregnant has become like the actual LORD OF THE RINGS trilogy (too long and utterly confusing), I do want to end today’s blog entry on a positive note.

Yes, things are not great right now. Yes, my hope has taken a huge mother f*cking hit and yes, I’m on the verge of losing a butt load of money on something that comes with no guarantees. I admit all this but here are two things I realized this weekend that DON’T suck:

1. One of the best things that hit me this weekend (when I wasn’t thinking of Jim Carrey or that I may forever be barren) is that I may be a pessimist, but I’m at least a pessimist with a great attitude.

And 2. This weekend was the first time I discussed things related to fertility on stage and it was fantastic. I don’t come out and get into all our issues because I’m not sure how much people want to hear about sperm morphology while eating nachos, but I got into it enough where it made me feel free. It was like saying to the world, “This is who I am. This is what I’ve been struggling with and god dammit, we’re all going to laugh at it together.”

And you know what? Everyone did.

The Terminal Two Week Wait

2011-03-08T16:08:00.004-05:00

It was March 2009 that I started trying to get pregnant. I had no idea when I began this journey that my “two week wait” would become two years. What’s worse is these ‘two week waits’ are feeling more and more like they are terminal. It’s like I’m in a permanent state of waiting to see what happens next and I hate it. I don’t even like to wait on the line for Starbucks. I want my latte and go. When it comes to having a baby, it’s the same kind of thing: I just want to get pregnant, have my baby and get on with my life. (Not that I mean to compare a baby with a latte, although let’s face it -- both keep you awake.)

In my early months of trying to conceive, I’d get discouraged and maybe a little down from time to time. However, after trying to get pregnant for two years and after having two failed IVF’s (my own version of the “terrible two’s”), I can’t help but think, “Wow. This REALLY is bordering on a total disaster, huh?” And when you have no reason for the lack of success, no diagnosis and no explanation, the road ahead isn’t just a little bumpy. It’s long, poorly lit, laden with pot holes and utterly endless.

I did see my doctor for the infamous “What The F*ck Appointment” and the only explanation he could give with regards to our recent IVF is that we just had bad luck. If they had ten couples at the clinic that day, one of the couples would have to get screwed statistically and it would seem that couple is us. I guess we took one for the infertile team that day. You’re welcome nine lucky couples. Now, can you loan us $5000?

Frankly, it always seems like we’re the doomed ones. My husband and I seem to be exceptional… but in an unlucky way. We had an unusually horrible rain storm on our wedding day (despite the fact that it hadn’t rained on our wedding date for the previous 30 years), our first doctor missed a uterine polyp that was practically giving him the finger in all of my sonograms, our insurance company broke up with us, our house got hit by lightning last year and we can’t get pregnant despite the fact that both of us are healthy. I know that things could always be worse and in the grand scheme of things, nothing TOO horrible has happened. I am grateful for that. Besides, if you ask my husband who is way more of an optimist than I, he points out that our wedding day was the greatest day of his life, that the uterine polyp had his own fan club (Yay Jackson Polyp!), and we would have never discovered the wonderful world of Blu-Ray or High Definition television if it weren't for the lightning frying our antiquated electronics. However, I still can’t help but feel like we’re the equivalent of a negative miracle.

Despite the many setbacks and despite my suspicion that we are cursed, I am committed to forge ahead with some level of enthusiasm. One thing making it a smidge difficult for me is I sense that some of my friends are beginning to get bored with our efforts or they feel we should simply move on. As a fan of the shows 48 HOURS and DATELINE, I’ve seen many an interview with a mother, father or couple whose child has been missing for years and people tell them, “Look, it’s been 10 years. You’re not going to find them so you should get on with your lives.” The parents of these missing children never take too kindly to this suggestion and rightfully so. They want to know where their child is. They need their child back… or at the very least, some answers as to what happened to him or her. And that’s how I feel whenever someone says, “Maybe having kids just isn’t in the cards for you.” It’s like they are telling me to stop looking for my missing child.

Is that overdramatic? Well, probably yes, but I’m still a bit hormonal (thanks progesterone!) and that’s how it feels. It especially stings when friends who have children tell me that perhaps I should consider doing other things with my life. That’s pretty easy for them to say, isn’t it? It reminds me of the scene in THE AVIATOR where Katherine Hepburn’s mother says to Howard Hughes, “We don’t care about money here Mr. Hughes.” And he responds with, “That’s because you have it.”

Of course I know that people are always well-intentioned. I also don’t mean to imply that if you have children, you never have anything helpful to say or that you can’t be supportive. I have quite a few people in my life who are parents and who have never experienced fertility issues that have been beyond loving and comforting. It’s just when anyone tells me, whether they themselves are parents or not, that maybe it’s time to give up, that I can’t help but want to tap dance on their windpipe.

The other night, I was out to dinner at a family restaurant. I was looking around the room and studying all the people with kids or babies thinking about all the things I may never know. What it’s like to see a positive pregnancy test. The pride you feel when you tell people you’re expecting. The joy of feeling your baby kick for the first time. Having a baby shower. Getting a nursery ready. Giving birth. Sending out baby announcements. The first year of being a mom. Their first word. When they go off to kindergarten. And so on and so on. Even though I was sitting at a table inside the restaurant, I might as well have been outside on the street looking in through the window at all the families. That’s how separate I felt from the experience. It was a happy family restaurant filled with happy fertile families. Pathetic, unlucky infertiles aren’t allowed. Hmmmm. Come to think of it... I wonder if they should have an infertile section at restaurants? That's not a bad idea.

The one comfort in all this is thanks to my mystery fertility issues, I may also never get to know what it's like to have your 14 year old daughter come home with a new piercing and a 20 year old boyfriend… so that’s something.

All in all, I’m not ready to give up. More importantly, as bad as our luck has been, we have never been told that’s its impossible. As I said in my last blog entry, until someone says that we can never have children or until I’m dead, I’m going to do my best to have a family one way or another.

At this moment, the plan is to go ahead with IVF #3. The doctor says we could start again as early as next month but we’re thinking we may wait another month or so to get all our infertile ducks in a row. I’m back on Weight Watchers, we’re putting as much money as we can into our savings account and we’re looking into getting yet another opinion (just to be safe). I don’t know if this is going to go on another two years, if we’ll have another two IVF’s or if we will ever have the happy ending we imagined but we’re moving ahead with hope and humor.

Hope and humor...

To Wallow or Not Wallow? That is the Question

2011-02-21T13:44:00.002-05:00

There is a quote by the great philosopher, Homer Simpson, that I’ve always loved. So much so that I’ve mentioned it quite a few times on this blog. It goes like this, “You’ve tried and you failed. What’s the lesson? Never try.”

This quote always cracks me up. Do I completely agree with it? No, but it still makes me laugh every single time I hear it. I mean, let’s face it. We can all relate to that feeling, can’t we?

Yesterday, I began to notice that I was spotting. I hoped it was implantation bleeding but this morning, when the spotting became almost a whole sentence, I realized the Rudy, the lone embryo may have become Rudy, the no embryo so I called the nurse at the clinic.

My blood work was supposed to be on Friday, the 25th. When I explained to her what was going on, she advised me to take a home pregnancy test. If it was negative, she told me to come in tomorrow morning. If it was positive, she told me to just wait until Friday. So, I took a home test, and it was negative. I immediately wished that when I sent my husband to buy the test, I told him to pick up some maxi pads. Sh*t.

Now yes, I realize there is the slightest chance that the beta may show something but let’s face it, it’s very unlikely. And as I think about the events of the last few weeks and as I once again consider Homer’s words, I ask myself, “Should I have even bothered trying?” The answer, as annoyingly chipper as it is, is of course, yes.

When someone offers you a free IVF as part of a clinical trial and you’re a person who has both unexplained fertility issues as well as unexplained lack of savings, you take it. I don’t care if it’s someone on a street corner with a sign that says, “INVITRO - 5 Cents”, you smile and say, “Yes please!” I had to try it. I did the trial; I did my best and even though I have nothing to show for it other than some extra progesterone and a grainy picture of the embryo that couldn’t, I can still say I tried. It ain’t much but I’ll take it.

Next month, it’ll be officially two years that we’ve been working towards getting pregnant. We’ve never succeeded. Not once. The only positive pregnancy tests I’ve seen are the ones pregnant friends of mine have posted on Twitter or Facebook. This was our second IVF to fail despite having produced eleven eggs, using ICSY as well as assisted hatching and we even threw in the very best of intentions. But, as it stands now, it’s two years later and we’re still exactly where we started. It’s a hell of an annoying purgatory to be stuck in and what’s worse is it’s a purgatory you even get CHARGED to be stuck in. Really. WTF?

Now, I’m not going to lie: there have been a lot of tears in the last two days and I’m beyond frustrated with how this clinical trial went down. It was supposed to be a blessing: A free IVF that even covered freezing left over embryos. “How lucky are we to have the financial aspect removed PLUS it includes a back up plan!”, I thought. And then, to have produced so many more eggs than our first IVF! Things looked like they were finally falling into place.

But as you know, for reasons no one can explain (which has been a theme of my life lately), we only had one embryo. When even everyone at your fertility clinic is stunned at the results, you know it’s impressively bad and even though I always like impressing people, I prefer to do it in a more positive manner.

All bets were placed on the lone embryo. It only takes one! Everyone is rooting for him! Keep hope alive! But today, like clock work, Aunt Flo showed up and left me with a choice: I can be depressed and wallow in this, or I can choose to move forward. Don’t ask me how exactly but I’m forcing myself to move forward.

I’m upset and I plan to be upset for at least a little while. I’m going to have tequila and ice cream today (feel free to join me) and I’ll probably cry a little more but come tomorrow, I’m joining Weight Watchers again, I’ll make an appointment with the doctor, I’ll schedule a hair cut and I’ll look at my Savings Account and figure out a way to get at least $5000 more dollars without resorting to petty theft.

No one has told us we can’t have children and the last time I checked, I’m not dead so even though I’m down, I don’t yet consider myself out. I still have my sense of humor, I still have a great rack and I still have all of you.

And although I do feel like I’m in abusive relationship with hope, we are at least on speaking terms… so that’s something.

As always, I want to thank all of you for your emails, comments, Tweets, Facebook messages and texts. This has been very difficult but to know there are people out there that care and find your fertility issues as amusing as you do is a huge comfort. It also goes without saying that if any of you happen to have any extra hormones, money or babies lying around, I hope you’ll consider giving them to me.

Now… on to the next disaster…

Wish You Were Here

2011-02-18T16:06:00.000-05:00

I have a running joke at my day job. Note that I always call it a “day job” to remind myself that what I do from 9am to 5pm is not actually my life. Anyway, the joke goes that if you live in New Jersey or if you have a small child, you always have a ‘Get Out of Jail Free Card’.

I’ve lost count of how many people haven’t come into work because they either have a sick kid at home or the weather in New Jersey is so bad that they couldn’t possibly make it in to Manhattan, which is where I work. There is public transportation available, but for some reason, whenever there is snow, there simply isn’t a New Jersey employee to be found. Maybe they’re afraid of snow? I’m not sure.

The reason I mention this is because I took off a few days last week for my IVF. Monday was the retrieval, Thursday was the transfer and Friday was the day I watched crap TV while trying to comfort my sore uterus.

When I had asked for the whole week off, my boss was not at all agreeable. As you may remember, I told him about the clinical trial in the hopes that he would be understanding and flexible. It became clear by his reaction however that I was wrong and he was anything but. Instead, I ended up getting a lecture about how busy things are at the office and at some point, I needed to ask myself if I’m capable of keeping up with work and dealing with “this fertility thing”. This fertility thing? He made it sound like a hobby. It had the same tone to it as someone saying, “When are you going to give up on this whole acting dream of yours? Be happy with your job as an accountant!”

I tried to explain to him that neither myself of the clinic could reason with my ovaries on the state of our current work flow. My ovaries have follicles and these follicles know nothing of the business world. All of us: me, my husband, my family, the doctors, my therapist, and even my boss are basically at the mercy of my female organs.

His response was, “Look, we had four kids without any problems so I don’t know how it all works for you…”

I said, “I’m happy that you don’t know how it works. I wish I didn’t know how it works because it’s annoying.”

“Well, I don’t know if I would use the word annoying.” he said.

“You don't have to use that word because I just did. It is annoying but again, you wouldn’t know that.” I was losing my patience.

As he launched into a monologue where he tried to be sensitive while stressing his needs, I began to think about the Oscars and how they get winners to wrap up their speeches. Wouldn’t that be great if you could do that in real life? If someone is going on and on about something you think is total B.S., you could just start humming an orchestral piece and get them to shut the hell up. Think about it. I think it could seriously catch on as an effective device.

In the end, we agreed that any day I could come in - I would. This sucked donkey balls as having the whole week off would have been a huge help but I really had no choice. However, as far as he knew, I only took off Thursday and Friday. The reality though is that I actually took off Monday as well, but he never knew it. Many were out that day for a meeting, including him, so thanks to the assistance of a few of my co-workers and my handy blackberry, we pulled off ‘Operation-No-Really-Jay’s-in-the-Office”. I think at one point in the day, I even emailed someone, “What do you mean you don’t see me at my desk? I’m sitting right there!”

Working Tuesday and Wednesday was not at all fun. I was uncomfortable, hormonal, tired, bloated and frankly, pissed off and resentful that I had to be there. If you could take off because you had a sick kid, why couldn’t I take off in order to acquire a sick kid?

This week, when I returned to the office, I received an email from my boss double-checking that I used my vacation days for Thursday and Friday. Had I known those two days were my vacation, I would have taken more pictures to show my colleagues when I returned. Never mind photos of me sunning myself on a beach! Here’s a picture of me in a hospital gown getting knocked unconscious!

Better yet, perhaps I should have sent him a post card, “Wish You Were Here!” with the words, “So I could stick a needle in your vagina and extract your eggs!” hand written in.

“Fertility things” (as my boss so delicately put it) are medical issues. They are not hobbies, vacations or even something I would describe as remotely fun. I would think they would count as either sick days or perhaps if we all signed a petition, we can get “infertility days” instated.

It’s also worth noting that a woman who holds a similar role as me at my day job is off this entire week on a cruise. Why she gets to take a cruise without getting as much crap as I did remains a mystery. Maybe my boss likes me better and just doesn’t want me out of the office. Maybe going on a cruise is far more acceptable than getting an invitro. Maybe if I had the invitro in New Jersey, this all would have been a non-issue. I haven’t a clue. The only thing I do know is this whole matter was handled poorly.

For now though, I’m focusing more on my two week wait. I’m following the doctor’s orders, trying to remain calm, taking deep breaths and visualizing Rudy, the lone embryo implanting. Hopefully, this cycle will be successful. For if it is, I’m immediately moving somewhere it snows a lot and giving my kid an ear infection so I can stay home.

Rudy, The Lone Embryo

2011-02-11T20:34:00.002-05:00

Rudy - The Embryo

On Wednesday night, right on time, the TV aired their usual, “It’s 10pm. Do you know where your children are?” segment. Lord knows I’ve asked myself that question a lot in the past two years. This night though, I could at least say, “Yes. In a petri dish in midtown New York.”

The transfer day was yesterday, and I must apologize for not blogging about it sooner. It’s hard to type when you’ve spent most of the day with your legs up in the air. This is probably why there aren’t a lot of blogs written by working prostitutes. That’s just my theory though.

As you know, we had just the one embryo to transfer. This has been difficult for me to accept. In general, I’ve taken a Queen of Hearts from ALICE IN WONDERLAND response to this disappointment and have very much wanted off with someone’s head. This is not like me. I’m pretty resilient and can put a positive spin on most things. I am also a firm believer that if you make something funny, you can immediately make it better. The trouble has been though that either due to hormones or exhaustion, I’ve had a harder time being all zip-a-dee-doo-dah over recent developments.

While throwing one long fabulous tantrum (I even had my own soundtrack for it featuring such hits as the Rolling Stones, “You Can't Always Get What You Want” and “Please, Please, Please - Let Me Get What I Want” by Morrissey), my husband started referring to the one embryo we produced as “Rudy”.

For those of you who don’t know, he was referencing Daniel "Rudy" Ruettiger who is famous for wanting to play for the Notre Dame Fighting Irish football team, despite being merely 5'5" and 165 pounds. Somehow, despite all odds, he ended up playing for the team and in a final play of one game in particular, he sacked the opposing quarterback, and was carried off on the shoulders of his teammates. Rudy was the first of only two players in Notre Dame history ever to be carried off the field by his teammates. This was all depicted in a movie called RUDY starring Sean Astin. Leave it to my husband to take a problem stemming from eggs, sperm and embryos and somehow turn it into a sport reference.

Thanks to my husband’s new nickname for our embryo, despite our fears and concerns over having only one, we began rooting for it like he was an underdog who desperately wanted to play football… or implant in my uterus… or both. We deemed ourselves Team Rudy.

It's a small team but we've got great t-shirts.

Before the transfer, I went to acupuncture and that was a help. I know different things have been said about the connection between acupuncture and IVF success rates but for me, whether it has conclusive medical benefits or not, it’s just damn relaxing. I mentioned to my acupuncturist that we were now calling the embryo ‘Rudy’ and without missing a beat, she said, “After the football player? I love it!”

Clearly, we recruited another member for Team Rudy.

As I lay there looking like the lead character in the movie HELLRAISER, I didn’t visualize anything or even fantasize about making out with Jon Hamm (as I sometimes do). I just stopped thinking about everything altogether and listened to the wind flute CD my acupuncturist had playing in the background. Mind you – I won’t be downloading this CD on my mp3 player anytime soon but it was still lovely at that moment.

I headed to the clinic feeling calmer and ready to meet with the embryologist. He came in with a nurse, sat us down and explained that eleven eggs were retrieved, ten were mature, all received ICSY (Intracytoplasmic Sperm Injection) but for reasons they don’t understand, only one embryo multiplied. He also added that they were shocked by this as they expected at least six embryos.

On one hand, it was nice to feel validated. On the other hand, I couldn’t help but wonder where the hell these six expected embryos went! I haven’t even had kids and already, they were abandoning me.

In an effort to focus on the positive, the conversation quickly turned to Rudy. The doctor told us that the embryo was a clean 7-Cell embryo as of Wednesday and they used assisted hatching to give it a better chance of implanting. Sam told the doctor that we were calling the embryo as Rudy and before we could even explain why, he said, “Ohhhh! I love that movie!” Rudy wasn’t even transferred yet and he was making friends all over the place!

As I lay down and they put my legs up in the stirrups, the doctor came over to me and said, “Just so you know, we just checked Rudy and he’s now an 8-cell embryo so he’s still multiplying! He’s a real fighter!” I took a deep breath and hoped the doctor was right. Everything feels like it’s riding on this one embryo. I tried to think positively and relax despite the fact that I had a full bladder and a catheter up my ying yang. “C’mon Rudy… implant. Please just implant…” I whispered.

After the transfer, they had me lay flat on my back for a half hour. One of the nurses came in and handed me two pieces of paper. One was a report card of sorts. It listed IVF 2 onto one little index card:

EGGS RETRIEVED – 11
MATURE EGGS – 10
ICSY – 10
EMBRYOS – 1
ASSISTED HATCHING - 1

The other piece of paper was a black and white picture of Rudy. Since I couldn’t get up and there was nowhere to put them, I lay there holding them both and reflecting on all that had happened.

After a few minutes, my husband came in and sat down next to me. We sat there quietly for a bit before Sam smiled and said, “You know… I have a good feeling. Maybe Rudy said to the other embryos, ‘Back off! I got this!’”

I tried to smile back. “It really depends on how this story ends. If we get pregnant, then this whole thing will make sense. If it doesn’t, then we’re back to square one."

I held up the report card with my right hand and said, “I just can’t understand what went wrong.”

Sam took the report card out of my hand and said, “I think we should pay less attention to this piece of paper, and more attention to the other one.” And he motioned to the picture in my left hand of Rudy, the lone embryo.

And he’s right. I still can’t help but be disappointed and confused but at the very least, we have one strong embryo that has a whole lot of people rooting for him. It’s going to be a tough two week wait but I’m going to do my best to remain optimistic, continue writing, taking it easy and maybe... just maybe I should consider actually seeing the movie RUDY.

Are you there God? It’s a Pissed Off Infertile

2011-02-09T19:48:00.001-05:00

This morning, I did something I haven’t done in a while; I went to church. I’m agnostic through and through. I don’t know if there is a god or that there isn’t. I truly don’t rule it out but I don’t rely on it either. I say this not to convert anyone to my beliefs or to offend anyone. It’s just more where I’m at and what I’m comfortable with.

However, in an effort to cover all my bases and be proactive while I try to make sense of the fertility report we received yesterday, I thought a leap of faith was in order. Besides, if god could get Mary knocked up and she never even had sex, he would perhaps be the best guy to help me.

God, Reproductive Endocrinologist Extraordinaire.

When I entered the church and didn’t get hit by lightning, I thought it was a good start.

Although I toyed with it, I almost began my prayer with, “Look, you don’t like me and I don’t like you…” but that seemed to be rather hostile. Truth be told though, if god does exist, I don’t think he hates me. I just think he’s got bigger fish to fry and can’t be bothered with some fertility-challenged New York writer. Let’s face it though – if this were the case, he’d have a point. There ARE bigger issues in this world. Despite my agnostic status, I always get annoyed when I hear a singer thank god for his or her Grammy win. I mean, really… I would hope god would be more concerned with people who are dying or in pain then making sure your recent album gets the respect it deserves.

That all being said, I did speak from my heart. I acknowledged that I’m not the best person in the world nor am I someone that keeps in touch often but if he had a moment, I’d sincerely appreciate the help. I prayed for getting another embryo or at the very least, have the one that currently exists staple gun itself to my uterine lining.

I felt satisfied with my prayer and as I went to leave, I looked down to see an empty cup of holy water. I’m trying not to take this as a sign.

Right near the church, there’s a Chase bank. They are having a promotion that if you deposit more than a thousand dollars into your savings account, you’re entered into a lottery that could double your deposit… or something like that. Since I’m always on the lookout for extra money, especially if I end up doing another mother fucking IVF, I went to the bank to sign up for the offer.

Somehow, and I still can’t quite believe this, the two customer service representatives I met with asked me about my savings in general and I mentioned that I had a separate account that wasn’t with Chase. When they asked why, I figured, “Screw it…” and I explained it was for an invitro if I needed one. This led to me basically giving these two total strangers in blue Chase sweater vests my entire fertility history. I don’t know what was weirder: That I was sharing this much with my bank or that they genuinely seemed very interested.

In the end, I told them that if my transfer was successful tomorrow, I could close my other account and put all my money into my Chase Savings. “One good transfer deserves another”, I mused. My final statement to them, other than ‘thank you’ was, “See? It’s in your interest that I get pregnant this week!”

It wasn’t even lunch time and I had already begged both god and my bank representatives to help get me pregnant.

After managing not to unload my current fertility concerns on anyone else, 4:15pm rolled around and I got a call from a nurse letting me know that it’s still just the one embryo. When I asked the quality of it, she said they’d tell me more tomorrow but all she knew was that it was viable so she’d see me tomorrow.

If I’m being honest (and why wouldn’t I be? It’s my blog), I’m not optimistic at this moment. I know I should be and I know that there’s still a chance but again, I’m just not feeling hopeful. Perhaps tomorrow the doctor will say something inspiring or maybe I’m still dealing with my disappointment, but overall, right now, I’m not feeling very ‘Go Team’. I’m more in a ‘Go F*ck Yourself’ kinda mood.

Rest assured though that I’ll do everything the clinic tells me to. I’ve got acupuncture set up for tomorrow. I’m prepared for bed rest. I’ve stocked up on walnuts (because I heard they were good for implantation) and I’m going to do my best to literally bond with this embryo. I can only hope that if god did hear my prayer today, he’ll be forgiving & help a pissed off infertile out. Time will tell.

In the meantime, I just want to say again how much I’ve appreciated your comments, emails, texts and Tweets. I was truly overwhelmed today with how many people thought to say hello, offer some words of hope (or humor) and simply make sure I was hanging in. There are simply not enough words to thank you. I promise you – no matter what happens, I will not lose my sense of humor and I will root for all of you as much as you’ve all rooted for me.

The WTF Fertility Report

2011-02-08T18:39:00.001-05:00

It was around 1:30pm today that I got the call regarding my fertility report. When I heard the nurse say, “So… you had eleven eggs… and it looks like you only have one embryo...”, I thought perhaps my cell phone was playing tricks on me. It’s new and I’m still getting used to it so I was hoping that my Android Incredible was simply malfunctioning and turning what should be positive statements into negative statements.

“One? Did you say one?” I asked in total disbelief.
“Yes.” She answered as if I shouldn’t be concerned.
“But we had eleven eggs.” I protested.
“I know… sometimes that just happens.”

It just happens? You know what else happens? Shit. That’s what else happens.

With my last IVF, I had five eggs and managed to get three embryos out of the deal so I can’t figure out what went wrong this time. Did they forget to do the ICSI? Did the universe realize it was being good to me and quickly correct it? Was this woman actually a nurse from the clinic or some cruel bitch playing a joke on me? Really people – WTF?

They are going to keep checking and maybe, somehow, another embryo will make a grand entrance before it’s too late. The thing is that with the clinical trial, they do the transfer on day three no matter what. I even offered to kick in some money if we could wait till Day five but they can’t do that. The trial said day three transfer so day transfer three it is. So if there’s another embryo ready to emerge, they’ve got till this Thursday to do it. I hope they have a day planner and an alarm clock because the clock is ticking.

Now I realize that the reality is that it only takes one. I know this. I was never good at math but I do know that in this case, one is better than nothing. I just can’t understand how this has happened. Of what guarded optimism I had, this news has pretty much taken a piss all over it.

I phoned our “Clinical Trial Guide”, Drew Barrymore (again, not her real name but just as lovely as the actress) and left her a voice mail letting her know what was going on and that I was shocked and confused. She called me back almost immediately and said she’d get my doctor to call me.

As I waited to talk to the doctor, I started to get even more worried that he was going to say something that would make me feel worse. That my eggs were crap. That my husband’s sperm lost the will to fertilize. That the one embryo we had was a long shot. That this was all somehow my fault. Anything and everything ran through my mind.

Eventually, he called me back and I’m happy to say it was not the worst conversation I’ve ever had. He said they were surprised at the outcome as well but the one embryo we have seems like its good quality and it’s entirely possible more may spring up overnight. He doesn’t think it’s the clinical trial I’ve been doing as the study in general has been going well and he also doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with my husband or me so at least we have that going for us.

Any which way, it’s clear we’re not going to have any embryos to freeze. I suppose the upside of this is I won’t have to worry about knitting teeny tiny mittens.

Perhaps I should at least contact the clinic and ask them to play Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" to the one viable embryo we've got going for us. Who doesn't get inspired by that song?

In the end, I guess there's really nothing to do now but hope for the best, finish this out, see what happens and prepare to go on to the next step if it isn't a success.

Well, that and perhaps drink heavily.

As always, truly from the bottom of my heart, I thank each and every one of you for your support. You are my human form of Prozac.

The Golden Retrieval

2011-02-08T11:03:00.002-05:00

I awoke this morning to a note I had left myself the night before: “Don’t forget to stick progesterone gel up your cooch!” Clearly, today is the day after my retrieval.

Ever since January 28th, I have been heavily into hormone shots, daily visits to the clinic and doing my damndest to not let my over producing ovaries effect my outfits or my day job. It’s a delicate balance but I do feel like I managed the task at hand.

Every single morning, I was at the clinic for blood work and a sonogram. As annoying at this was schedule wise, I can honestly say this afforded me way more attention than I got with my first IVF. I didn’t just visit this clinic as much as I feel like we were in a committed relationship. If the wand they used for the intravaginal sonogram vibrated, then we’d really have something special going on. Someone would definitely get a Valentine’s Card out of that deal.

Happy Valentines Day! Thank you for the hot sonogram action...

Of course it’s not fun being shot in your stomach with hormones, having your veins opened for blood work, being prodded for an ultra sound or getting an injection in your thigh every single day to keep you from prematurely ovulating but I dare say you get used to it. Still though -- I’ve never had so many foreign substances stuck in me as I’ve had the last ten days. Now I know how Jenna Jameson must have felt during her porn career.

One of the odd advantages too of doing a clinical trial is that they didn’t give me too much information. I realize that may sound odd as so many fertility challenged people like to know how their uterine lining is doing, how many follicles they have and how everything is looking but during this process, they really didn’t go into details. I never realized how much of a relief that could be.

Every day, I’d usually one woman or another and she’d look and say, “Everything is looking good. You’re right on target. You can get dressed now.” And that was it. Even if I asked, she’d rarely elaborate. She’d brush me off with a, “Too early to tell but things look fine.” It occurred to me that this was probably the better way to go. I mean if she did tell me anything like, “Your uterine lining isn’t looking good...”, what the hell could I do about it anyway? I can’t go home and work on that so why know it and have it ruin my day.

There was one day though, out of nowhere, I got what I can only explain as a very chatty, fabulously gay male technician for my sonogram. It was an all around welcome change from the glum women reporting on my uterine situation. I have since nicknamed him “Chatty Cathy” as he was the only one that actually gave me details. Well, I should say ‘details’. I should say a running commentary of why my organs were spectacular!

When he started the exam, the first thing he said was, “Your uterine lining is gorgeous!” If he gave me three snaps after saying this, I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised.

He went on to tell me that I had quite a few follicles on both ovaries and that everything was looking down right fierce. That’s right. For one moment, my fertility was fierce. I didn’t just want this man to do my sonogram from here on out, I also wanted him to come over in the mornings, pick out my outfits and do my hair.

I mentioned to him that my left ovary tended to always lag behind so some of my doctors didn’t have much hopes for it producing many follicles. He looked at me with utmost sincerity and said, “Well honey. I think your left ovary has seriously been misjudged.” Have I mentioned that I love this man?

On Saturday morning, we found out that the retrieval would be on Monday. I still can’t believe how quickly this all went but I’m grateful for it. When I arrived at the clinic, I found out that my usual doctor happened to be working that day and he would be doing the retrieval. This made me extra happy. Mind you – any doctor there I’m sure is gifted but my logic is that this man has already seen my va-jay-jay several times. He did my Sonohysterogram and removed my uterine polyp so there’s history there. He knows his way around my lady parts.

It was lovely to see him in the operating room and we exchanged pleasantries. He asked how the trial was going and I told him it was pretty damn good. Not what I would call fun, but so organized and planned that I didn’t really have to do a lot of thinking which was nice. What’s interesting to me is he said the doctor’s felt the same way. The trial is planned down to every last detail (how many embryos will be transferred, when they will be transferred, what the doses are, how often you visit the clinic, etc.) that it kind of takes away last minute changes and over thinking. Yes, it’s definitely more cookie cutter but there was nothing that they did that I disagreed with or that I thought was careless… plus… let’s not forget this whole thing was mostly for free so who am I to argue? I’m a financially and fertility challenged woman. I’ll take what I can get.

Right before they knocked me out, they asked if I was ready. Because of my last blog post, I HAD to say, “I’m bikini waxed and ready to go!” After a brief pause where I imagine they were debating whether or not they could laugh, they all ended cracking up. I was proud of myself for saying it but in the recovery room, I couldn’t help but wonder if while I was out, they said, “Wow. She really did. Check that out. It's like a topiary bush...”

In the end, they retrieved ELEVEN eggs. With my first IVF at another clinic with another doctor, I only had five eggs. Although five eggs are respectable, let’s face it, eleven is better. I mean, that’s almost a dozen and if it’s good enough to sell in supermarkets, it’s good enough for me. And who knows, maybe the waxing helped my ovaries feel more attractive that they wanted to rise to the occasion. At least I’d like to think so.

Today, I’m back at work. I’m not happy being at work at all but my boss was a big pain in my ass about me not being here so I figure it’s better to be here after the retrieval then push myself after the transfer. I’m sitting a lot and of the few co-workers who know what’s going on, they are helping me out which is lovely. I’m taking my Doxycycline and Tylenol and passing the time till I can get my sore uterus back home. And yes, I took my progesterone this morning. I’m glad I left myself that note though. Who doesn’t enjoy a post-it when waking up about sticking something up your twat?

The transfer will be this Thursday no matter what and the trial will only allow for two embryos to be placed into the uterus. If there are extras, they’ll freeze them. Even though I’m hoping with all my heart that the two they transfer will take, I wouldn’t mind having a few on ice just in case.

Other than the bloating and the cramps and the fact that I’m at work and not at home in my pajamas watching mindless television, I’m feeling fine. I look like hell and I think some of the progesterone is dripping out of me… but again, I’m fine. If nothing else, I least I know my “uterine lining is gorgeous”. That’s a comfort.

Bikini Waxing: The IVF Special

2011-01-31T15:17:00.003-05:00

Whenever I’m about to do any fertility related activity such as an insemination or an in vitro, I always make an extensive to do list. This list usually entails doing things around the apartment (changing the sheets, cleaning the bathroom, etc.) that will make bed rest easier or more comfortable. I also make a movie list or get a new book or even schedule some phone calls with fun people who will keep me laughing while I rest on the couch and hope for some embryos to implant. Really – anything that will keep my mind at ease or ways to make whatever process I’m subjecting myself to more comfortable.

As you may remember from my last IVF (http://the2weekwait.blogspot.com/2010/04/bikini-wax-bruises.html), one of the biggest things on my ‘to do’ list is to get a bikini wax. This is always at the top of the list. I’m a firm believer in when you have company, you should clean up. I’m also sensitive to the fact that unlike with inseminations, you’re knocked out for IVF’s. I have this fear that once you’re unconscious, they all discuss your grooming habits. I realize this is totally insane, but here is what I imagine:

The anesthesiologist would say to me, “Ok Jay, count back from ten. That’s good.” He’d then turn to all the other doctors and say, “I think she’s out everyone.”

The Reproductive Endocrinologist would then say to embryologist and nurses, “Let’s get started. Wow! I guess it’s obvious she’s Italian, huh?"

To which a nurse would respond with, “Jeez, does anyone have some hedge clippers???”

I would hope that the doctors in the room have more important things to discuss but let’s face it, when you’re having your eggs retrieved, your vagina has the starring role. Literally – the curtain comes up and a spotlight is shined directly on it. Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for IVF 2 – The Sequel! Starring… Jay’s Vagina!

Although the results of bikini waxing are always lovely, the whole ordeal is a cruel joke on women who want to be… well… tidy. They are painful, you never get used to them and they are always embarrassing on one level or another. This reminds me of a story a friend of mine shared with regards to getting waxed. She went into a salon and the sign said ‘BIKINI WAXING… $15 - $25’. My friend asked the lady at the salon why the range and the lady explained that the price reflected how much waxing was necessary. So, they went into the back room and my friend took her pants off and got on the table. The woman looked at her and said, “Oh my god! Definitely $25 at least... and cancel my next appointment!”

Today, I’m on treatment day four and I figured I’d better just get this over with and get waxed. I have been dreading this more than I’ve been dreading getting the hormone injections in my stomach but it’s worth it. What I didn’t expect was that my ovaries already feel a bit swollen so having some woman pour hot wax on me and pull the skin tight was a whole new level of suckage. Again though, it’s worth it. I won’t have my p*ssy embarrassing me in the operating room.

Making matters worse, the woman who did the waxing today continued talking on her cell phone while ripping the hair out of my body. Part of me was impressed at her ability to multi-task but part of me couldn't help but be insulted that my hoo-hah wasn’t as riveting as the conversation she was having with her sister-in-law.

To regain her interest, I casually said that I was cleaning up because I’d be having surgery soon. This got her attention long enough to ask her sister-in-law to hold on a minute. She asked, “What kind of surgery?”

I explained it was for IVF and a lot of people would be seeing the area. Suddenly, waxing my bush became a commentary on her skill as an artist. She hung up the phone, put her glasses on and studied the area as if she was intending on making the hair into a specific shape.

She threw herself into the task like Edward Scissorhands working on one of his many masterpieces. When she took out the tweezers, I said, “Ummm, listen. It just needs to be cleaned up. No one is going to be studying it with a magnify glass.” Still though, she persisted in her precision. Ten minutes later, she was done and had a proud smile on her face. I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if she even signed her name somewhere on my thigh directly under her work. She quickly picked up her cell phone and for one second, I seriously thought she was going to snap a picture and send it to her sister-in-law with a note, “Check this out!” but luckily, she was just picking up their conversation where it previously had left off.

Clearly, this woman could appreciate my fear of going into an egg retrieval with an unkempt area. Now, whenever the retrieval happens, I can envision this conversation with total confidence:

The anesthesiologist would say to me, “Ok Jay, count back from ten. That’s good.” He’d then turn to all the other doctors and say, “I think she’s out everyone.”

The Reproductive Endocrinologist would then say to embryologist and nurses, “Let’s get started. Wow! Check this out! It reminds me of my Chihuahua! So smooth and clean!”

To which a nurse would respond with, “I've never seen something so precise. Bring the interns in here, they need to see this!"

Well, at least this is what I imagine…

InVitro 2 - Electric Boogaloo

2011-01-29T11:42:00.001-05:00

One of the many lessons I didn’t want to learn about having fertility issues is special moments are rarely like you imagine them to be. I pictured how we would conceive (wine, flowers, Sade music playing in the background and no cellulite whatsoever). I imagined telling my husband in a clever, adorable, surprising way that we were expecting and he’d be shocked as we were hardly trying. I envisioned talking to my parents about the impending birth of my child but instead, in reality, I’ve spent the last two years explaining to my mom that frozen embryos don’t need mittens. Nothing has turned out as I’ve expected it… especially not the cellulite part.

So it should have been no surprise that after many weeks of filling out paperwork, getting tests done, attending seminars, talking it over with my husband and therapist, meeting the incredibly specific requirements and keeping to a strict diet to meet the necessary BMI (I had ONE cookie on Christmas people! One!), I found out that I was finally accepted into an IVF Clinical Trial when a nurse happened to speed walk by me. She didn’t even stop. It was like a hit and run acceptance.

I was sitting in the waiting room reading an article on how to get rid of cellulite (I think there’s one in every issue of women’s magazines) when a saw the head nurse like a blur practically run past me. “Looks like you’re in. I need to randomize you and I’ll be back…” And she was gone.

Mind you - I’m not really complaining about this. As long as she was telling me I was accepted, she could have driven past me on a bike and just threw a note that said, “Free IVF. Meet me in lab room!” Still, I couldn’t help but laugh at how anticlimactic it was.

If I haven’t explained it before, and I don’t think I have, the clinical trial entails trying out a different kind of hormone shot similar to Gonal-F and Follistim. The difference is that this new stim wouldn’t be given every day. It would only be given every few days in the hopes that it would help you produce as many eggs as you would if you did the shot on a daily basis. Neither the patients nor the nurses involved in the trial know if you’re getting either the new drug or the old drug so, in effect, it’s like playing a form of Russian roulette… but with hormone shots.

The good news is that no matter which group you’re in, the test group or the boring old drug group, you still produce eggs so it won’t be a wasted cycle. The annoying news is no matter which group you’re in, you still have to do the shot every day. However, those in the test group will be unaware that they are actually shooting themselves with sugar water every other day. It’s a bit odd but what can you do. Even the nurse said to me yesterday, “This is very weird for me as I don’t know what I’m handing you but I’m telling you to inject yourself with it.”

My way of looking at it is like that board game, MYSTERY DATE, from the 1960’s: “Open the door to your mystery drug!” (See actual vintage commercial here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wfcBl_Eps_c) Fun, right?

So, this is what the nurse meant when she said she had to "randomize" me. She had to put me in one of the two fun filled exciting groups. I texted my husband the news and in his typically silly style, he texted back, “You’re getting randomized? You’re a fish! No, you’re a dog! Now, you’re a balloon! No, wait! You’re a river!” And this is the man who I’m trusting to give me shots (or sugar water) on a daily basis. Oy.

As crazy as this all may sound, the trial means that you get a free IVF. Maybe you don’t know this about me but I like free. Someone could ask me if I wanted a free prostate exam and I’d say yes. In this case, a free IVF is particularly a HUGE gift. Our insurance company has broken up with us (at least where fertility is concerned) and after two years, three inseminations and one IVF, we’re still not pregnant. So Mr. Clinical Trial -- shoot me with whatever you want… as long as you throw in assisted hatching, an embryo transfer and a quality sperm cleaning with all the trimmings! Heck, I’ll also take some free alcohol wipes and one of those fashionable hospital gowns!

Despite my free giddiness, I know it’s going to be tough. For the next couple of weeks, my body will not be my own. I can’t take anything without talking to them. Not my migraine medication, not vitamin D, nothing. Zip. I also have to get my blood taken and have a sonogram done pretty much every day. I’m not going to be visiting the clinic. I’m going to be dating them.

All in all though, I’m ready. I don’t feel super-duper over the top optimistic nor do I feel even the slightest bit pessimistic. This is an amazing opportunity for a couple who sincerely needs some fertility and financial assistance. I’m looking at it like if it works, it’ll be an incredible, wonderful blessing. If it doesn’t work, but we have some embryos we can freeze, that still is a great outcome and if it totally doesn’t work in any shape or form, at least we tried and it didn’t hurt us too much financially (we have to cover some of the costs but the majority of the expenses will be covered by the trial). Any which way, we’re continuing to put money aside in a savings account just in case we have to do this again. The main thing is we have options and options make all this less scary.

So get ready gang because I’m sure I’m going to be blogging more frequently. I hope no one gets sick of me! I also hope I haven’t used up all my fertility jokes on the other entries... as if that's even possible! Two eggs walk into a bar...

The Reason Is: There Isn’t One

2011-01-25T13:03:00.002-05:00

One of the many things I’ve learned from writing this blog is that it’s always been better for me to write what I’m feeling. Anytime I’ve ever written what I think people want to read about or what I think people want to hear, it just never works. It’s never as funny, honest, raw or even relatable. It’s when I say exactly what I’m thinking and feeling that readers seem to connect in some way. Even if they disagree, they know it rings more genuine than if I were blowing smoke up their fertility challenged ass.

In short, every TV series needs a "Very Special" episode; one that is not only funny, but that touches on a 'very special' subject in a way that only The Fonz from HAPPY DAYS could touch. This entry is my 'Very Special Episode'.

I mention this because I want to make clear that what I’m about to write about today is true for me and I know it won’t be for everyone. This is MORE than ok. If you disagree with me or anything I say in this entry, I totally respect that as ultimately, when it comes to coping with infertility, I’m all about whatever gets you through the day. Some people turn to therapy, others turn to Ben & Jerry’s. Some believe in God, others believe in snake handling. The point is that if you’ve found something that brings you comfort and it doesn’t hurt others, I support you one hundred percent.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how so many people believe that everything happens for a reason. How many times have we all heard that? ‘Everything happens for a reason.’ The more people say it, especially in response to some devastating tragedies; I can’t help but wonder who’s deciding these reasons and are they right?

I know so many people who have had miscarriages and one person or another have said to them, “It wasn’t meant to be” or “I’m sure there was a good reason this happened”. What’s even worse is some even go a step further and try to surmise the actual reason.

“Maybe you were meant to do something else right now.”

“Maybe this baby would have been a pain in the ass.”

“Maybe it just wasn’t the right time.”

I’m stunned at how people think this is at all helpful. I’m even more stunned that people who have never suffered from infertility or miscarriages could be so bold as to attempt to explain this kind of loss to someone. I know they are trying to be comforting and that they are coming from a good place but I just don’t get it. It would be like me telling someone who lost their legs in an accident, “I’m sure there’s a reason. You may have tried to tap dance at a party and been terrible at it. Losing your legs saved you the embarrassment.” Then I’d smile and skip away.

Even though I’ve never had a miscarriage, I’ve gotten my share of similar comments. The one I’ve heard the most is, “If you haven’t gotten pregnant yet, there must be a reason.” I think some people find this a quick and easy way to either dismiss you or the problem. I feel like they are saying, “There must be a reason, so don’t worry about it and let’s talk about something else that doesn’t make me uncomfortable, shall we?” Again, I know they mean well and I always nod my head and move on with the conversation but for me, trying to figure out this imaginary reason I’m having fertility issues always makes me more upset. Any time I’ve sat down and tried to figure out the possible reason we’ve lost thousands of dollars, why I’ve been somewhat physically tortured for almost two years and why we remain childless despite our very best efforts, I tend to get overly self-critical. I come up with everything and anything I could have possibly done wrong.

Am I bad a tipper at restaurants?

I failed Chemistry in 8th grade. That must be it.

Is it because I think my friend’s baby is ugly?

Would I make a bad mother?

I must be because I was nasty to that guy on my subway.

Perhaps it’s because it rained on my wedding day…

Maybe it’s that I don’t want it enough.

When I get like this, I think of the countless stories we all know of people who shouldn’t have had children; parents who abuse their children, or even kill their babies. Does that mean there was a reason those people should be a parent and I shouldn’t? No. What possible reason could there be for any of that? The only way to make sense of it is to accept that it makes no sense.

What also doesn’t make sense is the stories I’ve heard of fertility efforts gone incredibly wrong. In the past two years, I’ve heard three separate accounts where there was a woman who got pregnant through IVF or IUI after years of trying, spent all that money and went through all the heartache that it entails. One doctor or another thought there was some sort of issue and terminated the pregnancy. In each of these cases, it turned out that the doctors misdiagnosed the situation and the pregnancy was in fact viable but now, due to this unfortunate mistake, it was too late. The pregnancy was over and the woman was left devastated. Under circumstances like that, I can’t imagine telling any of those women, “There’s a reason that happened.” To try to apply any kind of logic is… well… illogical.

For me personally, I find it more comforting to accept that this is not the universes personal attack against me or anyone else. There is no reason to any of this other than life can be difficult and bad things sometimes happen to good people. I’m not saying there is no order to the universe. I barely can figure out how to use my cell phone so I certainly can’t comment with certainty on fate or destiny. However, even if there is some master plan, that doesn’t mean that absolutely everything that happens in this world was meant to happen.

Whenever I freak out or get upset or think “Why did she get pregnant and not me?”, I remind myself that I’ll never know. No one knows for that matter. Not Oprah, not the Dalai Lama, not the best psychic in the world and not even my mother (who genuinely seems to have all the answers). It’s just the way it is. I can’t control what’s happened or what is happening now. I can only control how I choose to deal with it. My method is therapy, watching movies (as well as RuPaul’s Drag Race), talking with friends, spending time with my husband and buying myself something nice on occasion. I’ve just got to keep moving and stop trying to figure things out… well… except for my cell phone. I’ve GOT to figure that one out eventually.

Getting My Big Girl Panties Out of the Dryer

2011-01-13T15:14:00.005-05:00

My friend Aimee is one of the most laid back people I know. Although she doesn’t smoke pot, she always seems like she’s on pot, which may not be a bad way to be. I was catching up with her recently and she was telling me about how her car was stolen. What amazed me was she said it as if she was casually telling me about a dentist appointment. She said, “Yeah..." while flipping her hair over her shoulder, "So the car’s gone. It’s a drag but what can you do. Wanna grab lunch?”

Let me just point out that if MY car were stolen, you'd hear about me on the news. I'd be freaking out and telling anyone and everyone who’d listen. I’d lament for hours about how much money it was going to cost me, how I don't even know what kind of car to buy and I’d have a dramatic, emotional monologue memorized about how the universe hates me. The phrase, “It’s a drag but what can you do” would never be included anywhere in this monologue.

That being said, I really do marvel and admire her attitude and I think I need to start using the word “drag” more in my vocabulary. The word “drag” (other than when it’s used in a RuPaul context) seems to imply that it’s a bummer but it’s not the end of the world. There’s also something momentary about the word “drag”. If something is a drag, it seems like it’ll only last for a day and not for an eternity. No one will ever say "Eternity is a drag."

Last Friday, I met with the clinic to discuss participation in the clinical trial. We're still not officially in but we had to go over the details in order to see if we qualify. My husband and I sat in a room that looked like a law library and read long, boring intricate documents about what the trial entails; the rules, requirements and procedures. As my husband and I initialed each page to confirm we not only read it but that we stayed awake while reading it, I started to get depressed. I turned to Sam and said, “This is so sad. Some people just have sex. We have to sit here and go through paperwork about risks, injections and follicles.”

He said, “Just remember – if we weren’t doing this trial, we’d be doing all of this anyway, but it would be costing us thousands of dollars.”. It was a very good point.

The paperwork for the trial read like a fertility-like board game:

You must have three decent sized follicles by day eight or you’re out of the trial.
You can’t have more than thirty follicles by day eight or you’re out of the trial.
You must not take any medication other than what we give you, or you’re out of the trial.
If you can’t come to our office 10 – 26 times during the trial, you’re out of the trial.
If you show any signs of enjoying the trial, then you’re out of the trial.

Some of these things, I can control but some of it, I can’t. If I had it my way, I’d control pretty much everything in the world but obviously, that’s not going to happen. Not unless I get that magic wand I’ve been wanting since I was five years old. Where do they sell that wand anyway????

Even though the whole paperwork experience was… well… a drag, I did enjoy the woman who went over everything with us. She happens to have the same name as a famous actress but obviously, I don’t want to use her real name here. For the sake of this blog though, we’ll call her Drew Barrymore. Who doesn't love Drew Barrymore?

Drew Barrymore explained what drug we’d be trying (if we get in), how it works, that it’s already legal in Europe (I feel like I’m actually trendy for once in my life) and that whether we’re in the regular group or the test group, any of the injections WILL work... so it won’t be a wasted cycle.

I've lost the two pounds required to be in the trial but being that two pounds still is a little too close for comfort, I’m desperately trying to lose four more pounds. My official weigh in date will be the same day I have to give blood: Cycle Day 2 of my next period. After that, we should get the final word on whether or not we're accepted. It sucks that they are going to weigh me when I’m my most bloated but it is what it is. I am warning everyone in the room though that if I get naked to weigh as little as possible, they should not A) be surprised or B) take any photos.

They did some preliminary blood work on me and we set up an orientation class for the 18th. Sam was also asked to come in to give a sperm analysis. This led to a slightly awkward conversation. Drew Barrymore was holding her clipboard when she said to him, “If you’re coming in for the class on the 18th, you can do the sperm analysis then! That'll work out nicely!”

Sam looked at her for a minute. You could tell he was trying to figure out how to phrase what he wanted to say. He cleared his throat and said, “Um, well, actually… it’s my birthday the weekend before and we’re going away and um… well… I want to enjoy myself.”

Drew Barrymore stared blankly like he was an abstract painting.

Sam repeated his statement as if he was talking to someone who was either deaf or who didn't speak English, “You knooooow. ENJOY. MYSELF.”

She suddenly got it. “Ahhhh! I see. Well, then just schedule a time later that week. Have fun!!!”

Yesterday, Drew Barrymore called me at work to confirm that the doctor signed off on all of our paperwork. She also added, “And you’re going away this weekend, riiiiiggght? Well, enjoy! And you never know! Maybe you’ll get pregnant!”

I love that thanks to Sam’s comments, Drew Barrymore now immediately associates our weekend away with a total f*ck fest when I honestly think Sam just wanted to at least have the option. Mind you – if this weekend DOES turn into a f*ck fest, I will not necessarily be complaining. I'm just sayin.

In terms of this weekend resulting in a pregnancy however, I’d be downright shocked. I’ve already ovulated this week and in the almost two years I’ve been trying to get pregnant, it’s never happened. I can’t see it finally coming through for us this weekend when I plan to be drunk and in a Jacuzzi as often as possible. No really, I put it on my day planner: January 14th – January 18th: Drunk and in Jacuzzi.

Since I will be missing work here and there, I decided to FINALLY tell my boss what’s going on. My first sentence was, “We’re going to talk about my uterus but just stay strong and we’ll get through this together.” I told him everything very matter of fact. That we’ve been having fertility issues for awhile now and we have an opportunity to be a part of a clinical trial that may entail me missing work here and there. Despite his obvious discomfort (he backed away from me on his rolling chair as if infertility was contagious), he was very understanding and wished me luck.

And so, here we are. It’s 2011. I’ve lost some weight, I’m getting ready for my second IVF through a carefully organized Clinical Trial, my main contact at the clinic was in Charlie’s Angels (sort of) and this weekend will be the last weekend for awhile that my body will be my own. Wow. That’s a very full paragraph, ain’t it?

I can’t lie: I’m scared. I’m scared of what this trial is going to be like. I’m scared I can’t lose more weight. I’m scared that I won’t be able to balance writing, my day job, IVF and my sanity. Mostly, I’m scared that I’m never going to have the experience of pregnancy or of motherhood.

As I looked through the copies of the paperwork that Drew Barrymore sent me, I began to get overwhelmed. I started to cry… and then I thought about the word “drag”. This is a drag but it’s not forever and I need to stay strong. The second I thought that to myself, I stopped crying, put away the paperwork and got on with my day.

2010: Don't Let The Door Hit You On The Ass On The Way Out

2010-12-30T18:14:00.001-05:00

I have been thinking a lot about what to write as my last blog of 2010. My first inclination was to title this entry with, “Fuck Off 2010” but although I still strongly agree with the sentiment, it seemed a tad negative. Just a tad.

Then, I was thinking of reviewing all the reasons why this year sucked. The more I thought about that though, the more I realized that it wasn’t really necessary. Not only have many of you lovely, kind, patient people been reading all about my “Year of Suckage” regularly but to recapitulate all the things that went wrong in 2010 seemed too negative and useless.

It reminded me of a metaphor I heard years ago. I’m probably going to tell it wrong so bear with me… but it went like this: If you’re drowning and you have a weight strapped to your ankle keeping you under water, you don’t want to know how much it weighs, you just want to know how to get the damn thing off so you can come up for air. To me, that metaphor (even as badly as I just relayed it) is why I didn’t want to do a list of why I hate 2010. It was not a good year. We all know this. How is it going to help talking about it anymore than I already have? Also, maybe the old adage is true that if you ignore something, it’ll go away. I think I would like to spend the remaining hours of this unlucky year by ignoring it so that it will, in fact, truly fuck off once and for all.

So this leads me to what I do want to talk about. A few days before Christmas, I was doing what I usually do every morning: running to catch the subway. I’m always late to most everything. I was even born two weeks late. My mother said they were beginning to wonder if I was ever going to come out. I’m also not a morning person. If someone told me I was going to get the best oral sex of my life but it was scheduled for 6am, I’d tell them “No thanks” and I’d sleep in. That’s how much of a morning person I’m not.

As I was half asleep and running down the subway stairs, I was thinking of a million things: the end of the year, if I wrapped that present for my niece, why the homeless wait outside of ATM machines when clearly you don’t have change (otherwise why would you be at the ATM?) and how to fully enjoy the holidays without being able to eat cookies. That’s when suddenly, out of nowhere, I had a realization. I heard a voice in my head say as clear as a summer day, “You’re not the same person you were when you started this year.” It took my breath away. Well, running down the stairs didn’t help but you know what I mean.

Something about this realization made me sad. It was like after September 11th, 2001 when everyone kept saying, “Nothing is going to be the same anymore.” I HATED this statement. I knew they were right and I knew they didn’t necessarily mean things were going to be worse but that’s how it felt. As a New Yorker, I was perfectly happy with how everything was before September 11th and the thought of it being altered in any way deeply upset me. In reality, although things have changed, a new “normal” took its place. It’s not better or worse. It’s just different.

And I guess that’s how I am now. I’m not who I was at the start of the year but I’m not better or worse. I’m just different. There are parts that are improvements and there are parts that are… well, more damaged I guess. My level of hope (not to mention my bank account and sex life) have definitely taken some hits this year but on the positive, I learned how much I can rely on my sense of humor as a source of strength. I’ve also learned that there are people out there who sincerely are compassionate, understanding, supportive and generous in ways I’ve never thought possible (yes, I’m talking about you) and I’ve learned the importance of getting a second opinion as well as naming your uterine polyp simply because it CRACKED me up every time I referred to Jackson Polyp.

As much as I’ve gained (and lost), there are still a few lessons I struggle with like you can’t plan or worry about things months from now. I’m not always good at that one as I’m a very talented worrier but I do try to at least prioritize my worries now. Really – it’s come to that. I make a list of my worries and say, “Ok, I’ll worry about losing weight today and then tomorrow, I’ll worry about getting into a clinical trial for my next IVF!” Yes my friends; I’ve created a worrying schedule.

I’ve noticed I’m a little less social than I was at the beginning of the year (avoiding people, pregnancy talk or simply choosing to stay home and throw a pity party). I’m also less of a believer in “Things will work out somehow!” It’s not that I’ve lost hope. It’s just that instead of thinking, “Things will work out”, I think “I will find a way to deal with whatever happens.” I don’t know how things are going to work out. I REALLY know that now and they only way I can stay positive these days is not by having confidence in a happy ending, but by having confidence in me and my ability to get through it.

If someone put a gun to my head (and I hope that no one ever does) and yelled at me, “THINK OF THE MOST POSITIVE LESSON FROM THIS YEAR!” (which would be a weird thing for a gun man to say), it would be that even though I cried more this year than I can remember in recent history and even though the disappointments were impressively painful and numerous, I survived it. I’m 20 pounds heavier, thousands of dollars lighter, a bit more cynical and much less optimistic but dammit, I made it through. I’m like the runner who barely crosses the finish line an hour late, bullet ridden, looking like shit and panting like a dog – but I STILL finished the marathon that was 2010.

If we stick with the 2010 “Marathon Metaphor” one paragraph more -- All of you who have commented or follow me on Twitter or Facebook, have been the ones who have cheered me on and handed me cups of water along the way. I want to take this moment and thank you for that. Making fun of fertility issues by your self is one thing. Having people laugh at it along with you is entirely another. As an occasional comic, I can affirm that one person laughing at their own joke can look strange (especially if you’re walking down a street alone giggling) but a group of people laughing together makes the joke that much more funny.

So, in closing, I officially say “Fuck off 2010” and may 2011 NOT suck.

The Twelve Days of Infertility (Sung to the “Twelve Days of Christmas”)

2010-12-20T16:22:00.000-05:00

The Twelve Days of Infertility
(Sung to the “Twelve Days of Christmas”)

On the first day of Infertility,
My true love sent to me
A sperm count with great motility

On the second day of Infertility,
My true love sent to me
Two OPK’s,
And a sperm count with great motility

On the third day of Infertility,
My true love sent to me
Three Gonal Pens,
Two OPK’s,
And a sperm count with great motility

On the fourth day of Infertility,
My true love sent to me
Four Calling Doctors,
Three Gonal Pens,
Two OPK’s,
And a sperm count with great motility

On the fifth day of Infertility,
My true love sent to me
Five Clomid Pills,
Four Calling Doctors,
Three Gonal Pens,
Two OPK’s,
And a sperm count with great motility

On the sixth day of Infertility,
My true love sent to me
Six follicles a-growing,
Five Clomid Pills,
Four Calling Doctors,
Three Gonal Pens,
Two OPK’s,
And a sperm count with great motility

On the seventh day of Infertility,
My true love sent to me
Seven embryos a-frozen,
Six follicles a-growing,
Five Clomid Pills,
Four Calling Doctors,
Three Gonal Pens,
Two OPK’s,
And a sperm count with great motility

On the eighth day of Infertility,
My true love sent to me
Eight inseminations,
Seven embryos a-frozen,
Six follicles a-growing,
Five Clomid Pills,
Four Calling Doctors,
Three Gonal Pens,
Two OPK’s,
And a sperm count with great motility

On the ninth day of Infertility,
My true love sent to me
Nine egg donations,
Eight inseminations,
Seven embryos a-frozen,
Six follicles a-growing,
Five Clomid Pills,
Four Calling Doctors,
Three Gonal Pens,
Two OPK’s,
And a sperm count with great motility

On the tenth day of Infertility,
My true love sent to me
Ten hormone injections,
Nine egg donations,
Eight inseminations,
Seven embryos a-frozen,
Six follicles a-growing,
Five Clomid Pills,
Four Calling Doctors,
Three Gonal Pens,
Two OPK’s,
And a sperm count with great motility

On the eleventh day of Infertility,
My true love sent to me
Eleven tubes of preseed,
Ten hormone injections,
Nine egg donations,
Eight inseminations,
Seven embryos a-frozen,
Six follicles a-growing,
Five Clomid Pills,
Four Calling Doctors,
Three Gonal Pens,
Two OPK’s,
And a sperm count with great motility

On the twelfth day of Infertility,
My true love sent to me
Twelve thousand debt,
Eleven tubes of preseed,
Ten hormone injections,
Nine egg donations,
Eight inseminations,
Seven embryos a-frozen,
Six follicles a-growing,
Five Clomid Pills,
Four Calling Doctors,
Three Gonal Pens,
Two OPK’s,
And a sperm count with great motility

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And for the record, I WISH there were only twelve days of Infertility.

From the bottom of my heart, I wish you and all of your family (past, present and future) a happy holiday. May the New Year bring us all great joy and happiness.

Best,

Jay

Patches

2010-12-17T16:09:00.000-05:00

I never had a pet growing up. My mom was never a fan of cats or dogs so in turn; no one in my house was allowed to have one. The closest I ever came to any kind of pet was the goldfish I won at a Fireman’s fair when I was eight years old. The fish died a week later and I quickly moved on.

A few years ago, my landlord at the time was this lovely older woman named Mrs. Perez. She had a cat named Athena that had been with her through her divorce, the death of her nephew and her heart attack. Athena was a beautiful, friendly cat who I nicknamed “The Mayor” because she was often seen roaming the hallways checking in on the different tenants. Whenever I saw Athena in the hallway, she’d rub past my leg as her form of hello and I’d always smile, say hello back and then go about my business.

I had lived there for about four years when I ran into Mrs. Perez in the lobby one day. I asked her how she was and she quickly dissolved into tears. She could barely manage to tell me that Athena had to be put down. They couldn’t figure out what exactly had happened but out of nowhere, the cat stopped eating and was despondent. I felt terrible for Mrs. Perez and hugged her but I couldn’t help but she shocked that someone could get this upset over a cat. I remember vividly her saying to me, “Athena loved me no matter what. No matter what I looked like or what was going on… that cat loved me unconditionally."

When I got married, my husband and I moved out of Mrs. Perez’s building and into a bigger apartment in a family brownstone. It was around this time that we started trying to conceive and obviously, it was not going well. We entered the year 2010 trying inseminations and began planning for our first IVF.

Those who read my blog regularly know that 2010 in general has NOT been a kind year to us. We’ve had financial issues, doctor drama, fertility disappointments and insurance disasters. At one point this year, our house was even hit by lightning. The one bright spot however was our downstairs neighbor got a kitten named Patches. He was black and white and just had a happy, loving attitude about him. Despite the shelter saying that kittens need time to explore their surroundings to feel comfortable, Patches started coming up to our apartment within a month. We had no idea at the time that he’d become a part of our daily lives.

The neighbor downstairs have several dogs and cats so Sam and I often joked that whenever Patches felt like he needed to be the only pet, he’d come upstairs and hang out with us. What’s amazing to me is we never fed him. He didn’t come up for food. He solely came up to hang out with us, get some affection and very often, just take a nap without being hassled by the other animals.

In a year of so much stress, Patches was a desperately needed source of entertainment and distraction. He also always seemed to know the right time to visit. The afternoon in May that I found out my IVF failed, I was home alone. Patches came upstairs (you could always hear his tags outside our door whenever he arrived) and he ended up lying next to me for two hours. We even took a nap together.

Whenever my husband would come home after a hard day of work, he’d always go to our landing and go, “Patches! You around?” and Patches would come up the stairs running to see him. Really, if was Patches friend, Sam was Patches best friend for life. The two of them adored each other tremendously. There were even times if Patches saw Sam wasn’t home, he’d politely leave as if to say, “Love you but let me know when the big guy is back.”

A week ago, Patches came up and saw our Christmas tree. We had just put it up and Patches seemed to be in awe. Sam and I realized it was going to be his first Christmas. We were laughing at the way Patches was absolutely freaking out over how cool the ornaments were that hung on the lower branches. He would playfully bat them around and would look at us like, “Seriously! How cool is this???” For the next couple of days, he’d come by, play with some of the ornaments and then take a nap under the Christmas tree. As much as I’ve never been a pet person, I couldn’t help but find his holiday routine utterly adorable.

Last night, I was in my bedroom when I heard Sam talking to someone at the door. I assumed it was Patches but as I listed longer, I realized it was our downstairs neighbor. He had come to tell us that Patches passed away. No explanation other than they found him and he was gone. He wasn’t even a full year yet. He never even made it to his first Christmas.

Sam thanked our neighbor, shut the door, walked into the bedroom and looked at me. Neither of us said a word. We both began to cry. We continued to cry on and off for the rest of the night.

This year has sucked and a part of me feels like somehow, Patches became a causality of our bad luck. It’s like the universe somehow found out that there was something that really helped us this year and made sure to take it away. I know that’s a bit overdramatic and slightly paranoid but what can I say. I’m hurt that this has happened and I can’t make any sense of it.

In my more positive moments, I am sincerely grateful that we had him during a very challenging time. He truly came into our lives when we needed some “unconditional affection” as Mrs. Perez had put it earlier. We have nothing but positive memories of Patches and as sad as I am right now and as pissed at myself as I am for getting so attached, it can’t change how much we loved him.

In the middle of the night last night, I couldn’t sleep thinking about all this. I went to our living room, sat on the couch and cried. At one point, I happened to look up at the Christmas tree and for the first time ever in my life, I really got what Mrs. Perez felt about Athena. I really got why people are so heart broken when they lost a pet. Whether I looked like hell, whether I was infertile, whether I was down… no matter what was going on… that cat loved me. I’m going to miss him more than I can possibly say.