Friday, October 22, 2010

Why not?

So, I ask you: Why not?

It's the one question I couldn't answer, not really. Why not try again? What is the compelling downside? Does "Because I don't want to risk some pain" outweigh "It might still work"? How can I rationally compare the potential for pain to the substantially smaller, but much more deeply meaningful, potential for success--especially when someone I love and who has sacrificed for me doesn't want to give up?

I can't. I didn't. I tuned out the haranguing, high-pitched voice in my head that continues to remind me that I am 41, that miscarriages and even just failure to conceive are really fucking unpleasant, that it's childish to want what I can't have. Instead, I bought my hundred and fifty-second box of OPKs and, well, here I am again.

So much has changed since I started this blog, back in May of 2004. I would not have credited the life I have now, wouldn't have recognized myself in it. But I would have known this well-worn feeling of cyclical dread mixed with tiny, tiny threads of hope. Even if the threads are harder to grasp.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Back at sea

As miscarriages go, I have to say that I got off easy--no worse, pain-wise, than a period, and the emotional weight of it was easy enough to bear. After all, we had given up on trying before I got pregnant, and the pregnancy itself was so clearly not viable that I didn't let myself get attached to the idea of it. I didn't look up the due date; there was no secret name-planning; no furtive rummage through my old maternity clothes, just in case.


So when Jeff and I started cleaning out the garage last week and the baby paraphernalia was exposed, I expected to feel a brief wistfulness, a touch of melancholy. And I did, and I suppressed it, and suggested to Jeff that we give away the swing, the bouncer, the playpen. I thought it might be the best way to move on.



But Jeff, my gentle Jeff, seemed beyond surprised that I would even think of such a thing: We might still need these! There's still a chance! You were just pregnant--it could work again!



And that's when I lost it. Standing there in our driveway, amidst the bins of baby clothes and outgrown toys, I broke down, shuddering, sobbing, kicked in the gut by the reality of this loss, by how much I would have wanted this baby that couldn't be, and most of all by how much Jeff wanted it to work.


He wants to keep trying, and I...I'm just lost. My wants and intentions are in a matted knot that I do not have the will or patience to untangle.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

Because a person's a person

Scene: Family room, dinnertime.

Josh: "I'm tho hungry!"

Me: "Mmm...I wish we had a pizza."

Jeff: "I have a pizza!" (Scoops up Josh and starts gobbling up his head.) "Armf, armf, armf...yummy pepperoni!"

Josh: "I'm not a peet-tha, I'm a per-thon!"

Me: "You look like a pizza to me."

Josh: "But I'm a per-thon!"

Me: "How can I tell?"

Jeff: "Armf, armf, armf...mmm, mozzarella."

Josh: "Becauth I thpeak--and I have legth! Peet-thas don't have legth!"

Sunday, October 03, 2010

Normal for me

Perky PA was right on two fronts--I really needed antibiotics (my god, how quickly they worked and how much better I feel), and my thyroid was whacked out. Fortunately, it does not appear to be cancerous--the good lady who performed the ultrasound said that, while she's not a doctor, it looked typical for someone with Hashimoto's, and though it's a little lumpy on the left, she would not be concerned. Apparently, having a "long, skinny neck" makes the lumps seem more pronounced, at least to the inexperienced. She correctly predicted that my blood work would come back with high TSH, which it did--7.4--while the PA had incorrectly assumed hyper. Score two for the tech.

Last year at this time, I was hyperthyroid at .024. On a dose lowered by less than 50 mcg per week, how did I get to 7.4? It is a mystery, and one that all parties agreed cannot be explained by a very short-lived pregnancy.

On the other hand, a few things do start to make sense: the long, brown strands of hair that I leave like a breadcrumb trail wherever I go; the increase in melancholy and decrease in anxiety; the reduced appetite.

I am oddly loath to fix it, though. I actually feel better when I'm hypo than when I'm hyper--I sleep better, I do not have heart palpitations, I do not torment myself as often with pointless worrying, and--in a sop to my vanity--I lose weight. (I know this seems odd, and for most people goes the other direction, but my weight is tied almost entirely to my appetite--when I'm hyper, I can't seem to eat enough; when I'm hypo, I have to remind myself to eat. The increased metabolism of hyper is apparently not enough to counteract the fact that I have no willpower and can't stop eating when I'm hungry.) And while I may be a little down, I'll take that over anxious any day.

I will, like a good girl, try to get back towoard the higher end of the "optimal" .5 to 2.5 range (which always felt a little hyper to me), and I'll see my endocrinologist as scheduled, but I'm starting to wonder if being slightly hypo is really what's best for me. With reproduction no longer a real consideration, is there much of a downside?

***
p.s. Still no bleeding. Getting very sick of waiting.