‘Plan?’ Who Said Anything About A ‘Plan?’

Remember that whole “hash it out and come to an agreement” plan to decide whether or not R and I are going to try naturally this month?

Well, um, about that. I decided to forgo that approach. Instead, it went down like this: On Saturday, I noticed some signs that I might be ovulating. I walked into the office where R was on the computer and said, “Wanna have sex?” Seeing as how that question is asked far too infrequently in our house, he jumped at the chance.

Now the way I see it is he knows what that can lead to, and he was perfectly free to say no. So I didn’t actually “trick” him into anything per se, I just made him an offer that was tough to refuse. All’s fair in love and baby-making, right?

Afterward, there was tacit acknowledgement of the ultimate motivation behind my offer when he helped me shove a couple of pillows under my bottom, which has been the ritual cap to our routine for the past three-plus years. We still haven’t spoken of it out loud.

I started the progesterone suppositories on Monday night. Tuesday morning, after nine hours of some of the most solid sleep I’ve had in years, I seriously contemplated calling in sick because I was still so tired I could barely drag myself out of bed. When I almost fell back asleep on the toilet after finally getting up, I considered skipping the morning suppository. I finally did take it, and then spent most of the afternoon wanting to shut my office door, lay down on the floor and nap.

I took the suppositories for four IUI cycles, and I don’t remember them ever making me that tired before. But the sleepiness seems to have passed, because I didn’t sleep much at all last night.

I haven’t quite decided when to test. June 3 will be two weeks to the day that I think I ovulated, but we’re going to be out of town that weekend, and I don’t want to deal with it then. I’ll probably test on June 5, and drive myself nuts for a few days with repeat tests if we don’t see the answer we want. Since I went out to the store to buy different brands of tests last time, I’m well-stocked for the POAS game.

It’s Official

I got the call from the doctor’s office this morning. My beta on Wednesday had dropped from 5 to 2. Not a surprise.

I’m doing okay. Ironically, R and I are having the opposite reactions of what I would have predicted. This pregnancy, as very brief as it was, seems to have made me happier and more optimistic about our chances to have a real, live baby at some point. I think it’s because now the first pregnancy doesn’t seem like quite so much of an anomaly.

There have been three times we know of when my ovaries have coughed up an egg while R had normal sperm counts and we weren’t in a treatment cycle. Two of those times, I’ve gotten pregnant, and we think I also got pregnant the third time (which happened two months after the first pregnancy) but never had it confirmed through a test. So it’s kind of nice to think that my body seems to be able to at least accomplish the first steps of the baby-making process like a normal body should.

Now, if only we could get it to continue. If we want to try naturally again this month (assuming I ovulate, which is not a given by any means), our RE wants me to restart the Metformin now, along with baby aspirin and mega doses of folic acid (for the blood clotting issues). Then I would add in progesterone suppositories as soon as I suspect I’ve ovulated. And if by some miracle we get a positive test again, I am to start taking the heparin injections immediately.

I’m fine with giving the above scenario a try for a month, because if I don’t get pregnant, or if we have a repeat of this month, we’ll just continue to plan to do our first IVF cycle in July. R, however, is not happy with that idea. He used to be the optimistic one of us – and on most days, about most things, he still is – but he’s sinking lower with the blow of losing this baby. He took the first miscarriage very hard and for a long time didn’t want me to get pregnant again because he didn’t want to risk the emotional pain of another loss. Now that that’s happened, he really, really doesn’t want to risk it a third time, and he thinks that would happen if I get pregnant again the natural way.

So he would rather just wait until the IVF cycle, because he thinks that will have a better chance since the drugs will help with egg quality, lining thickness and progesterone support. But the cycle is still more than two months away, and I’m anxious to try again now. We’ll eventually hash it out and come to an agreement, I’m sure.

‘Just For You’

Two years ago today – the Wednesday before Mother’s Day – R and I lost our first baby when I miscarried. It happened that afternoon. I had spent all day on the couch, with my legs propped up, praying that the cramping and bleeding would stop. R was at work. I wanted to just be by myself, to spare him the pain of sitting there watching me and knowing there was nothing he could do to stop the inevitable.

Today, two years have passed, we’ve had one suspected pregnancy, three failed adoptions, and Monday’s surprise news of another pregnancy.

And, like two years ago, here I am again on the Wednesday before Mother’s Day: bleeding and (I suspect) miscarrying. I went in for another beta this morning, but I don’t expect it to be good news. I didn’t see the point in asking them to order it “stat,” so I won’t get the results until tomorrow or possibly Friday morning.

On the way back to work from the doctor’s office, I pulled out the Lionel Richie CD “Just For You” and stuck it in my car stereo. The CD’s title song had come out in early 2004, in the months before that first miscarriage, and it was getting a lot of airplay. I doubt it was meant to be about miscarriage, but the lyrics really spoke to me. They still do, and I’ve come to think of it as “our song” for the babies we’ve lost. Click here if you want to listen to a clip of it.

Just For You

Golden days
Night was play
Pain was all a world away
We went to school
We learned the rules
We trusted all they had to say

Then life took a turn
We all had to learn
And we cant go back again

And my heart is breaking
Just for you
Just for you
And my arms are open
Just for you
Just for you
Just for you

God was God
And dreams were dreams
Life was all cake and ice cream
Truth was true
And lies were lies
And we thought love would never die
But the world moved on
My illusions gone
And I don't know who to blame

And my heart is breaking
Just for you
Just for you
And my arms are open
Just for you
Just for you
And these tears I'm crying are for you
Just for you
Just for you

I'm looking for protection
Give me shelter from the storm
I just hope this light inside me
Keeps me strong

And my heart is breaking
Just for you
Just for you
And my arms they're open
Just for you
Just for you
And these tears I'm crying are for you
Just for you
Just for you

Just for you
Oh my heart is breaking
And my arms are open
Oh these tears I'm crying are just for you

Um, I’m Not Quite Sure What to Think

First of all, thank you to those of you who are still checking up on me. I’m doing okay.

I haven’t posted lately because the focus of this blog has been about infertility, and since I haven’t been feeling well, all of that has been on hold. It’s been difficult to read blogs too, because I’ve felt like the uncoordinated kid who’s looking over the fence at the other kids playing baseball - not only am I not “in the game,” I’m not even on the bench. That probably sounds silly, but it’s how I’ve been feeling.

Physically, I’m feeling better. Still not 100 percent, but definitely better. I’m waiting for some final test results this week, but the gastroenterologist expects them to come back normal. If so, I think he’s going to call it irritable bowel syndrome. There’s no cure for IBS, although there are drugs that can address some of the symptoms if needed, and dietary changes can help. It’s something that can come and go or be chronic – every case is different. I think my case is fairly mild compared to others I’ve read about, and hopefully it will go away completely soon.

* * Ok, I should probably post a warning at this point. What follows doesn’t exactly have R and I swinging from the chandeliers yet. But if you’re feeling fragile you still may not want to read beyond at this point. * *

I thought I might have ovulated within the last week or two, but it was hard to say for sure. The last period I count as an at least semi-normal period was in the end of February, so my body hasn’t been in a reliably functioning mood lately.

Then during the past several days, my chest started to get increasingly sore. That’s not one of my normal PMS symptoms, so I started to get a little suspicious.

You can see where this is going. But before anyone gets too excited, I’ll cut to the chase: My beta came back at 5.

I know that means I’m pregnant, but we’d feel much better about it if there was another number after the 5. And, I’m spotting. Although I've been spotting for four or five days now, and the chest soreness – which started around the same time – still seems to be progressing. I would tend to think that if the spotting means this is already in trouble, I wouldn’t be getting more sore, but who knows? It is very possible that I am only at the very end of the third week or beginning of the fourth week, in which case a 5 wouldn’t be totally and completely unreasonable.

My PCP’s office did the test, but I haven’t actually heard from the doctor yet. (The lab tech has gotten to know me during these past few years, so I was able to talk her into giving me the results before the doctor had officially reviewed them.) I also called my ob/gyn’s office and the fertility clinic we’re planning to go to, but neither of them have called me back yet, either.

I expect I’ll be doing another beta on Wednesday. In the meantime, I’m going to try not to obsess. Because at this point, the only thing we can do is pray.

Speaking of Sperm...

My posts have been utterly devoid of humor lately, so I thought I’d share a couple of amusing sperm-related anecdotes. (After all, who doesn’t like a good sperm story?)

The first one happened a couple weeks ago, when the container for R to do his sperm DNA fragmentation test was delivered. As the Fed Ex driver carried it into our foyer, she looked at me with a puzzled expression.

Her: This doesn’t look like horse property.
Me (a bit confused): Um, no, it’s not.
Her (now a bit confused herself): But, isn’t this horse sperm? (motioning to the container)
Me (surprised): Ummm, nooo.
Her: Huh. Because I just picked one of these containers up yesterday from a house that had horse property. The woman told me to be real careful not to lose it because it was the sperm from her prize stallion and it was really important that it gets to where it’s going.
Me (at a loss for words): Oh.

She stood there, clearly expecting some sort of explanation. I’m not good at telling people “none of your business,” but over the past few years I’ve become pretty good at being blunt about infertility, so I finally decided to go that route with her.

Me: Well, there’s nothing in there at the moment, but tomorrow it will have my husband’s sperm in it.
Her (a bit taken aback): Oh. Um. Oh. Well, we deliver a lot of these. I guess you never know what’s in them.

At that point, I proceeded to launch into an explanation about the test, the lab it was being shipped to and what the results would mean. I figured, heck, if she’s curious enough to ask, she deserves answers, right? Her eyes kept darting back to her truck, no doubt trying to figure out how she could make her escape from me, the crazy infertility lady.

But I’m betting the next time she delivers a container like that to a house that isn’t on horse property, she won’t ask any questions.

Sperm-related anecdote number two happened this week. R and I made the trek to our out-of-state clinic so he could freeze some sperm there for our future IVF cycle.

After we got back home, I was having a conversation with my mom. She’s learned a lot of the infertility lingo during these past few years and can actually follow along pretty well with the medical jargon.

She asked how the trip and appointment went. She knows why we were there, and that he has also frozen sperm in the past at a local clinic.

I assured her that everything went fine. Then she lowers her voice and asks, with concern, “It doesn’t hurt him when the people at the clinic do that to him, does it?”

Oh, my! Talk about a reverse flashback moment to the preadolescent “birds and the bees” conversation she and I had. I must say, “how sperm is collected for storage” ranks at the top of the list of Things I Never Thought I’d Have to Explain to My 71-Year-Old Mother.

A Bright Spot

There has been a bright spot in our reproductive lives recently, but I’ve been so focused on not feeling well that I completely forgot to tell all of you about it. And then the bright spot got even brighter yesterday, on top of which I had a really good day in general. So now that I’ve completely confused you with my gibberish and you’re wondering if I’ve truly, finally gone mad, I will tell you all about it.

First of all, the bright spot from a week and a half ago: R has sperm again!! I try to avoid the overuse of exclamation points, since it is one of my grammatical pet peeves, but this is truly multiple-exclamation-point worthy.

How could I have forgotten to mention the sperm news? I’m not quite sure, but I did. Anyway, thanks to a drug called Arimidex, his counts have gone from practically zero (no exaggeration) to the best they’ve ever been - more than 130 million per ml, with pretty much normal motility and morphology.

Last week, he did another DNA fragmentation test, and we got the results back yesterday. His fragmentation levels went from 68 percent last fall to 27 percent. (Anything below 30 percent is considered normal.) So, YEA!!! We’re going to be traveling to cycle, and we’ve decided it would be best if he freezes the sperm at the clinic where we will cycle rather than freezing it locally. We’re going to be making a quick trip within the next week so he can do that.

Before this latest round of testing, we knew that we had three vials of his sperm that appeared to have normal levels of fragmentation. This news means we should have much more sperm to work with, which means we don’t have to depend on those three vials to build our whole family. The breathing room that gives us is a huge relief.

Given his counts and my age, we could try a couple more IUIs before trying IVF, but I’m not really inclined to spend any more time on that. We would do it at the new clinic, and our new RE, Dr. Fabulous, would put me on a different protocol, but I’m just not in the mood for something that gives us only a 15 to 20 percent chance per try. I want to get this show on the road. Now if only my GI tract would cooperate with that sentiment.

Oh, and before I forget, the counselor yesterday seemed good. It was kind of hard to say for sure, since the entire hour was spent by me trying (as quickly as possible) to recap our three-year journey through Infertility and Adoption Hell, and she mostly listened and didn’t really say a whole lot. But at least I got through it without shedding even a single tear.

Based on the limited comments she did make, she has a clear understanding of infertility and adoption issues. (She even knew the WHO standards for sperm.) And she was very nice. So next week it will be interesting to see what happens when she spends more time talking and I spend more time listening.

Hanging in There

Okay, I admit it. I need help. You’ll be glad to know that I’m hauling my sorry behind to a counselor tomorrow.

Unfortunately, the counselor I had been seeing when the first adoption fell apart is no longer on our insurance plan, which means I have to find a new one. Finding a good counselor is not an easy task, as any of you who have tried probably already know.

The first two I called, I wound up eliminating without even talking to them in person. If you can’t manage to sound warm and pleasant for 15 seconds on your voice mail message, there’s no way you’re going to manage to get through an hour of my whining and sobbing in any sort of sympathetic fashion, so let’s not even waste our time, shall we?

But the third time may truly turn out to be the charm in this case. A very nice sounding person answered when I called the third counselor on the list, and she put me through to the counselor so we could chat for a few moments. And, get this! The counselor even sounds like she gets it, like she understands infertility. She was warm, she was kind, she was sympathetic. We’ll see how long she lasts with my hysterics tomorrow.

I was starting to feel better physically until last weekend’s adoption shenanigans, and then things went on a downhill slide again. But I’m hanging in there.

I saw the gastroenterologist this week. He ordered a couple more tests that will be done over the course of this month just to rule things out, but he expects they’ll turn out normal. And then there was another little trip to the emergency room on Friday when I really started feeling crummy again.

The consensus seems to be that what I’m experiencing is “physical manifestations of extreme psychological stress.” On one hand, if that’s truly all it is, that’s great. On the other hand, the “physical manifestations” are causing more “psychological stress,” so I seem to be stuck in an unpleasant little circle of “sick-stressed-more sick-more stressed-more sick-more stressed” that I haven’t figured out how to break out of.

On the bright side of things, while my 20 pounds in 9 weeks plan didn’t happen exactly as planned, going around in this circle has caused me to drop 14 pounds. So at least I’m making progress on some front.

And, thank you once again for your kind words. As much as I seem to be in a pit lately, it helps to know there are others out there who can relate. I appreciate you all very much.

To Hell and Back – Again

I didn’t have a chance to finish blogging about the week when things spiraled out of control Sunday afternoon.

I was going to tell you about a phone call we got from an adoption attorney toward the end of last week. She had called a month ago to see if we wanted to be considered for a situation. In a moment of weakness, I said why not. I knew that this would be a baby that would meet most couples’ criteria, which meant the attorney would be showing several couples’ profiles. I didn’t get my hopes up. I didn’t even tell R about it.

A month went by. I figured we weren’t chosen. Then we got a phone call from the attorney last week. I was going to tell you that we were chosen, that we spoke with the birth mom on Friday and the conversation went really well. That there were still some details that needed to be investigated further, but that it sounded promising. That she was due in the first half of May, in a town a few hours away.

Then, on Sunday afternoon, we got a phone call from the attorney. The baby was born that day. R and I stood there staring at each other for a few minutes in shock. Then we rushed around like crazy people, opening the door to the nursery that we shut back in September, dragging out the diaper bag and suitcase that we had left packed from that disastrous adoption farce.

I was going to tell you about how we threw clothes into a suitcase, packed up the car with our suitcase and baby gear, got the pets and their stuff loaded into the car to take to my mom’s. I was going to tell you about our drive to the hospital, how we were frantically debating names because the baby was a girl and we only have a boy’s name because we haven’t been able to settle on a girl’s name.

In my head, I was already composing the post, trying to be gentle and restrained because I knew it would be painful for some to read, that finally this nightmare had ended for us and we were parents.

We had gotten about five miles down the road when the next call came. The birthmom’s urine test came back positive for cocaine and I think some other drugs, although after hearing the word “cocaine,” the world kind of slowly grounded to a halt and the rest of the sentence just faded beyond my hearing. It also turned out that the baby was actually not premature, but was in fact full term and tiny, which pointed to other significant health issues.

We turned around, came home, unpacked the car and shut the door to the nursery. Again.

And the next day I e-mailed the adoption attorney, told her to pull our profile from consideration and asked her to let the other attorneys in our area know to pull our profile too. This was the third strike in six months. We need to stop putting ourselves through this.

Catching Up

I’m still here, although clearly a ways behind on posting. Thank you for the Bible verses and thoughts of concern – they are of great comfort.

I wound up in the emergency department on Tuesday. I woke up at 4:30 a.m. that day feeling even worse, and my doctor told me to go to the ED rather than go in to his office. I think he’s tired of dealing with me at this point, and I can’t totally blame him for that.

X-rays, the CT scan and more bloodwork still turned up nothing. The nurse practitioner popped back into my room after reviewing everything and told me, “You’re fine, there’s nothing wrong with you. We’re going to release you now.”

I’m relieved the tests didn’t turn up anything horrible, but on the other hand I know something is not totally fine. Whatever it is, is probably minor and will resolve itself, but right now it’s not totally fine.

I know this for two reasons: One, even when I am good about sticking to a diet and exercising, losing half a pound in two weeks is a huge accomplishment for me. However, now I’ve lost 10 pounds in two weeks because I haven’t been feeling well. Also, for me, ice cream is a food group. Heck, most of the time, ice cream is my favorite food group. And I haven’t even wanted ice cream in the past three weeks.

So clearly I’m a little bit off kilter. But there is good news on a variety of fronts: I do seem to be getting a little better day by day, I managed to find a gastroenterologist who can see me on Wednesday, and I finally got the pelvic ultrasound results too.

It turns out that I have a uterus that is “on the small side of normal.” It would figure – one of the few parts of my body that I would prefer be normal in size is one of the only things about me that can be called “small.” Sometimes you’ve just gotta laugh at the irony…

The Saga Continues, and I Feel Like I’m Sinking in Quicksand

This is not going to be a happy post. I should have been taking Provera by now to induce CD 1 to begin the birth control pills. But I’m still feeling yucky, and my PCP didn’t want me to start the Provera until we figure out what is causing me to not feel well, so I had to contact the clinic today and tell them I need to cancel the April cycle.

I’m devastated. I was really thinking this would be our chance to finally cycle after so long.

On top of all that, I unexpectedly ran into a former co-worker a couple days ago who is pregnant. A friend who is pregnant after infertility e-mailed me yesterday to ask if I wanted an invitation to her baby shower. She was being very sensitive and thoughtful about it, but it still hurt. Another e-mail yesterday was from someone who told me she and her husband have two possible adoption situations in the works. And, a close friend just got news of a positive beta today from her IVF cycle while I was on the phone with her. She’s definitely had her ups and downs with this process, and I am truly thrilled for her, but it hurts nonetheless.

It feels like all of my IF friends are moving on with successes, and here I am not even sure when I’ll be able to cycle.

Emotionally, I’m sinking fast. I recognize that I’m in a state of flat-out depression. I’d like to pretend it isn’t true, but there I am. Thank you all for being here for me and offering support. I’m sorry I’m not able to even muster up the emotional strength to do the same for you right now, but please know I continue to lurk on your blogs and think of you.

Things are not going well on the PCP front, either. I forgot to request copies of the blood work and ultrasound reports when I was at the doctor Friday, so I called them today and had them faxed over. As I mentioned in a previous post, the PCP’s office had told me all the results came back normal.

Well, when I got the results today, there was only an ultrasound report for my upper abdomen. I called back to request that they also fax over the pelvic ultrasound report. (I assumed they’d put both the full bladder and trans vag results on the same report, since they both look at the same general area.)

The person I spoke with in the medical records office said, “Pelvic ultrasound? What do you mean? We don’t show that you had a pelvic ultrasound, and we don’t have any report for one.”

Excuse me??? How can you tell me that all of my test results have come back “fine” if you don’t even have all of them? Or even realize that some of them are missing, for that matter.

The CT scan thing has hit a couple of bumps, too. I told the nurse where I wanted to have it done, and they requested the authorization for someplace else that will take much longer to get into. And, the authorization itself is taking longer than expected, so I don’t know yet when I’ll actually get to do the scan.

There were also a couple of questionable things on the bloodwork (including one test that came back outside the normal level – again, so much for “fine”) that I need to ask them to explain to me.

I’m sorry to be such a downer. I’m going to go read my Bible and some things I’ve highlighted in a couple of books about anxiety. Hopefully they will help me to feel better. If you have any Bible verses or other words or inspiration to share, please add them to the comments section – I’d love to read them.

More Tests

I called the doctor’s office again on Wednesday. The nurse called in another prescription for me, then told me to talk to the scheduling desk and tell them I had to have an appointment Thursday or Friday.

The only appointment they had available with my doctor was at 4 p.m. today. I was his last patient of day, and I’m sure that he is now at home enjoying a big glass of wine. Heck, he’s probably drinking straight from the bottle at this point, trying to recover from spending the last hour of his work week with completely-freaked-out me.

I had gone in the first time and talked only about the stomach pains. I didn’t go into any of the rest of my concerns, for fear that he would really think I was a hypochondriac. That, and he seemed busy and in a bit of a hurry, so I didn’t want to keep him.

This time, I went in there with a long list of things I wanted to tell him and have him check, and I didn’t care how long it took. I have worked myself up into such a state of worry that as soon as I started to talk, I began to have dry heaves and he had to go get me a glass of water.

I brought up my concerns, literally from head to toe. He managed to convince me that the little extra padding in one of my armpits is simply fat and not a deadly enlarged lymph node; that the red and white streaks I have on my hips are stretch marks from my yo-yoing weight these past couple of years and not an innocent-looking-but-fatal form of skin cancer; that ultrasound really truly is a good way to check for ovarian cancer and that I don’t appear to have that; that muscles can ache or be tender without it being a sign of anything awful; and that my suddenly-sore ankle does not mean something ominous has spread from my stomach to my foot.

I did request additional blood tests for H pylori bacteria, which can cause serious stomach diseases, and CA 125, even though I know it is not necessarily a good early predictor of ovarian or peritoneal cancer. However, given all the infertility drugs I’ve taken and will be taking, I’d feel better monitoring that number on a regular basis. And my doctor apparently figured it would be easier just to write out the bloodwork order than to argue the merits of those tests with a dry-heaving, half-hysterical woman, so he did.

He also told me to stop poking at myself, because I’ve been poking often enough and hard enough at the places that hurt to create small, finger-tip size bruises. He thinks my symptoms, though real, are probably likely caused by stress. But he’s ordering a CT scan just to make sure there isn’t something else funky going on, so I will hopefully do that on Monday. The office was dark and pretty much closed up by the time I left, so they have to wait until Monday morning to call the imaging center and schedule it. Oh, and I have to put poop samples from three different times on a special card they gave me to test for blood in my stool. How could I forget that – what fun it will be.

In the meantime, I’m going to try to stop frantically googling every search term combination I can think of, continue taking generous amounts of anti-anxiety drugs and hopefully enjoy the weekend a little bit.

Maybe (Please God, Let it Be) Getting a Little Better

Well, the fiber tablets helped some, although not as much as I would have liked. Of course, them helping “as much as I would have liked” would have equated to making me feel 100 percent normal and back to myself instantenously, which was perhaps a slightly less than realistic expectation.

So in my impatientness, I called the doctor’s office again on Monday. The nurse called in a prescription for a powder that I’m supposed to mix into water or juice and drink. It, too, seems to be helping, although again not as quickly as I would prefer.

The abdominal pain is still there when I poke at it, and the pain I was feeling in my ribs seems to have migrated to my calf muscles now, even though I haven’t done anything unusual to exercise them lately.

But on the bright side, these past couple of mornings I haven’t seemed to be quite as nauseous when I woke up, and the really loud bowel sounds seem to be happening less loudly and less frequently. So hopefully those are good signs.

I can’t believe that I’m actually posting in detail about my gastrointestinal functions. I realize I sound a bit insane.

Regardless of the timing of all this, I’d probably still be at least a bit freaked out. But given that I’m supposed to start Lupron shots for our first IVF cycle in less than three weeks, I’m even more freaked out. I was feeling good, I was looking forward to a nice calm relaxing March after the stress of the past two months. And then this hit.

I e-mailed my RE last night to see what he thinks. I really don’t want to cancel the cycle, but I’m not sure if going forward with it is the best idea if I’m not feeling better. I’m going to see what the RE says, and then perhaps call my PCP to request some additional tests. I tend to be a bit of a meek mouse when it comes to stuff like that, but I really want to get this resolved.

Retail Therapy

When most women engage in a little bit of retail therapy, they buy shoes, or purses, or some other form of fashionable attire. Me, I buy baking pans.

Being annoyed the other day that I had to stop at the pharmacy and buy fiber tablets, I decided to cheer myself up by buying this. Isn’t it adorable? And Valentine’s Day is only 340 days away, so it should come in handy very, very soon. But I don’t care, I bought it anyway. My mom will probably get heart-shaped mini-cakes for her birthday next week.

My collection also includes this, this and this, the latter of which I used to try to make a romantic cake for R for Valentine’s Day 2005 using strawberry and red velvet cake.

A word to the wise: use white and strawberry instead if you ever get the inclination to make something similar. For some reason, red velvet cake tends to contract more than other cakes during the baking process, so the red velvet rings separated from the strawberry rings and it turned out to be a bit of, well, a disaster that had to be held together by enough toothpicks to build a miniature log cabin. But at least it was still a sweet-tasting disaster.

I won’t even get into the list of cheesecake pans, mini-loaf pans, bundt pans, angel food cake pans and traditional round and rectangular pans that fill our kitchen cabinets. Perhaps I missed my calling as a pastry chef.

Oh, and for you shoe fans out there who want to have your cake too, check this out.

Okay, enough of the food stuff for now. I have a cake (or two or three) to go bake…

Venturing Out onto an Unpopular Limb

If you’ve read my last few posts from this week, you probably think I’ve lost my mind to be so upset about what hopefully is just a little bit of tummy trouble. So I planned to blog an explanation this morning of why it is that I seem to be making a clichéd mountain out of a molehill.

But before I could get going on that subject, I was reading Fisher Queen and found the firestorm about Newsweek’s recent Q & A sesssion with Resolve President Joe Isaacs.

This will probably qualify as at least a finalist for The World’s Longest Post Award, but I hope you will stick it out and read it all the way through.

In the interest of full disclosure, I will state up front that I am a Resolve member and am active on the board of a local chapter. I attended last year's national convention, and having met most of the people in Resolve's national office (including Joe Isaacs), I honestly believe they are hard-working people who are doing their best to support and advocate for those of us struggling with infertility.

I agree wholeheartedly that the article did not do a good job of explaining all of infertility’s medical causes, most of which are beyond a woman’s (or man’s) control. However, it’s clear from the tone of the questions, and from Resolve’s response to all the feedback they have received, that Newsweek’s intention for the story was never to discuss infertility’s medical causes, but to discuss lifestyle habits that young people should be aware of that could possibly impact their fertility.

It is obvious that the article did not turn out the way Resolve – and the infertility community as a whole – would have liked it to. Certainly it is everyone’s right to express how they feel about this, to Joe Isaacs and Resolve, to Newsweek, to their best friend’s sister’s cousin, to the world.

But I’m going to go out on what I am sure will be a very unpopular limb here and say that I don’t think castigating Joe Isaacs (or withholding support from Resolve) is the best response to this situation. Resolve IS trying to help the infertile community. This one article didn’t turn out well, but it’s one article in the overall scheme of the work that the national offices and local chapters across the country do every day. There is no other similar organization out there that I am aware of that is offering support and advocacy on a national level (although by all means please correct me if I’m wrong on that, because there certainly may be, and I’m just not aware of it.)

Instead, I think it would be an incredible, amazing thing if the energy that is being used to express outrage at Resolve would instead be used to get involved and help make Resolve a stronger, better, louder and more effective voice for the infertility community. Please, please consider joining your local chapter, get involved in the board, get involved in Resolve’s advocacy efforts to promote mandatory insurance coverage for infertility and to extend the adoption tax credit (which is set to expire in a few years).

And I know that this is already a ridiculously long post, but I hope you’ll stick with me for a few more minutes. I’ve read a lot of posts and comments about the article, and there are a few things that stood out to me that I’d like to comment on.

There have been several comments about “how could Resolve ‘let’ this happen?”, Resolve should have “managed” the reporter better and that Resolve is “responsible” for ensuring that what they say is presented accurately in the media.

I’ve worked professionally on both sides of the media coin, as a reporter and editor for daily newspapers for five years and then in media spokesperson/public relations roles for the past 6 1/2 years. The idea that anyone, ANYONE – even the most well-seasoned, professional media handler – can ultimately control the media or how it presents information is a rolling-on-the-ground, holding-my-sides, laughing-so-hard-that-tears-have-been-streaming-down-my-face-for-10-minutes joke.

There are many honest, ethical reporters out there who do their best and do their jobs well. Sometimes even those reporters unintentionally slant stories or make mistakes. There are many, many more overworked, burned out, getting through the daily grind until they can find a new job or retire reporters who don’t necessarily intend to slant stories or get them wrong but are too tired or disillusioned to really care. Then there are others who write the story in the way they think it should be written, facts be damned, simply because they think it will position them for a better story assignment next time, will curry favor with their editor, will win them award or some other such reason.

Other times, it is the editor (who the interviewee will never meet, speak with or even know the name of) who has an idea in their head of what angle the article should take. And even if the reporter writes it from an unbiased, accurate viewpoint, the editor can change it. When I was a reporter, there was more than one occasion where I woke up the next morning to find a story with my byline on it and thought "who the heck wrote that??" because the story had taken on an entirely different tone and slant as it passed through many other people's hands during the editing process. You can imagine what fun it was explaining that to the sources who felt that I had screwed them over.

I agree that it would have been ideal to have a medical professional handle the interview. However, that’s not always realistic. When reporters call to ask for an interview, you’re at the mercy of their timetable, and 9 times out of 10, they want to do the interview within an hour. I’m not exaggerating this – I work in the healthcare industry now, and this very scenario happens to us at least once a week.

You can be as prepared as possible by having a list of media-trained physicians who are willing to speak publicly, but it’s not realistic to expect them to always be available on a moment’s notice. (Can you imagine: “Um, excuse me Dr. RE, I know you’re in the middle of an egg retrieval and have an embryo transfer waiting in the next room, but can you please step out for half an hour or so to do a news interview? I’m sure the patient won’t mind hanging out under anesthesia a little bit longer…”)

Sadly, the way the media works is if you can’t produce someone for them to interview right at the moment they want it, they’ll find another organization that can. And the next time they want to do a story on a related subject, they won’t call you.

Another comment I saw several people make was in regard to wanting to see transcripts or hear a tape of the full interview. Reporters don’t write up transcripts of their interviews to give to their sources (nor do they give the source a copy of the article before it is published), and they will usually fight all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court in order to not be required to turn their notes or tapes over to anyone.

Most reporters also balk at the idea of an interviewee recording the interview and will find another source to interview if the interviewee makes it a condition of the interview. It gets back to a freedom of the press issue, in that the law may protect reporters from having to turn over their notes/tapes, but it doesn’t protect interviewees from the same thing. So an interviewee taping the interview could be forced to turn the tape over, thereby putting out there the information that was protected under freedom of the press and therefore negating that very freedom. The Newsweek article with Joe Isaacs certainly doesn’t seem like it would have freedom of the press implications, but if you allow one interviewee to tape the interview, you’ve set a precedent and opened yourself up to having to allow all the others to do it, even on politically or legally sensitive subjects. So most reporters won’t go there at all, with anyone.

For those of you who are wondering about covert taping, slipping a tape recorder into your jacket pocket (or attaching a recording device to your phone) and turning it on unbeknownst to all others in the room/on the phone is sometimes legal or sometimes not, depending on what state(s) you and the others are in.

The sad reality of journalism is that very very often, reporters and editors are not all that interested in the truth, because to them the truth is usually ordinary and boring. We as an infertility community care deeply about things like high FSH, endometriosis, structural uterine abnormalities, unexplained infertility, etc. But to the reporter, those subjects aren't exciting. A headline that reads "Smoking Increases Your Risk of Infertility" will grab readers' attention. “There’s No Good Explanation for the Bad Luck of Having Endometriosis” does not.

Please don't let Newsweek's article discourage you from supporting Resolve or becoming involved with it. In fact, Resolve always needs more people who are passionate about this cause and about helping others make their way through. My husband and I have not had success yet, but I've gained strength, support and friendships through my involvement with Resolve. I hope that you will too.

Ok, let the castigating of me begin. But please, remember, I have a very tender tummy at the moment, so please aim for other body parts instead. Thank you.

Fiber is My Friend

. . . Or so the doctor says.

The blood work came back fine, the ultrasounds all looked good. So I’ve been given instructions to use a fiber supplement, drink lots of water and give him an update on Monday.

You’d think that news would be a relief, but it’s not, because I’m not convinced that a lack of fiber is my problem. I feel like a science experiment again, but this time instead of being an infertility lab rat, I’m just an ordinary lab rat.

My complaint when I went to the doctor’s appointment on Monday was not about a lack of bowel movements. My body had been behaving just fine in that respect. The problem was that a week before the appointment, I noticed a tender spot on my abdomen, about an inch to the right of my belly button. Over the course of a few days, it moved a little to the right and down about three inches.

It’s not abdominal “pain,” per se. I think of “pain” as a feeling that is there whether or not you are doing anything to the area at the time, i.e. menstrual aches and pains you can get even while laying in bed and not moving. This is more like a minor- to medium-pain bruise on your arm. You walk down the street, your arm doesn’t hurt. You poke on the specific area of the bruise, it hurts. You poke an inch or two away from the bruise, no pain. Same thing with my abdomen, except there is no visible bruise.

Then nausea set in on Sunday, which was exactly a week after the pain began and the day before the doctor’s appointment. By Monday, I was having embarrassingly loud bowel sounds. But I’m not having cramps, gas pains or bloating. Since I’ve been feeling sick to my stomach, I haven’t been eating much. When little goes in, little comes out. That makes sense to me. But I’m not so sure that means I need more fiber.

The embarrasingly loud sounds have continued. And I’ve started to have tender spots elsewhere too – on my ribs, on the right side of my bottom, on the sides of my legs. It’s not that I go looking for places of pain on my body – I discovered the left side of the rib pain when I bent over to pick something up and it hurt. The leg pain appeared when I leaned against the plastic frame of a chair in my boss’ office.

On top of all of that, it seems that cycle day 1 may be here again. I figured the light spotting I had yesterday was from the wand date the day before that, but now I’ve got aches, cramps and heavier bleeding. Today is cycle day 17.

This is just not typical for my body. But I’ve decided to give the obsessing a rest, and just do the water and fiber routine until Monday. Who knows, maybe I’ll be surprised and all the rest of this will go away. Maybe fiber is the cure for rib pain...

Thank you again for all of your thoughts, prayers and words of encouragement!

No News

First of all, thank you for your supportive comments. I really appreciate it tremendously.

Secondly, given my obsession these past several days with Google, I apologize for not being very good about commenting on others' blogs during this time, but please know that I am keeping tabs on all of you as well. I've been reading; I just haven't been up to commenting much.

And thirdly, there’s no word on bloodwork or ultrasound results from the doctor’s office yet.

The ultrasound process was a little bit stressful, but it was ok. Not only was it a belly ultrasound – although in truth the tech didn’t actually scan the fat tire that is my belly but rather scanned above and below it – but I also had the dubious pleasure of getting to go through a wand exam too.

The appointment didn’t get off to a good start when I arrived with an empty bladder. The nurse from my doctor’s office had left a message that I would do an upper abdominal ultrasound (think above the belly button to the lower part of the ribs) and then would drink 40 ounces of water to do the pelvic ultrasound. But when I got there, the tech had expected me to have a full bladder and to start with the pelvic ultrasound.

She almost made me reschedule, but I promised to gulp the water really fast, so she did the upper ab ultrasound and then sent me out to the waiting room while she scanned other patients. I chugged and chugged, then finally let the office staff know I was ready for the next scan.

I sat there waiting for about 45 minutes, which, let me tell you, passes eexxxtreeeemmmeeelllly slllooooooowwwlllly when you really have to peeeeee. The point finally came where I thought I was going to have to tell the staff to reschedule me because I just couldn’t hold it any more. Just then, the tech opened the door and asked if I was ready yet. Apparently the office staff had forgotten to pass along the message. Ugh!

As many of you probably already know, there’s nothing like having an ultrasound transmitter pressed over your ready-to-burst bladder. Fortunately I survived that without embarrassing myself, and then dashed off to the bathroom for about five minutes before capping off the appointment by cozying up with the wand.

I’m used to a nurse or doctor inserting it (sometimes fine, sometimes rather painfully), so I was a bit surprised when she asked me to reach down and guide it in. That approach was much more comfortable, which I’ll have to remember for future wand dates.

I’m still spending waaay too much time googling my symptoms, but the edge has been taken off my hysteria - thanks in large part to the copious amounts of anti-anxiety drugs I resumed taking after Monday’s doctor appointment.

Tummy Troubles

I’m having my first belly ultrasound today. You know, the kind you naively envision having when you first start trying to get pregnant.

Only I’m not pregnant. And I’m scared.

I started having abdominal tenderness about 10 days ago. I noticed it as I was poking around my rather broad abdomen to figure out where I’m going to begin doing all the shots for our IVF cycle that’s coming up soon.

There was an area that was tender when I poked. So of course I kept poking throughout the week, and kept noticing it was getting slightly worse. It’s in about the same place as you’d expect appendicitis pain, only that usually progresses within about 12 hours, not 12 days.

Then a couple days ago, I leaned against the high countertop in our kitchen and noticed a tender spot right under my rib cage on the right side. I’ve also been nauseous and not very hungry, which is definitely unlike me.

I have a tendency to zero in on the worst possible scenario and obsess about it, so I’ve been spending a lot of time googling to try to figure out what this could be. I’m freaking myself out.

I went to my primary care doctor yesterday, hoping that he could give me a definitive diagnosis of some minor ailment. No such luck. He seemed a bit puzzled and ordered the ultrasound.

Please pray that all of this is just something minor.

A Very Bad Idea

A lesson I learned the hard way today: Never, ever ask a man to buy feminine hygiene products on your behalf.

You would think this would go without saying. Or at least, that I would have clued in to it a long time ago. Alas, no.

A few months back, when I was getting low on pads and R was heading to the grocery store, I asked him to pick up another package for me. What kind? he asked. You know, the kind I usually get – with wings, I replied. After all, he’s got a good memory for detail, and he’s been seeing them in our bathroom cabinet for the past 10 years.

He did not come back with the standard length, ultra thin pads I normally buy. Instead, he brought me a package of extra super long, triple thick pads. They are ones that, were I ever to find myself on a sinking ship, could serve quite nicely as a lifeboat. For me and about four other people.

However, they did have the wings I requested, and the ultra-shy R was very proud that he managed to survive the checkout process without passing out from mortification, so I simply took them from him, offered effusive praise for his ability to buy the kind with wings, stuck them in the cabinet and quietly went out a few days later to buy the ones I normally use.

I was running low again recently, and not being one to make the same mistake twice – at least not this same mistake – I planned to stop by the store again soon. I figured I still had some time, as my last cycle (if you can call a small amount of light spotting a "cycle") was less than three weeks ago.

My PCOS-plagued ovaries have never really been a fan of the whole 28-day cycle concept, usually finding it entirely too taxing to cough up an egg that frequently. This time, though, they apparently sensed that I was out of supplies and decided to have a little fun with me, because cycle day 1 has made an early, rare, non-drug-coaxed appearance.

And the only thing I had left in the cabinet was the package of lifeboats. Thank God for baggy pants.

Moving On…Or Not

This past week, I’d been feeling like I was moving on to the acceptance phase of this whole yucky process.

Not just accepting that our most recent attempt at adoption failed, but also accepting where we are in this journey – that despite our best efforts, dozens of needles, tens of thousands of dollars and an unquantifiable amount of heartbreak, we’re still not parents. And we may never be. I can even type that without dissolving into a puddle of tears.

It’s not that we’re giving up, because we’re not. But rather than fighting against infertility, railing against the unfairness of it all and feeling like I was trapped in someone else’s nightmare rather than my own life, I think I’ve finally started to accept that this is who I am and this really is my life, for worse – and in some ways, for better. And that while this is a huge part of my life, it’s not the only part.

I need to start living my life again, to find pleasure and joy in aspects of it that have nothing to do with children and parenthood. To find enjoyment in my career again, to travel to all the places I want to see. To set goals for myself – attainable goals, instead of the “create life” one that seems to be always just beyond reach.

Then I was watching the Olympics tonight. The women’s skeleton races were on. Skeleton, in case you aren’t familiar with it, is a sport in which the competitors push a sled in a running start, jump onto said sled stomach down, and go flying head first along a winding, icy course at oh, say, 90 miles per hour.

German racer Diana Sartor, age 35, was about to make her second run when I tuned in. The sportscaster was gushing about Ms. Sartor’s performance during her first run. Then the sportscaster mentioned an announcement that Ms. Sartor made during the Games yesterday: she’s nine weeks pregnant.

As I was struggling to make my brain rewind what I thought my ears just heard, Ms. Sartor slammed her stomach onto her sled and went barreling headlong down the course to do her second run.

It’s nice to see that not every pregnant woman worries that their pregnancy will come to an untimely end, even if their normal routine involves doing belly flops onto heavy metal objects several times a day.

My time in the Land of Acceptance was a brief one. I’ve taken a detour onto the Barren and Bitter About It Path, which apparently circles back to another trip through the Angry with the Universe phase of the grieving process.

Thank You

Thank you all for your kindness and words of support. We are doing okay.

If it was just me going through this, I think I could accept that maybe I’m just not meant to be a mom. I’d love to be a mom, I want desperately to be a mom, but I could understand that somehow maybe I’ve done something in my life to tick God off enough to make him say, “I’ll show her – she doesn’t deserve children.” (I think I’ve mentioned in a previous post that my faith has been suffering a bit lately.)

That’s not to say I’m an axe murderer in real life. Actually, my wild side could be described as “beyond dull” – a cigarette has never touched my lips, R is the only guy who’s ever seen me naked, I’ve never been drunk. (Though I did get a bit tipsy one time several months back when I forgot you’re not supposed to mix Metformin with alcohol and had a rather strong pina colada at a party.) But for all my boringness, I’m certainly far from perfect, and it’s hard not to feel like I must have done something, said something, thought something at some point along the way to make God very, very angry with me.

Except that there’s R. He is my other half, definitely my better half. There is no question that we are meant to be together. And there is also no question in my mind, not even a teeny, tiny little shadow of a shred of a doubt, that he is meant to be a dad and that he will be a fantastic dad.

So, because of that, somehow I will pick myself up, dust myself off and keep going. He deserves to be a dad, and knowing that all the way deep into my bones is what keeps me moving forward every time we get smacked back down.

This weekend, while I was at a training session for work, I called him to see how his day was going. He was at home, baking carob brownies for our dogs from a mix that he had bought them as one of their Christmas presents.

What I just can’t understand is how there are thousands of men sitting in prisons across this country because they beat their kid, shot their kid, raped their kid, strangled their kid, and then here is a man who 1) buys Christmas presents for his pets and 2) BAKES. THEM. BROWNIES and yet God or the universe or some sick, cruel, sadistic version of fate keeps dangling parenthood in front of him/us and then yanks it out of reach. Again.

Apparently I’m still in the “anger” phase of the grieving process.

It's Over

The birth father was served with papers this week notifying him of the adoption plan and his rights. Today, his attorney called our attorney. He's definitely going to fight it, and he's in a position to do so, so there is no point to us continuing to pursue it.

So far, we've spent about $20,000 trying to adopt and still have no baby to show for it. Not that this process is all about money, because it's absolutely not. But financially, we can't keep doing this forever. We're feeling very, very discouraged right now.

Please keep the birth mom in your thoughts and prayers. She didn't want this to happen. She's going to have to figure out a way to parent, and she's in a very difficult situation right now. This is painful and devastating to us right now, but it's even more so to her. Our hearts go out to her.

Spoke Too Soon

We hit another big bump this weekend when we found out there may be issues with the birthfather wanting to object to the adoption.

At this point, we’re not quite sure what to do. Our attorney advised us to stick it out for a few more days to see what happens while some paperwork progresses. We may get more information to help us make the decision, but it’s also possible that nothing will change in that short period of time to give us any clear (or even semi-muddy) answers.

Even if we do decide to go forward, because of the laws involved, 30 days after the baby’s born is the earliest that we would know for sure that the adoption isn’t going to be disrupted.

Our options boil down to:

1) Bail within the next few days, lose about $2,000 in attorneys’ fees and living expenses we’ve already paid, have no baby prospects on the horizon, and always wonder whether we made a mistake if the situation does work out and the baby is placed with another family

2) Fork over another $900 at the end of this week, stick it out for at least another week beyond that to see if anything develops and then decide whether or not to bail

3) Go for broke, commit to this all the way, risk a) about $12,000 by the time the baby is placed with us, b) more money if we have to fight it in court c) the heartbreak of possibly having to give the baby back

We don’t have trust funds or a money tree growing in our back yard, so if we spend a lot of money on this situation and it doesn’t work out, we’ll be having to look at potentially drastic options, like down-sizing to a smaller house to get more money to continue forward. On the other hand, if this situation does work out in the end, we risk walking away from a baby by not continuing forward.

If we opt not to continue with this situation, I’ll probably wind up doing our first IVF cycle in the beginning of April. I should have hope for that, and sometimes I do, but it’s scary to think about what if it doesn’t work.

And in a lot of ways, it’s not any different than this adoption situation: either way, we pay thousands upon thousands of dollars up front, with no guarantee of success, and hope and pray that it works out the way we want it to. So is going forward with this adoption really any more risky than going forward with an IVF cycle? Somehow it seems like it is, maybe because in the adoption, other people’s decisions and actions factor into whether it will be successful or not, whereas in an IVF cycle, ultimately it’s nature that decides whether it works or not, rather than other people.

Either way, we don’t have much say. Let me know if any of you have a crystal ball. We could sure use one right now.

Good News and Coming Clean

The results of the Rh antibody test came back yesterday, and the test was negative. Yea! That was a huge relief. Deep down, I knew how afraid I was of the possibility that it would come back positive, but I had been trying to take the ostrich route and not think about it too much. I’m glad that little drama is over.

Speaking of dramas, before I begin this next part, I will issue a disclaimer:

If you’re feeling fragile, you may want to stop reading here. I’m not pregnant, but there will be discussion of a baby and, well, us…

This is something I haven’t blogged about yet, because I just haven’t had it in me to put it down in words and put it out here. But I’ve slowly begun to process all the feelings, and I figure it’s probably time to work up the courage and come clean.

The thing is, we’re matched with a birth mom again. (That sentence was supposed to be in teeny, tiny type, but I can't seem to make the blog recognize the html code I added, so pretend you're squinting to read it.) I’m trying not to be afraid, but apparently I can only bring myself to write that in a whisper. We’re pretty much only whispering in real life, too. We’ve told some friends who are also dealing with infertility, and we’ve told our bosses about it, because it’s only fair to give them as much notice as possible. But I’ve only told a couple of fertile friends, and we haven’t told any of our family. I’m not even tempted to say anything to them at this point – it’s just easier not to.

I won’t go into too many details here: I know it’s unlikely that the mom is spending her time browsing the infertility blogosphere, but as my mom says, you can never be too paranoid careful.

The due date is still a ways away, and the situation has already hit a few bumps that we thought might derail it for a while, but we’re still moving forward at this point.

I feel like I should be happy. I feel guilty that I’m afraid, because what kind of faith is that? My faith seems to be in a very sad, sorry state lately. But to be honest, I spent the first few weeks after the match feeling angry. Angry that we have to go through this process in the first place, angry that each day is “ok, what else is going to come up with this situation that we have to deal with?” rather than “yea, we’re one day closer to being parents.”, angry that I can’t enjoy this.

The anger has settled down for the most part. Now I can’t quite tell if I have peace, or if I’m just feeling resigned. R and I still talk about "the match" (again, teeny tiny type meant only to be seen by squinting) in qualifying terms – “ ‘at this point,’ it’s still going forward”; “ ‘hopefully’ she’ll go through with this”; “ ‘so far,’ she still seems to want to do this.”

Maybe I’m stronger this time around, or maybe there’s just a much tougher, hard-to-penetrate layer of armor around my heart now. Because I know that either way, whatever happens with this situation, we’ll be ok in the end. Hopefully parents, maybe not, but ultimately, ok.

Sleep Deprivation and a Few Updates

I’ve been behind on blogging, because work’s been busy this week with a couple of special events. I don’t do well when I’m sleep deprived. I tend to forget things, like where I’m supposed to be going and, ahem, articles of clothing.

I got home really late one night this week, then had to get up 6 hours later to go back. When the alarm went off, it took me a full two minutes to figure out what day it was and why the heck the obnoxious thing was buzzing at such a hideously early hour. Then as I stumbled into the lobby of the building, still half asleep, it occurred to me that I had forgotten to put a slip on under my skirt. I was too tired to care.

And since I’m telling you about my wardrobe faux pas and whining about a lack of sleep, clearly I’m still too tired to write about anything new that’s interesting. How about a couple of updates instead?

The weight thing: 20 pounds in 9 weeks may have been, um, a wee bit optimistic. The number goes down, the number goes up, the number goes down, the number goes up. But so far I am down 2 pounds, so at least it’s something. And I’m ahead of R for the moment, too. Bonus points! I think I’ll go celebrate with a piece of the cheesecake that is cooling in our fridge…I really need to get connected with some weight loss blogs like Nico suggested. Maybe they can help me break the habit of rewarding tiny little dieting successes with marathon baking session.

The perinatologist appointment: Because I’m heterozygous rather than homozygous for Factor V Leiden, the peri doesn’t think I need heparin. The information I’ve been reading online points to the same conclusion. So now I need to have a conversation with the RE. That should be interesting. “Hi, I know you’ve had years of medical school and years of experience, but here’s why I think you’re wrong…” Ok, so I’ll be tactful in real life, but it still doesn’t sound like a lot of fun.

Oh, and the peri added a couple more things to my list of things to freak out about should I ever actually see two pink lines again: higher risk of placental abruption and abnormally slow fetal growth. I can’t remember if those are courtesy of the Factor V, the MTHFR or the PAI-1, not that it really matters. Couldn’t the man tell simply by the fact that I showed up in a perinatologist’s office even though I’m not actually pregnant that I tend to obsess a tiny little bit? And that perhaps it would be best not to give me more reasons to obsess, even if they are true??

The Rh antibody test: Still haven’t done it. Every time I think of it, my veins seem to start shrieking and burrow deeper into my arms so as not to be found. But I suppose I’m going to have to suck it up at some point. Maybe this week.

P.S. Fisher Queen – if you’re reading this, check the comments section of the Jan. 10 post.

Another Time Around the Track

R and I paid our admission (the price: a small shred of hope), once again boarded The Great Adoption Roller Coaster and strapped ourselves in for another emotional thrill ride.

We got a phone call from an adoption attorney yesterday morning letting us know that a baby had been born at a hospital about 20 minutes away. The birth mom didn’t have any particular criteria for the adoptive parents, and it sounded like we might be the only couple the attorney had on file who would be interested in the situation.

At first, I was frantically trying to put together a status update on the dozen or so projects I’m in the middle of at work so that somebody could pick up if I was to walk out the door and not come back for three months.

After an hour or so, I began willing the phone to ring. Anytime my desk phone rang, I snatched the receiver off the base, tried to sound oh-so-calm as I said hello and then tried not to let the disappointment show in my tone for the rest of the conversation when it turned out not to be the attorney.

Somehow, checking my cell phones every three minutes didn’t make those ring with happy news, either.

As the day wore on, we knew it was looking less and less likely that this would be our baby. After all, if the birth mom did choose us, it’s not exactly like the attorney would forget to call and tell us. ("Oops, sorry, it slipped my mind. Congratulations, you're parents!" Um, no.)

I left a message before heading home for the day but didn’t hear anything back. Then she called late this morning. The birth mom chose another couple, a Hispanic family who speaks Spanish, because she’s Hispanic and only speaks Spanish.

Totally understandable, but also very disheartening.

So, where did this little trip around the tracks take us? Right back to where we started, with a little less hope to show for it.

God, I hate this process. Hate, hate, hate it.

Sperm "Art"

I meant to post a Happy New Year wish at the end of last week, but clearly it didn’t happen. R and I went out of town this weekend to celebrate a decade of wedded bliss, and being the last-minute packer that I am, I was still frantically cramming things into a suitcase five hours before we were supposed to wake up to go to the airport. Where is the Suitcase Packing Fairy when I need her??

So, a belated Happy New Year! May this year be filled with the peace, joy and children we are all longing for.

Speaking of children and longing, that was something R and I decided we were not going to do this weekend. It was going to be a no-infertility-thoughts weekend. It was a great plan.

Despite how well intentioned that idea was, it turns out there are some things that will find you regardless of where you are, even if where you are is in an art museum.

I should mention here that R and I are not cultured, art-loving sophisticates. When I see a very large, plum-colored canvas painted orange on most of the top of it and dark blue on most of the bottom, I don’t think that the slightly varying shades of orange have any sort of deep, philosophical meaning. Yes, I realize it’s a famous painting, but I don’t understand why. Nor do I understand why a large canvas painted solid blue is considered “art” and worth thousands of dollars. I could do that. Come to think of it, maybe I should take up canvas-painting as a new way to pay for our infertility treatment bills.

But I digress. We wound up in said museum because it was raining, we needed something to do indoors, and the unfortunate timing of cycle day 1 ruined any chance of other romantic activities.

Our obvious lack of artistic taste aside, we were having a pretty good time wandering through the exhibits. Then we got to the last one, entitiled “Kiki Smith: A Gathering, 1980-2005.”

We turned the corner, stepped into the gallery and looked down to see a large, square, black platform on the floor. It was covered with dozens and dozens of foot-long glass sperm. It looked like a drop of a semen sample, magnified by the power of 1 million.

You think I’m making this up. I’m not. Here’s proof. The picture shows the glass sperm on what appears to be a wood background rather than a black background, but that’s about the only difference.

R and I quickly decide to move on. A mistake. We look up, and there’s a paper maiche-looking sculpture of a woman standing up, umbilical cord hanging out of her vagina, with a baby laying on the ground between her legs. The baby is still attached to the other end of the umbilical cord, which appears to have either hung or strangled him, I’m not sure which.

Quick! Keep going! We continue to scurry through the exhibit, only to come face to face with another paper maiche-looking sculpture. In this one, the woman’s nipples are leaking breast milk that has run down her chest and stomach, leaving chalky white stains as evidence.

By that point, we forgot that this was “art” in the traditional sense of the word. It felt more like a creepy Adams Family version of Infertility Hell, in technicolor. We decided we’d had more than our fill of art and culture for 2006, so we headed for the nearest exit.

Another Bump in the Road

I had another conversation with the cycle coordinator at the clinic today. She pointed out that my records indicate my blood type is Rh negative, and that none of R’s records show his blood type.

She says that when the beta comes back positive (she’s ever the optimist) I'll have to get "another" RhoGAM shot, because we’ll need to assume that R is Rh positive. The shot would prevent my blood from developing antibodies.

This is important, because once you have the antibodies, you can’t get rid of them. And when you have them, it can cause very, very bad things if you become pregnant with an Rh positive baby. Things like anemia in the baby, which can lead to brain swelling, liver enlargement and a whole host of other horrible and possibly life-ending problems for the baby.

The good news is, all of this is easily preventable with the shot.

The bad news is, if I get pregnant with this cycle, I won’t be getting “another” RhoGAM shot, because I never had one when I was pregnant.

I’m dumbfounded. The clinic we were going to when I got pregnant KNEW about my blood type before I ever crossed their doorstep for the first time. They KNEW about my pregnancy when it happened six months later. They did two ob ultrasounds on me. They confirmed the miscarriage via bloodwork they did in their office.

Since at least 90 percent of the population is RH positive, they should have assumed DH was positive. They should have insisted I have the shot, because it can't hurt to have the shot even if DH did happen to be Rh negative. But at no time did any of the nurses (at least three) or REs (two, including mine) I saw or spoke to mention ANYTHING about needing this shot.

Yet everything I've read on the internet says that even if you don't get the shot as soon as pregnancy is detected, you absolutely should get it if you miscarry, regardless of how far along you are. But I did not. Nobody ever even mentioned that the shot existed, much less told me I needed it. I'm still trying to wrap my brain around that.

We checked with MIL, and it turns out DH is Rh positive.

Chances are, the pregnancy ended too early for it to be an issue. And maybe that is why no one at the clinic mentioned it. But still, why take the chance? Why? Especially when the whole point of my being there at the clinic is To. Get. PREGNANT.

I go back in next week for more blood work - this time to check for Rh antibodies. Stay tuned.

The Great Race

Even though we have the results back, we’re still going to delay the cycle. I’m going to use the time to challenge R to a weight loss race in the hopes that if I take off a little bit of the extra pudge it will reduce the risk of the aforementioned potential complications.

My goal is 20 pounds in 9 weeks.

I got off to a great start this morning. Skim milk, an apple and a small amount of peanut butter for protein.

Then I unexpectedly wound up meeting a co-worker for lunch at a Mexican food restaurant. There were chips, there was salsa, there was ooey, gooey cheese. Lots of it.

After work, I came home. There was a big bag of Christmas candy sitting on the kitchen counter. I had meant to take it to work this morning and drop off in another department to get rid of the temptation.

Instead, I had Rolos for dinner.

At least I don’t have to step on the scale again until Friday morning.

The Results Are In

The good news is, the NK cells test is back (much quicker than the two weeks I was told to expect), and it’s normal. Yea! So we don’t have to figure out how to pay for IvIG. I’m very relieved, but not entirely surprised since thankfully all of the immune tests I’ve done have come back normal.

I can’t exactly say the same thing for the thrombophilia tests, though. Apparently I’m heterozygous for the Factor V Leiden and MTHFR gene mutations, meaning my blood tends to clot too easily. The RE is recommending baby aspirin, mega doses of folic acid and heparin injections throughout the cycle and the (hopefully resulting) pregnancy.

I’m a bit freaked out now. Seeing as how I haven’t even begun the cycle yet, much less received any sort of beta results, I realize I’m starting to worry and obsess just a wee bit early. What can I say? I worry more easily than most people breathe.

The thing is, PCOS raises the risk of gestational diabetes and pre-eclampsia. The Factor V and MTHFR raise the risk of blood clotting and, again, pre-eclampsia. From what I’ve read, the heparin will reduce the risk of clotting and pre-eclampsia. However, I’ve also read that you have to stop taking the heparin before delivery so that you don’t bleed too much, and stopping it then raises the risk of blood clots and pulmonary embolism. Neither scenario sounds particularly comforting.

So, I called a perinatology practice this morning to schedule a pre-pregnancy consult. I figure they deal with this stuff for the majority of the pregnancy, so they may be better able to address my freakout than the RE can. Especially since I won’t be seeing the RE for follow up since we’re traveling out of state to cycle.

I remember when my co-worker was pregnant, she had headaches from time to time but opted to suffer through them because she was too terrified of what taking a Tylenol might do to her baby.

If this cycle works (trying to think positive here), I’ll be taking baby aspirin, metformin, heparin injections and who knows what else. Tylenol sounds like candy at this point.

The Lab From Hell

Ok, about that lab thing. As I mentioned in a previous post, I had bloodwork done at a lab at the beginning of last week to check for some blood clotting and immune issues. They stuck me three times, took 10 vials, then called me back to say oops, we need one more vial. Two more sticks later, and the 11th vial was produced.

Unfortunately, the bloodletting is not over.

My REs office received faxes last week with all of the test results. Except, of course, for the NK cells test that required me to go back in and produce vial number 11. Instead of receiving a fax for that one, they received a letter - via snail mail - that said I had failed to come back in to have my blood drawn for a third. time. Say what?

When they did the first blood draw, the lab where I went sent all of the blood to their main lab to be tested. One of those 10 vials needed to be coupled with the 11th vial in order for the final test to be run. So, the main lab set that vial aside. Then, when the 11th vial arrived two days later, somehow there was confusion and they didn’t realize the two vials went together.

So the vials sat there, and expired. Which means I needed to go back in to have yet more blood drawn. Except that no one bothered to call and tell me this. Instead, they simply sent the letter to my RE.

By the time we figured out what the heck was going on, it was Thursday night, after the lab had closed. I went in Friday morning and had the 12th and 13th vials drawn, and they swear to me that it will be the last time I will have to come in for this test.

However, the test takes two weeks to complete. And because of the holidays, that now means I won’t get the results until after my IVF cycle starts. I could start the cycle and, assuming the test results come back normal, just continue it. But if for any reason it doesn’t come back normal, that could throw a curve ball into the cycle. And that just feels like an awful lot of stress.

So, we’re postponing the cycle. Since the clinic does batch cycling, I won’t be able to cycle until the end of February.

But I’ve decided this is probably a good thing, because at least it will give my body time to build my blood levels back up. After all of the blood that’s been drained from me these past two weeks, I’m not sure there’s enough left to keep me going, much less a (hopefully) growing embryo!

Congratulations, you’re infertile!

Since we’re coming up on the end of the year, it seems an appropriate time to recap the stupid, idiotic amusing things people have said this year in relation to infertility. Please feel free to add your own in the comments section…

The first one that comes to mind is from a co-worker of mine who was trying to get pregnant at the time. (She’s just had her baby, by the way.)

Her first child was a “surprise” since they weren’t even trying, so having to actually make an attempt to get pregnant was a bit of an adjustment for her. She started trying last December. One day in March, we were having a conversation about how unfair it is that some people are able to have baby after baby without even trying, and others do everything they can and still have no luck. It’s at this point that she says, “Yeah, they just have no idea what it’s like for those of us who have to try so hard!”

HELLO??? “Try so hard”??? You’ve had a lot of sex for four months. I’ve spent (at that point) 25 months jamming dozens of needles into my body, having at least 18 dates with the wand, taking pills that bring hot flashes and mood swings that make R consider temporarily moving back in with his parents, R has had vericocele surgery, we’ve lost a baby through miscarriage and are still childless. There is no “us.” We are not in the same category, not even close. Of course, she got pregnant the next month…

Then there was the comment by my best friend. I have to issue a disclaimer and say that with the exception of this comment and the timing of her letter right before Valentine's Day to let us know she was pregnant, she has been phenomenal through all of this. But her comment comes close to erasing all of the phenomenal-ness.

We were out of state, waiting to hear whether our birth mother was going to take her baby home from the hospital. We were 1,500 miles from all our family, in an unfamiliar town, in an unfamiliar apartment, scared out of our minds that huge heartbreak was headed our way. She had just gotten home from the hospital two weeks before with her daughter, conceived the month after she got married and without intending to try.

We were on the phone, and I’m telling her about our birth mom’s baby being born, how the social worker is trying to reach the birth mom but the birth mom is shutting everyone out and we don’t know what’s going to happen. Best friend’s baby is wailing in the background, and she says, “Are you really sure you want one of these after all?”

WTF! You have GOT to be kidding me. I didn’t hang up on her, but I did cut the conversation off and end the call. Granted, I know her body was still going through major hormone fluctuations and she was sleep deprived, but still. If she had been anyone else, that would have been a friendship-ender.

The last comment that comes to mind for now – and the one that prompted this post – was one made by the phlebotomist at the lab today. (More to come later on why I’m back at the lab for the THIRD. TIME. in two weeks.)

She’s trying to pick out a vein, and she’s chatting with me. I’m a very familiar face by this point since I’ve been there so much recently, and she knows this will be my 12th and 13th vial drawn, so I guess she feels comfortable getting a little personal.

“You don’t look sick,” she says. I probably should have just smiled and not responded, but I tend to be pretty open about our infertility. And, I have to admit, sometimes when people who don’t know me pry a little bit, I like to have a little fun by being blunt and watching their response. So I said very honestly, “I have infertility.”

Her response (I’m not kidding): “Oh, how exciting! Congratulations!”

Huh?? This time, I was the one caught off guard, instead of the other way around. She knew I wasn’t there for a pregnancy test.

It turns out her brother and sister-in-law struggled with infertility and went through IVF around this same time last year. They had their baby during the end of the summer. So I guess in her mind, the phlebotomist automatically equates infertility tests with success and a baby at the end of the process.

Naive, but cute.

Good News and More Good News

Lest you think all I do is whine, complain and wallow in the pit of dispair, I’ll share happy news from today. And some of it is about infertility insurance, no less.

First, good news on the health front for R. When he had his annual physical last month, his doctor recommended he go see a dermatologist because of his acne and a couple spots on his back. I had a half dozen questions about it, but R, being a typical male patient, hadn’t actually uttered more than two syllables during his appointment, much less asked anything that could remotely be construed as a question.

So I tried to be calm and wait for the derm appointment. The derm removed two spots, and we got the biopsy report back today: Neither was malignant. Thank you, God!

Riding high on that wonderful news, I decided to call our insurance company and see how much money we have left on our infertility benefit.

The benefit is not large to begin with – certainly not enough to cover an IVF cycle – but hey, anything is better than nothing. I was afraid we had used all of it, or worse yet, that the insurance company would realize they had overpaid on our benefit and tell us that we owed them money.

Instead, we still have enough left to cover the anesthesia for our upcoming IVF cycle and most, if not all, of my drugs. Happy day!

The Bloodletting

Well, this week was fun. Some bloodwork needed to be done before the IVF cycle begins. I went to the lab on Monday. They needed TEN. VIALS. TEN!!

The tech started by going for a vein in my left arm that is cooperative 99 percent of the time. Monday fell into that 1 percent category.

She finally gave up and went for the top of my right hand. Now, I don’t like needles and blood draws to begin with, but the top of my hand? Yooouuuuccchhhh! She managed to get six vials, and then the vein took its bow and closed the curtain on the blood flow.

She switched to the top of my left hand. At some point, the room was starting to spin, but she managed to get the last four vials, and I was out of the chair and out the door before she even got the needle in the sharps container.

Then the lab called that afternoon.

“Um, we miscalculated. We actually needed 11 vials. Can you come back in?” someone from the lab said in the message on our machine.

The next day, I couldn’t bring myself to go back quite yet. That was ok: Infertility Hell had another fun little surprise waiting for me on Tuesday, anyway.

My mom goes home each day for lunch. She got a Christmas card in the mail from R’s aunt and uncle. It turns out R’s cousin is pregnant. With her third child. At age 40. The natural way.

My mom races back to her office and frantically e-mails me, a breathless little “Guess who’s pregnant? Guess who’s pregnant? I bet you don’t know!!” message. No, sensitivity and tact are not her strong points.

Then came Wednesday.

I finally sucked it up and went back to the lab. A different tech drew the short straw this time and wound up with the chore of coaxing another vial of blood from my oh-so-cooperative veins. She started to go for my left arm.

“I don’t think that’s going to work. The other tech tried that on Monday, but the vein disappeared,” I cautioned her.

“Oh, don’t worry. I can get it. It’s a nice, plump vein. This won’t be a problem at all,” she responded.

Yeah, well. After a couple minutes of digging around in my arm, she gave up. I got stuck in the left hand again, but at least that vein cooperated and produced the requisite vial they needed.

I headed in to the office. I noticed my fingers and toes were tingling. Apparently, having 11 vials of blood drained from your body does that to you.

Then the phone rang. It’s an adoption connection who has our profile on file.

“A baby was born yesterday. I’m going to the hospital to pick him up. Would you be willing to get on a plane today and come get him?” she asks.

Are you kidding?? “Yes, of course!”

R and I wait anxiously for the phone call telling us to book our flight. An hour passes, then two. Finally, six hours later, she calls us back. The birth mom’s mom showed up at the hospital and talked the birth mom into taking the baby home.

So much for becoming a mom before Christmas.

R and I had been procrastinating (just for a couple days) on RSVPing to a party we’ve been invited to. It’s a long story I won’t go into now, but we weren’t looking forward to attending. For family reasons, though, we felt obligated, so R called on Thursday to let the host know we’d be there.

It was supposed to be a wedding reception/Christmas party for someone we knew a while back from school.

When R got off the phone and walked into the room, I could tell by the look on his face that something wasn’t good.

“What, are they registered at Babies ‘R Us?” I joked. He shook his head.

“Pottery Barn Kids,” I said, still kidding.

“No. But they’re due in March,” he responded.

We won’t be attending the party after all.

Hope, for me

We had our annual office Christmas breakfast yesterday morning. One of my co-workers gave me a stocking with some candy in it and a star-shaped ornament that has the word “hope” on it.

I’m not sure if she got it just because she was grabbing whatever she could grab in a moment of last-minute gift-buying panic, or if the message was intentional.

R and I are gearing up to start our first IVF cycle, and I’ve been struggling with the idea of hope. More specifically, I’m afraid to allow myself to feel it. On a cerebral level, that seems silly, because why should we even bother doing the cycle if we don’t have at least some little shred of hope that it will work? But on an emotional level, it feels like hope has been mercilessly beaten out of us so many times, that I’m afraid to let myself go there again for fear of the emotional battering that seems to always follow.

I’ve chosen to believe that she gave me the ornament intentionally. I’m going to hang it on the wall somewhere (we don’t have any Christmas decorations up - I’m not in the mood this year), and look at it whenever I need a little reminder that it’s ok to allow myself to hope.

I have a feeling the wall and I are going to be spending a lot of time together.

Let’s Play Ask the Infertile

A co-worker of mine had her baby last week. She and I have worked together for a few years now, and we’ve become good friends. I’m happy for her, but being faced with her pregnancy day in and day out for most of this year has been painful for me, and she gets that.

Apparently the rest of my co-workers, not so much. It’s an office of mostly women, and I couldn’t keep the infertility stuff secret even if I tried, which I haven’t. I’ve chosen to be open about it, to be honest about it, in hopes that sharing the experience will help erase some of the stigma that comes along with the diagnosis.

So they know about all the painful test results, all the failed cycles. The miscarriage. The adoption that went bust a couple months ago when the birth mom changed her mind after the baby was born. They know that R and I have had to drag ourselves up off the ground after that latest blow, and that somehow this time it feels even worse than all the other heartbreaks we’ve had. That something inside us didn’t just crack when the adoption failed, that it broke. In a sharp, jagged way that will leave us never the same.

And yet, who do my co-workers call to ask all the specifics about the new baby in our office? Yep, you guessed it. Who else do they think would want to talk in great detail about how much the baby weighed, what time he was born, what his name is, how adorable it is and how wonderful that she’ll be at home with him for the next three months?

The resident office infertile, of course.

HSG Hilarity

The adoption thing left R and I feeling like a 10,000-pound truck drove over our hearts while wearing studded tires. So, we've decided to get back in line for the infertility treatment rollercoaster for now.

That means IVF for us, which also means an HSG for me.

I’d heard horror stories about HSGs, so I was feeling a fair amount of dread about needing to have one done.

One co-worker in particular described it as being so painful that she had an out-of-body experience and could actually look down and see herself laying on the ultrasound table. Now, this is one tough lady who I believe has a fairly high tolerance for pain. I, on the other hand, have practically no tolerance for pain, so this was not boding well.

But oh what a difference 600 mg of Advil and 10 mg of Valium can make. Others had mentioned that taking painkillers and being prescribed a tranquilizer can help, so I asked the nurse at the clinic for a prescription.

She originally wanted to give me 5 mg of Valium, but at one point it looked like Dr. Witch was going to be performing the HSG, so the nurse agreed to up the dose. We figured that at best, it would make me not mind so much that the RE doing the procedure is one I would prefer never come within 10 feet of me, and at worst, it would make me practically unconscious, in which case I really wouldn’t give a whit about who was shooting dye up my nether region.

It worked out that my RE, Dr. Mellow, was able to do the HSG after all. But I still took the 10 mg of Valium, just for good measure.

The bad thing about Valium is that it tends to make me act a little bit like the nitrous oxide I used to get sometimes as a kid at the dentist’s office – almost everything anyone says seems outrageously hilarious.

It turns out that that, combined with the fact that Dr. Mellow has a dry sense of humor that matches my own, is not a particularly good combination when I’m laying on the ultrasound table with a speculum shoved up my hoo-ha and Valium coursing through my bloodstream.

Dr. Mellow made a comment. I don’t think it was something he intended to be funny, but in my drug-induced state, I couldn’t help but start to laugh. Then I felt the speculum bouncing up and down inside me. I laughed even harder. Dr. Mellow gently encouraged me to stop laughing. It produced the opposite effect of what he was hoping for.

He informed me a bit tersely that the speculum was about to come out. I managed to get myself under control, at least briefly. There was another moment of unintended, speculum-bouncing humor a little further into the procedure, but fortunately it didn’t last long.

The verdict on my tubes wasn’t quite such a laughing matter, but it was ok. Uterus, looks good. Left tube, looks good, spilled quickly. Right tube, furrowed brow. It eventually spilled, but not as quickly as Dr. Mellow would have liked. He said something about it looking a bit like a sausage at the end near the ovary.

DH lucked out on all the HSG drama. I had wanted him in there so I’d have a hand to squeeze, ahem, crush, if it got painful, but because of the radiation from the X-rays, they wouldn’t let him come in. And I was in too jovial a mood from the Valium to push the issue like I normally would have.

Even though he didn’t get to see the procedure, he heard parts of it. “That was you laughing in there?” he asked a bit incredulously as I stumbled down the hall, still a little overly relaxed.

Hey, at least for once I walked out of there laughing instead of crying.

Here I Am Again

It’s been quite a while since I posted. The adoption roller coaster began picking up speed a few weeks after my last post. We got “matched” with a birth mom through an agency we hadn’t planned on working with.

I use quotes because I don’t think you can truly count it as a match unless you’ve confirmed that there is truly a baby. And the agency didn’t. They called and told us “Congratulations, you’re matched!” but left out a few details. Like the fact that they didn’t even have proof of pregnancy yet. Fortunately, we hadn’t committed any money to the situation yet.

The birth mom disappeared, we moved on. Suddenly, a bunch more situations came up that we were presented for. None of them panned out.

Then in July, we got matched with another birth mom. We flew out of state to meet her. She was great, and we really hit it off. The birth father had signed his consent for the adoption months ago and was out of the picture.

The birth mom wanted to see pictures of the nursery, so we did something I swore I’d never do until a baby was home with us – we painted the nursery.

We ventured into shopping for the baby, a boy. We bought $75 worth of supplies to hand-make the announcements, because none of the pre-made announcements we could find were good enough. We washed baby clothes and baby bottles. We packed, loaded up R’s parents’ van and drove halfway across the country.

She had the baby. She called the birth father (but not us) to the hospital. The birth father suddenly had a change of heart, and they decided to keep the baby and raise him together.

Fast forward six weeks. I won’t go into details, but we’ve learned from the social worker involved in the case that “happily ever after” didn’t last long. The birth father is now in jail because the birth mom pressed charges against him. The baby is having a rough start to life, and the birth mom is in a giant mess, but she’s still planning on keeping the baby.

And here we are – a year older, thousands of dollars poorer. And still no baby in sght.