Dead Bug

Proud Moments in Parenting, continued

2011-11-22T14:29:00.000-08:00

And what miracle did today bring? I'll tell you: dried blood in baby's projectile vomit, found only hours later when attempting to re-wrap him in the same filthy swaddling blanket.

Thankfully, the blood appears to be coming from his nose--which has taken a pummelling due to the vomit projecting from all available means of egress--and not his gullet.

Proud Moments in Parenting

2011-11-21T13:22:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I managed not to leak bodily fluids onto any piece of upholstered furniture.

What miracle, I wonder, will today bring?

Now with 100% more baby

2011-11-05T13:44:00.001-07:00

False alarm after irritating false alarm left me highly skeptical when some mild contractions started up just before midnight on Wednesday. Ignore them, I said to myself. Nothing to get excited about. I tried to go back to sleep but they were just uncomfortable enough to keep me grudgingly awake.

At 1 a.m., one came on that was actually painful. In a fit of optimism, I woke up Jeff and told him it was probably nothing and to go back to sleep, but maybe, just maybe, this was the start of labor. He popped up and started packing toothbrushes while I sat and hoped for more pain. About an hour and a half later, contractions got going in earnest and I got my wish: painpainpainpainpain. Called the doctor, woke up Jeff's parents (who have been staying with us, patiently awaiting the big day, for almost a month), kissed the kids goodbye in their sleep and headed for the hospital.

During the twenty-minute car ride, contractions went from 8 minutes to 3 minutes apart, and from yeeowch to motherofgodmakeitstop. Got triaged (which took a ridiculously long time given the circumstances--why do they make women in obvious labor--not to mention agony--go through this process?), got to the L&D room and waited with growing impatience as a novice nurse tried to get an IV started. A blown valve, a call for assistance and another six or eight miserable contractions later, a new nurse managed to hit a vein. (At this point, I was enjoying "camelback" contractions, if I remember the nurse's description correctly: sets of two, no break between, followed by a brief downtime and then another set of two. This seemed somehow unfair.)

Finally, an order for drugs was placed, and within a few contractions, the fentanyl was taking much of the edge off. The anesthesiologist was called, and when he arrived the only hitch was timing the epidural placement between the contractions, which were coming so fast and furious that he finally opted to start as one was tailing off and continue come hell or high water. Fortunately, he was quite expert and I received a most outstanding epidural: within two contractions, nearly all pain was gone, but I could feel pressure just fine and could even have walked if necessary.

The nurse told me to get some rest and left the room for a moment, at which point my water broke with a rather spectacular popping sound. She returned a moment later, checked and, somewhat to her surprise, found me complete. (For the record, I was not surprised, as I had been telling her for some time that I felt like this was going really fast.) OB was paged--coincidentally enough, my very own OB happened to be the one on call. One minor episiotomy and four pushes later, our little boy was born.

Dominic Noel
11/3/11
6:36 a.m.
8 lbs 3 oz
21 inches

Maybe he'll just fall out in my sleep

2011-10-31T09:43:00.000-07:00

So it's been three weeks of, "Any day now!" Friday's appointment included the offer of a membrane sweep (gratefully accepted) and the news that I was three centimeters dilated, almost fully effaced and still at zero station. OB predicted labor within 48 hours. Later that afternoon, massive downward pressure, significant contractions, bloody show and my premature assumption that he was really and truly on his way. Needless to say, that assumption was false.

The contractions continue on and off around the clock, but are most noticeable in the middle of the night. They are mildly painful--a breathe-through-it kind of pain, not a grit-your-teeth-and-groan pain--and so very regular during certain stretches. (Last night, every seven minutes on the dot for two hours. I subsequently had a dream in which I was giving birth while asleep and couldn't rouse myself to get Jeff up to cut the cord.)

Today, I threw caution and rest to the wind, gathered up an under-the-weather Josh and ran errands for three hours. I hoisted heavy items--flats of water, a jumbo-sized Costco bag full of groceries, and Joshua himself--much to Jeff's concern. Felt good not to act like an invalid.

More of nothing in particular

2011-10-24T12:14:00.000-07:00

Still twiddling thumbs, making vain attempts to sleep and wishing each and every moment that this little boy would come on out. I've been 70% effaced, zero station for a week and a half. 1 cm dilated as of last check. Contractions coming very infrequently, for the most part, with a couple of nice regular sets that served only to get my hopes up.

So, that's the unexciting story for now. Hoping my next update will include some actual progress.

Set a clock by me

2011-10-15T19:19:00.000-07:00

Last night, every fifteen mintes--twelves and seventeens--for three hours. Tonight, every ten on the sixes, not getting any stronger.

At yesterday's check, 70% effaced, zero station, but not dilated in the slightest.

Uncomfortable and tired and irrationally eager to be done.

No news is...no news

2011-10-13T12:15:00.000-07:00

Looks like Saturday night's contractions were just the unproductive, irritating start of absolutely nothing. Occasional contractions all this week, a few strong, most mild, with no pattern. Ended up seeking (and heeding) OB's advice to stay home, the in-laws came up early and we've got just about everything ready--except, apparently, my body.

I'm feeling generally OK, but a searing pain beneath my right ribs is causing some mobility issues and disrupting sleep even more than usual. I'm told that it's probably cartilage separating from bone as the the baby puts more and more weight and pressure on my none-too-sturdy ribcage. If it weren't for this, I would be more than content to wait for my due date and enjoy some time off around the house; as it is, though, I am eager to deliver.

The little fellow is doing just fine, and I am grateful every day to feel his near-constant internal pummelings. He is active in a way that is almost comical: sitting in meetings or conversing with friends, I will catch people looking intently at my tent-clothed belly, watching the obvious kicks and undulations with a sort of fascinated horror. (Especially the young, single men. They are clearly creeped out.) Now if he would just pummel his way out...

Labor goes pffft

2011-10-09T09:55:00.000-07:00

Not sure what to make of this. Last night, woken up at midnight by familiar cramping, I figured, no big deal, a contraction. I've had them in ones and twos for the last month or so. Then they went on, getting closer together, for two hours--first twelve minutes, then ten, then eight, seven, five. Not increasing much in intensity but clearly regular. Not affected by changing position.

Jeff rushed about to get things ready while I laid there and analyzed each contraction: a bit painful but just enough to be noticeable, tightening sensations both high and low, racing heartbeat starting a few seconds before each contraction and slowing right afterward. Familiar. Exactly what I remembered from the very earliest labor with Olivia and Josh. And then...nothing. They stopped completely. At 3 a.m., I fell asleep. This morning, a continuation of absolutely nothing.

So: What the hell? Braxton Hicks? Do they occur with regularity and increasing frequency, as these did? And aren't they supposed to be painless? And if not Braxton Hicks, is there any meaning to these contractions?

Honestly, I am so physically uncomfortable that I would half-welcome real labor at this point. But we are unprepared; so much still to do, still working, and our in-laws--who will take care of the kids while we're in the hospital--are not expected until much closer to the due date. And I know that three weeks early is pretty much full term, but still, not ideal.

Gah. Not sure what to make of this. Not sure whether to continue with my normal activities or take it easy; not sure if I should continue to work next week in the office across the bridge or whether I should work from home, just in case. Not sure if we should put the in-laws on alert or just assume I've still got plenty of time. I'm not so good with uncertainty.

I know a lot of you have been in a similar position: What did you do?

Different this time

2011-09-11T16:37:00.000-07:00

I'll turn 42 in a couple of weeks. Honestly, I don't mind it, but the implications catch me foolishly off guard every once in a while. For example, I just hired an accomplished young professional and realized with a cold start that I have virtually no common history with her: she was a young teen on 9/11 and during Gore v. Bush; the music of my youth was all passe before she was born. She's of a generation with my nieces, not me, and I'm sure she sees me as what I am: middle-aged. I remember my own 40-something bosses and mentors and the wide, wide chasm I saw between us. How strange to be on the other side of that divide. And how strange to be here and pregnant. Discussing early retirement strategies and playpens in the same breath. Age-related hearing loss and diaper brands. Mammograms and Medelas.

I was already of "advanced maternal age" with Olivia back in 2005, and an "elderly multipara" with Josh in 2007; now I'm one of the oldest expectant patients in a very large OB practice, if the girl who took my (excellent!) blood pressure and (protein-free!) urine is to be believed. Health-wise, I am releived to say, that appears to be my only new risk factor: simply being old. It's enough.

Physically, there was the hyperemesis that lasted through the sixth month and which I certainly cannot blame on age, but there has also been a deep tiredness that wasn't there with the last two, at least until the very end. It's the kind of achy, short-of-breath exhaustion that brings to mind a frail white-haired lady patiently slogging her way up a steep flight of stairs with a Safeway bag. I keep looking around for help: Wouldn't it be nice if some strong young person would carry these groceries to my door? And there are a host of indelicate conditions that may not be purely age-related but did not afflict me before and are not exactly associated with a feeling of youth--I'll not disgust you with the details.

Mentally, emotionally...how to splice and dice the differences wrought by a few more years versus simply having done this twice before? I am less paranoid that something will go wrong before or during birth, and much more acutely aware of all the things that could go wrong afterward--not just to the baby but to our family dynamics. How will Jeff and I cope with the stress? What if the baby, like Olivia of old, does not sleep? What if Josh becomes resentful at not being the baby anymore and acts out toward his fragile little brother? What if I go into another two-year funk and cannot fully enjoy the three of them? I am also more concerned about my career momentum, possibly losing the drive and energy that have allowed me to make a reasonable success of it so far. I get a perhaps unhealthy amount of my self-esteem from doing my job well, and I am not confident that I can continue at the same pace. At the same time, I am concerned that I won't be able to detach from work enough to totally immerse myself in family while I'm off, and stay focused on them as much as possible when my leave is up. And there's that whole generation-gap "relatability" question, which I've pondered ad nauseum both in my head and here, that makes me picture the future with a certain wistfulness.

One other difference this time is the absolute certainty I have that it is the last time. I'll enjoy his kicks and hiccups for seven or eight weeks, and then that will be that. It is...freeing, in a way. I distinctly remember crying at some point in labor with Olivia because I didn't think I'd get to feel a baby inside me ever again. I feel so privileged to have this late and unexpected opportunity.

The closer I am to fine

2011-08-24T19:09:00.000-07:00

Just past the 30-week mark, this still-nameless boy makes his presence known at all times and in a host of ways. He seems to be a vigorous contortionist, full of probing, quivering, lightning-fast knees and feet and elbows; sometimes, he moves like a continental plate, reshaping the mountain of my belly, the summit moving in moments from one side to the other. He hiccups regularly and sleeps in brief stretches, awoken instantly by a gulp of cold water. This--all of this--I love.

He also is causing horrible heartburn, still-frequent nausea, regular exhaustion, significant anemia, occasional insomnia and a near-continual need to pee. All of this I could do without. But I'm finding it surprisingly bearable now, knowing that this is, absolutely, the last time; that while this pregnancy has not been fun--has, in fact, included mild depression, mental and physical difficulties and caused upheaval at work and at home--I am at peace with it. With less than ten weeks left, I know I can make it, and I can start to picture what our lives will look like with this tiny new person on the outside.

It helps that Josh and Olivia are universally excited. Jeff is...I guess "reserved" would be the right way to express his enthusiasm--he's not bubbling over but not bemoaning the change. He has a very sensible view: he sees the incomparable joy of a new baby but also the sober reality of sleepless nights and the complicated logistics of life with a newborn, a preschooler, a kindergartner and a wife with a long-hours, long-commute, high-stress career. And while he's absolutely right, I'm finding that the balance has finally and truly tipped for me: I'm feeling the thrill of it. The nothing-could-be-more-amazing-than-a-new-baby thrill. The thrill that was there with Olivia and Josh from the beginning but had mostly evaded me for the last seven months.

I suppose that whatever hormone cocktail is raging through my system is largely to thank for the change, and I'm prepared to crash again post-delivery, but as I get closer to the end, I'm feeling more and more stable. Less anxious. Happier. And I'm finally getting enough confidence to think that we'll all be fine.

Less crap

2011-07-18T11:56:00.000-07:00

Have you ever walked into a room upended by preschoolers, stared with mounting fury at the multitude of toys, toy parts, dolls and random crap strewn about the floor and felt a nearly ungovernable urge to throw it all away? Just pick it all up, armload by armload, and dump it in the trash? Until every last Lego, Barbie shoe, Kapla block and battery-powered plastic irritant is gone, gone, gone forever?

I have never exactly been good with a lack of order in my home. A moderate neat freak and a major control freak, I have generally tried to keep the bulk of the kids' junk tidy when they're done playing, or at least behind the closed doors of the capacious toy cabinets where it doesn't shout at me like a buzzing, primary-colored neon sign, "Chaos Here! And Getting WORSE!"

When the cabinets could no longer contain the overflowing strain of stuffed animals, diggers, puzzles, cars, car parts, games and unidentifiable bits, I wrote "storage bins" on the Target list and carefully averted my eyes from the family room for the better part of a week. Last night, however, we promised the kids that we'd do "circuits" after dinner (silly exercises like running backwards in a circle, followed by jumping jacks, then doing a headstand before hopping one-footed to the finish line) and that meant clearing the space.

I strode (well, waddled) up the stairs with purpose, intent on getting it all tucked away in those few minutes before the kids joined me, only to pull up short when I took a good look: I'd need an on-site storage facility, not just a few bins, to house all of this excess bloody crap. (Excuse me: Jeff would like to remind me that it is not crap, it is "our children's special treasures." To which I say: Crap.)

Irritation quickly turned to rage--a few blocks and at least one Lightning McQueen thrown hard against the far wall--and then a feeling of utter overwhelm: Where had it all come from? How would we ever get a handle on it? In fact, I know where it all came from. It came from loving, well-intentioned family members and friends. It came from the wave of Christmas and birthday presents, from the tsunami of hand-me-downs. The givers wanted the bring joy to our kids--and for the most part, if only for the first five minutes after receipt, they did. But as to getting a handle on it? There I'm at a loss. I mean, I can organize it; I can make it fit somehow, at least for now. I can rotate stuff out to the garage, pass along the less-loved items to Goodwill and surreptitiously toss the hoarded broken bits. But that will be temporary, until the next wave comes along. What worries me more, and what I don't think I can get a handle on, is how to prevent this excess from filling my kids with a sense of entitlement and the short attention span that results from too many shiny objects calling for attention at once. Will it dampen their creativity? Will they become spoiled? And can I reasonably ask our loved ones to cut back on the gifts without sounding incredibly ungrateful for the generous spirit in which they are given?

A couple of months ago, we enjoyed a wonderful vacation on a sandy island. The kids each brought just a handful of items--one or two toys, a couple of books--and I was delighted by the ways they came up with to entertain themselves. Olivia decided to write out menus (one of my favorites: "meetbols, putado and salid") and Josh abandoned even his one bulldozer to make sandcastles by hand for hours on end. They played Uno and drew. They seemed to listen better, to be more engaged in and aware of what everyone else was doing. Granted, in part this was probably the result of un-distracted parents whose biggest stresses for a week were a hot walk to the grocery store and ensuring that everyone was permanently coated in sun block. But it made me wistful for and appreciative of my own childhood, when a fun afternoon was having an imaginary tea party with my sister or lining up all 64 crayons in rainbow order, arguing at length over whether Green-Blue was really green or blue and mutually decreeing that Burnt Siena was the ugliest color in the box.

So I've been wondering: Are there any techniques you use to keep a handle on the chaos? Or perhaps techniques you've developed to even embrace the chaos and let go of whatever need you normally have for neatness and moderation? And do you feel like more toys=more fun, or more toys=spoiled kids? Am I making more out of this than I should? I realize that this is the product of a fortunate family, and that much more pressing issues are pretty much everywhere you look.

. . .

Also wanted to give my thanks again for the really gorgeous name suggestions. We now have 18 (!) on our "short" list, which feels great.

A no-name by any other name would, in fact, smell sweeter

2011-07-05T18:15:00.000-07:00

First off, I want to thank you guys for your thoughts on the last post, and I specifically want to address Alexicographer's very sensible comment. I hope, fervently and without reserve, that my kids and I share some natural interests, some mutual passions. But if we don't, what then? That's where I feel like I'll need to reach out, go beyond my comfort zone and try my best to embrace and enjoy whatever it is they're embracing and enjoying. I want to stay connected to them as they grow up, stay relevant in their lives; I don't think it's a matter of seeking their respect, exactly, but perhaps there's an element of that as well.

I have been thinking of the example provided by Jeff's family (and wondering why I didn't think to quiz his parents on this topic before they left for the summer). They are an unusually happy and close bunch, with Jeff being the key silk-spinner in the family web. He and his father share an obsessive love of the Giants; he and his mother share a taste in books. He and his brothers bond over dozens of things, and Jeff--ever the elder brother--serves as the central conduit between his brothers and his parents. Those connections even branch out to include me, since our kids form the basis for the strongest mutual interest of all: every member of his family has embraced Josh & Olivia for all they're worth. (Case in point: Even when his brothers were single, they would schedule vacations three or four times a year just to fly out, sit around our house and play with the kids. This has really blown my mind.)

So, no big ideas to share on the subject, just an update to say that I appreciate the comments and that, if every happy family is happy in the same way, I guess I have the template right in front of me.

. . .

And on a completely different topic, I need your help: We need to decide on a name, and we're lost. I'm at 23 weeks and so far we've called him "Baby," "No-Name" and "Nameless," and keep saying to each other that we really should give him a name soon, then proceed to turn on the TV and ignore the question for another week.

We've looked at lists, reviewed family trees, revived discarded options from the four-year-old Joshua pile, considered the names of all the nicest guys we've ever known and...stumped. Totally stumped. We've even asked family members to weigh in--a sure recipe for disaster. ("Harold" was suggested, quite in earnest, so we beat a hasty retreat.)

Ethnically, we are a very boring European mish-mash, with a very boring, short and common Welsh last name. So even slightly exotic names sound a bit pretentious when paired with both our surname and our pigment. Add to that that we already have two children with quite common names, and adding something unusual just doesn't feel like it would be in sync. But for all that, we are being stupidly picky and don't want something completely boring. And of course Jeff isn't keen on the few names that I'm very fond of, and vice-versa.

So here is a challenge for anyone willing to help: What reasonably-traditional-but-not-too-boring boys' names do you love? No restriction on number of syllables, but probably best not to end in an L or an S. Oh, and we need two names--first and middle--so if you have combinations, bring 'em on!

Relatability

2011-06-11T10:34:00.000-07:00

An acquaintance--the mother of my sister-in-law's sister's boyfriend, to be unnecessarily precise--said something to me last year that really struck me. She and I were chatting as we walked down a beautiful Carribbean beach toward a snorkeling spot, and I mentioned how impressed I was at the close, comfortable relationship she had with her son (a grown man, but more than a decade my junior). She paused for a moment and then let me in on her secret: "I have made it a point," she said, "to embrace and participate in my kids' passions. Even when I don't have any inherent interest in them myself. It's how I keep myself relevant in my kids' eyes." (Case in point: taking up snorkeling and scuba diving at age 50.)

It sounds really simple and obvious in hindsight, but it had never occurred to me in those terms. I had anticiapted the need to support my kids in their interests and pursuits, but I hadn't considered the need to actively enjoy them myself--an obligation, not a personal pleasure.

The question I didn't ask her was how. How do you develop an interest in something that doesn't inherently interest you? How do you relate to the passions of a different generation, and especially a different gender?

I can see it being fairly easy with Olivia while she's young: so far, she is a girl with stereotypical girl-interests. She likes gymnastics and figure skating, pretty clothes, books and birds--all things I liked and still do. (To be honest, I am still a serious figure skating geek.) But what happens when she takes up, say, mime? Or sitar?

And then there's Josh, my rambunctious boy's-boy. I am already at a loss: diggers and dump trucks, race cars and fighter planes. I can barely discern a backhoe from an excavator, much less an F14 from an F16. (Aside: Is there really a difference between a front-loader and a bulldozer?) When he moves on to video games and football, I may be completely sunk.

I worry that being such an aged mother has me at a disadvantage here. I'll be 42--42!--years older than my half-baked boy, assuming all goes well. And I won't exactly be a young 42, not hip and trendy, and perhaps even--I hate to admit this--closed-minded. (Like my dad, who considered all rock & roll "nothing but goddamned noise.")

I'm hoping I'll find some way to bridge the generation-and-a-half gap; and if not, I hope I can gracefully accept the eye-rolls and exasperation, the "Nevermind, Mom, you just wouldn't get it."

Pirate

2011-05-13T21:23:00.000-07:00

When the ophthalmologist asked Josh to cover his left eye and identify the shapes on the screen, the little guy gave it his best effort, squinted, half-heartedly hazarded a guess or two, then slumped and sighed: "My eye ith just too lay-thee right now."

Turns out that's exactly right, and exactly all there is to it. Garden-variety lazy eye (a term the endearingly German-accented doctor still used, so I will, too) brought on by asymmetric astygmatism. His left eye is fine; his right eye, not so much. He will need a corrective lens for the right eye and a lens that slightly blurs the vision on the left, which should, at least theoretically, encourage the right eye to pull more of its own weight. Then, in four to six months, we add in an eye patch, buy him a flowy white cotton blouse and teach him to greet his friends with, "Ahoy, Matey." Too bad Archimedes didn't live to see it--she could have perched on his shoulder to great effect.

Tomorrow, we go to order glasses, preferably in a nice swim goggle-like rubber frame that straps firmly onto his pea-sized head. Not exactly the handsomest option, but clearlythe most difficult to break or lose. (Jeff's optometrist today suggested a $199 pair of Juicy Couture children's frames in a supremely delicate red and orange wire; I laughed with hearty hilarity, assuming she was joking. She was not.)

So, all is well. No crisis, panic over. Whew.

Sudden onset panic

2011-05-06T13:31:00.000-07:00

I got home from work on Tuesday and found Josh at the dining table smiling and looking at me with his eyes crossed. I thought he was doing it to be silly and didn't see it happen again that night . At school the next afternoon, one of his teachers saw that his right eye was wandering inward a bit. We called for an appointment and were given a date...three weeks from now. Last night, the cross-eye was more pronounced and lasted longer. And then this morning his right eye was completely turned in. Completely.

Google has been spectacularly helpful in engendering blind panic: damage to the sixth cranial nerve! Brain tumor! Intracranial swelling! Or, you know, the more common and less spectacular options that are barely registering in my overheated head: asymmetrical far-sightedness (which, oddly, can apparently manifest suddenly--who knew?) and a transient complication of certain ear, nose and throat viruses.

We've managed to find another pediatric ophthalmologist who can see Josh next Thursday, but, still, not till Thursday. It feels so very wrong to not do something. Except panic.

Show & Tell

2011-05-02T18:10:00.000-07:00

We told the kids a few days ago. It was getting hard to keep it from them--they wondered why I was always sick, why I stopped making dinner, why I couldn't pick them up, and why--why--is your belly so big, Mommy?

Olivia cried bitterly for half an hour upon learning that it was not to be a little sister, but rebounded with a cheerful conclusion that I "will have this baby boy and then another girl afterward." I have yet to fully disabuse her of the unfounded hope as it's currently helping to keep the peace, but if I am certain of one thing, it is this: Whatever the outcome, we are done. This is absolutely, unquestionably my last pregnancy. Done.

I look about five months' pregnant here at the 14-week mark. (Way to keep your shape, abdominals.) Which means I've had to come clean to everyone at work. Until recently, several of them apparently thought I was on chemo due to all the puking and my lovely gray-green hue. (Ah, just dawned on me that this explains the concerned looks and the recurring advice that I should "go home early" to "spend time with the family.")

Aside from the hyperemesis, this pregnancy seems to be going well. Had a scare on Friday--minor contractions that lasted about two hours but went away after lying down and drinking a week's worth of water. No return, no bleeding. No movement yet, either, which makes me vaguely nervous, but I know it's still pretty early and the position of the placenta can affect things.

Hoping for reassurance at tomorrow's OB appointment. I actively dread the thought of having to un-tell all of these virtual strangers, much less the kids.

Things that make me want to vomit

2011-04-22T11:59:00.000-07:00

Eating. Not eating. Smells (all). Dirty dishes. Noise. Rapid motion. Being hot. Being cold. Exertion. Lying on my back. Bright light. Wearing sunglasses. Television. Reading. Speaking loudly. Riding in an elevator. Riding in a car. Driving a car. Folic acid. Thyroid medicine. The warm, loving weight of a delightful small child sitting on my lap at bedtime.

Please, body. Please. Make it stop.

And then it hit me

2011-04-14T18:29:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Jeff called me at work and told me that he'd just spoken to "the lady." The lady? Which lady?

Jeff: "The LADY! You know, the GENETICS lady!"

Me: "You mean the one who..." (We work in biotech, so I thought he meant this new client he's been working with.)

Jeff: "NO, you nutjob, the LADY from the PLACE!"

Me: "Place? Huh?"

Jeff: "The PLACE! The place where you had the PROCEDURE!"

Me: "Procedure?"

Jeff: "The giant needle tube thingy?"

Me: "Oh, gotcha! But we're not supposed to hear from her till the results are in next wee...oh!" (Suddenly terrified, despite Jeff's upbeat greeting.)

Me: "And...?"

Jeff: "And..."

Me: "AND?!"

Jeff: "Good chromosomes."

Me: "Really?"

Jeff: "Mmm hmm."

Me: "REALLY?!"

Jeff: "Yep."

Me: "SERIOUSLY?!"

Jeff: "Really. Seriously."

Me: "And..."

Jeff: "A boy. He's a boy."

Me: "A BOY! He's a BOY!"

And that's when the cold brick wall that had been blocking the light in my head came down and the laughter and delight billowed up from the rubble. Jeff laughed with me until I was verging on tears.

There is a tiny, beautiful, squirmy person growing in me. A boy. A boy who has a really good shot of making it. This is real. It's really happening. And I am in love, once again.

96% good

2011-04-08T12:29:00.000-07:00

The CVS procedure--surprisingly painful but uncomplicated--was yesterday afternoon, and now we wait and worry and fret and wait some more. I ended up with persistent cramps and have remained on bedrest, but they're easing up and I am back to just feeling like my usual nauseated crap.

The genetic counselor took a thorough history, broke out charts, described the notification routine and left us with this comforting stat: The odds of any detectable genetic problem, even given my age and history, is only 4%. I can live with that--at least for the next seven to ten days, till the results are in.

At a remove

2011-03-31T15:56:00.001-07:00

Despite the unabated nausea, exhaustion and even a popping belly that's straining the decency of my slimmer pants, I have not once found myself in a state of excited anticipation, and that...troubles me. It is a little sad. And a little odd. I am glad to be pregnant--I am--but for some reason, it doesn't feel productive: some part of me must be assuming it will end badly. I am not worried, exactly; it's more that I feel resigned. I have no reason to--everything still looks good--but I cannot quite imagine it leading anywhere.

When I was pregnant with Olivia, despite the terror and complications and uncertainty, there was a big part of me that looked forward, that anticipated the smell and feel and presence of that miraculous squirming baby. With Josh, it was one big festival of expectation: I generally assumed and relied on the idea that the pregnancy would go well and he would be fine, even when there was a little drama.

But this time, everything is different. Baby names have not floated through my head; I do not find myself daydreaming about the sweet, slight weight of a newborn in my arms. Jeff and I do not look at each other with that sappy, delighted look that says, Can you believe it? We're having a baby!

I've had to tell a few people, and their excitement for me was hard to take in. It seemed misplaced. Maybe it's self-protection, or hormones, or depression. Maybe the anticipation will kick in once we've got the CVS results, or once I'm not so worn down by the nausea. I wish I knew. I wish I could count on it. I wish I could at least imagine it.

...

Speaking of the nausea, I should let you know that the generic Zofran has helped in one respect: while I am still constantly, brutally nauseated, I am no longer throwing up or otherwise losing what I consume, so my weight has stabilized and I'm not dehydrated. Which is, I suppose, the point. I had hoped I would actually feel better, instead of just not puking, but apparently that was too much to expect. But I'll take it.

The next hurdle

2011-03-25T12:16:00.000-07:00

In less than two weeks, I'm going in for a CVS procedure. Much to my surprise and relief, CVS can be done as early as ten weeks' gestation, with results 10-12 days after that. So before the pregnancy is obvious to strangers, I would know about any major chromosomal abnormalities and have the option to terminate.

I think about this a lot. I think about the age-related increase for both screen-able and undetectable problems, about whether it is selfish to have even tried for another child at my age, and about how unreasonably lucky I am to be in this position of possibility at all.

As a good friend reminded me not too long ago, it only takes one. One good egg. I can't do much now except hope this is that one good one, and wait (nauseously, nervously) till there's an answer from the lab.

Promise of relief

2011-03-21T16:41:00.000-07:00

I heard you loud and clear: Zofran it is. After a gruesome weekend, I finally called my NP today and she called in an order after a quick conversation in which she quickly went from "have you tried ginger?" to "you poor thing, let's get you some Zofran."

I can't wait to take my first dose. I have dreams of peaceful sleep and even, just maybe, an appetite.

Thank you, thank you for giving me the push I needed.

Unceasing yuck

2011-03-18T17:00:00.000-07:00

I hope you don't mind if I bleat and whine ungratefully here but I feel like I just can't take it anymore. I need to find some way to control my nausea or I'm going to lose my job, alienate my family and possibly cause actual harm to my person.

This is, without question, the worst morning sickness of my life. I am nauseated every minute of every day, with incessant waves of that disgusting salivation, shakes and cold forehead sweat that normally precedes the relief of actual puking but in my case lead to...nothing. I cannot vomit, even when I really try, probably because, within ten minutes of eating anything substantive, my stomach rebels utterly and I have to...there just isn't a good way to put this...maybe "find a restroom." Quickly. Is that delicate enough?

I have lost six pounds in two weeks, and now find myself scraping up against the lower border of the "Healthy" BMI. If I were actually throwing up, I'm pretty sure this would qualify as hyperemesis. But without the emesis, is it something to worry about or do I just wait it out? I was so distracted by that beautiful heartbeat that I forgot to bring up the subject with the new RNP on Tuesday, and I've Googled enough to know that avoiding dehydration is the primary concern, so I'm sipping warm water and trying not to let the smell of it nauseate me further. (I'm not kidding: warm water is on my no-smell list, along with my children's hair, the carpet in the elevator at work, any flower, any cleaning product, any food item and, finally, my own breath, which is suddenly horrible.)

I am currenty subsisting on an around-the clock trickle of Wheat Thins, mini-pretzels and dry toast. Anything with sugar, acid or fat causes an almost immediate reaction. Those foods that helped me in my prior pregnancies are no longer tolerable--lemonade, applesauce, cheese, eggs and anything else that sounds even marginally appetizing during those fleeting moments of hunger just evacuates immediately.

I have been unable to concentrate at work and have had to take off early or come in late every day this week. With my boss out and the resulting avalanche of extra work, I am just getting buried and don't have enough strength to even start scratching out an air hole. I cannot play with the kids or help around the house. All I can do is lie on my side and pant shallowly, waiting for relief. Even typing this post has exacerbated the queasiness.

If there's ANYTHING--anything at all--that worked for you, I fervently hope that you will share it. I am desperate and need to find some way to get back to a functional state.

Endings and beginnings

2011-03-15T11:31:00.000-07:00

The memorial for my boss's son was held last night. It was a beautiful tribute to a beatiful child, full of remembrances and joy. The slideshow was the hardest part--happy family pictures of a little boy running gleefully at the edge of the surf, or playing with his toys, or smiling as he pinned his little brother in a bearhug. I cannot imagine how his parents are surviving as well as they are, but they seem surprisingly calm, and able to reflect on how much happiness he brought them instead of the enormous pain of his loss.

. . .

This morning we headed to my first OB appointment, where a new RNP talked with me about diagnostic testing options, finding a replacement for my OB and other routine stuff, while I silently panicked, awaiting the ultrasound. But when it came...my god, I had forgotten how amazing it can be. One sac, one embryo, one flickering heartbeat. I cried a bit, the grinding nausea completely silent for the first moment in two weeks.

It seems so real now.

Pushing through

2011-03-09T18:09:00.000-08:00

You have all been so supportive. I know my boss would be mind-boggled to know that there are strangers on the internet keeping him and his family in their thoughts. They are doing as well as can be expected with strong characters and stronger pharmaceuticals.

I am pushing through, managing, but wishing for a thicker skin and some kind of emotional distance. Co-workers shouldn't have to prop me up, for heaven's sake. The pregnancy (ack--how forward that word sounds) may have something to do with it: in addition to the insomnia of twenty-four-hour worry, I'm up all night with nausea as well, and sleep deprivation makes me unreasonably emotional. (Speaking of the nausea, yes, it is reassuring, but it is also hideously intense, much worse than I recall with Josh. Bad enough to make me come home from work early, and that's something I didn't even do when I had pneumonia. I would not take it amiss if the nausea eased up a bit. I also would not mind if my blood pressure picked itself up off the basement floor and climbed back into the zone where I don't faint when I rise from a chair or get out of bed.)

Anyway, thank you again for the touching comments. I cry every time I read one.

...and yet it's still spinning

2011-03-05T13:54:00.000-08:00

Dragging mysef through the motions of our day, trying not to weep again. The uncontrolled shuddering seems to have passed, so at least I only look half-mad, with my bloodshot eyes and wild hair. The kids are mercifully oblivious to my state of mind and want their breakfast, are excited about gymnastics class. They thought it was odd that I came in and woke them up twice in the night, but since they don't realize I was checking to reassure myself that they hadn't stopped breathing, it didn't worry them.

I hope my boss and his wife find it in them to get through this together. I hope they find a way not to blame themselves, because they shouldn't--they could not have known. Their younger son is old enough to feel the loss but not quite old enough to understand it, and I keep thinking of the hurt he will go through, and the hurt he will cause, when he asks, over and over, where his brother is and when he's coming back.

It seems deeply unimportant now, but my second beta was adequate. I would trade it in an instant if it could undo this horrible loss.

The world should stop now

2011-03-04T19:56:00.000-08:00

My boss's sweet, precocious not-quite-six-year-old son died in his sleep last night without warning. It does not seem possible. The world should stop.

I remember this

2011-03-03T17:43:00.000-08:00

Nausea. Horrible, horrible nausea.

Hallelujah.

Beta #2 results not in yet. Maybe tomorrow morning.

Good

2011-03-02T18:00:00.000-08:00

The suspense was agonizing. Assumed my RNP was holding off on delivering bad news, but I just got the call. Beta #1, 22 DPO: 4538. According to Betabase, this is better than the median, if far from the maximum.

Beta #2 tomorrow, with results on Friday. (If I survive this sickening rush of adrenaline.)

Just waiting

2011-03-02T13:33:00.000-08:00

First blood draw last night; expecting results today. Meanwhile, I am sore, a little nauseated and deeply, deeply tired. Enough to keep my hopes up.

More than I expected

2011-02-27T08:40:00.000-08:00

There is something there. Something to lose. Something more than last time.

In the months since my last miscarriage, I consciously tamped down that part of me that kept hoping, contained and compressed it until I almost could not feel it anymore. Yesterday, seeing two dark lines, that pressurized grain of hope exploded through me like a bomb.

I feel intensely vulnerable, intensely scared, but also intensely hopeful.

I know that the odds are not on my side. I accept that. But there is a chance, and that is so much more than I expected.

Stickless

2011-02-26T08:51:00.000-08:00

Strong, strong positive...

...OPK.

I came this close to accidentally peeing on a First Response Fertility Test, apprently included in my last box of pregnancy tests (which is otherwise empty). Not one to waste highly concentrated first morning urine, I decided to suspend my disbelief in anecdotal evidence, as well as the evidence of my own disappointing accidental use of an OPK a few months back, and try one.

I have no idea if this really means anything. I guess I'll find out after a visit to the drugstore this afternoon.

Because the glass IS half-empty

2011-02-25T17:33:00.000-08:00

First thought upon realizing that my period is three days late: Guess I should plan on another miscarriage by mid-March.

The actual cost of preschool

2010-12-06T17:55:00.000-08:00

Once again, you have helped to calm my anxious nerves a bit. Thank you. I have both some concrete steps I plan to take with Josh (one-on-one "learning fun time," for example) and some serious backing off to do on the worry throttle. A visit with a developmental specialist may also be in the offing, depending on what we hear back from his pediatrician, who up till now has seemed very unconcerned, chalking it up to him being "all boy."

So I will move forward on the assumption that he is probably fine. To paraphrase Amanda's comment, he may just be in a contrary phase, unwilling to please me by doing what I want him to do. He also favors his dad at every opportunity, seemingly just to crush my heavy heart into a goopy sad paste. (No, I don't want you to read me my night-night story, I want Daddy to read it to me!) So Jeff might actually get a better response from him than I do with letters and numbers and such. We're going to give that a try as well, and I will be both pleased and jealous if it works. Jeff--high school class salutatorian, former academic and quite possbily the deepest-thinking person I've ever met--was slow to talk and slow to read, according to his mom, whom I just interrogated on the subject. Maybe the slow start is in Josh's genes and portends nothing but good things for his future. (Am I laying on the optimism a little thick here, do you think?)

Again, thanks. Your comments were a relief.

So: On to another topic where I'll beg for further advice. As I mentioned in my last post, Josh & Olivia have been sick. A lot. More than a lot. In fact, neither one has been truly well and healthy for a full week since they started preschool--and official Winter hasn't even arrived yet.

Both kids sound like Mad Men-era smokers when they wake up. Then add in the congestion, sneezing and those godawful ear infections and pinkeye cycling through persistently and you get the picture. Josh has also had an infected toe, croup, stomach flu and a series of strange rashes, and Olivia has just been...not sure how to phrase it. Droopy, maybe. Tired and pale and languid. They have seen their beloved pediatrician (not to mention their new BFF ped at urgent care) countless times in the last five months, and pretty much each visit ends with new prescriptions for antibiotics or eyedrops. (We have about a dozen of those little plastic measuring syringes at this point; I've gotten very good at drawing up an exact teaspoon.)

We have been conscientiously keeping them out of preschool whenever there's a chance they might be contagious. Any fever, we keep them home. Significant cough, we keep them home. Snotty noses, we keep them home. Pinkeye, hell yes, we keep them home. So far, we're averaging more than one absence per kid per week, and they're only in school three days per. So we're getting less than 2/3 of what we're paying for, in terms of coverage.

Preschool looked like a downright bargain. For less than $1200 per month, both kids are cared for from 8 a.m.-6 p.m., M-W-F, including snacks and lunch--not bad, at least by Bay Area standards. Much less than a nanny. But when you figure in the 8-12 hours per week that Jeff ends up staying home with them instead of working, the cost advantage is lost. And when I think of the fact that, my god, my poor little kids are sick all the time, it feels a bit cruel to keep sending them.

Have you been in this position? If so, what did you do? Any tips for keeping kids healthy in the midst of a germ factory? I am all (infected) ears.

When to worry

2010-12-02T21:39:00.000-08:00

I was reassured by your comments on my post about the preschool behavioral weirdness. Thank you. It took a while, but we were able to get to the root of the problem with Olivia--wariness of her new (male) teacher and the loss of her best school friend to kindergarten. Josh seems to have found a couple of kids he enjoys playing with and was even invited to a birthday party by a kid who said Josh was his "betht fwend," so...whew.

I feel like I'm constantly nibbling at the edges of some worry or another when it comes to the kids. Four rounds of ear infections and pink eye and I'm freaking out that they're going to have tried and failed every antibiotic on the market, and we'll have to quarantine them till they're thirty. And when Olivia stopped responding to questions and instructions for a couple of days, I immediately jumped to the conclusion that there must be some kind of neurological problem going on, instead of thinking that maybe, y'know, she couldn't hear because of said ear infections. (The latest antibiotic seems to have done the trick, and she is back to her chatty self.)

So I'm not sure if my current worry is one I should even mention here, or if, in a few months' time, I will fee like an idiot for having brought it up. But it's been stuck in my craw for a while now, and I simply cannot talk about it with family or friends.

My fear is this: I'm worried about Josh's development. I'm not worried in an I-think-there's-something-terribly-wrong way; I think he's probably somewhere in the normal range. It's just that he's not bounding ahead, learning things in great leaps, hungry for more. He seems content just to play with his Legos and look at his digger books and ignore the rest.

Take the alphabet, for example. Olivia knew the alphabet well before she was two. She knew all the letter sounds and could write them before she was three; she could write her name unassisted by Josh's age. But Josh...just doesn't seem to care. He showed some interest in letters about a year ago, learned most of them by sight, then promptly forgot them. It is only in the last few weeks that he has started singing the alphabet song without eliding whole sections. He insists that his name starts with O, because Olivia's does. O is the only letter he can reliably identify, and he seems to have no interest in re-learning the rest. When I try to make a game of it, he puts on a big grin and guesses randomly, without even looking at the letter I'm pointing to. He still skips numbers and cannot count up a group of objects greater than five. More than five and he just gives up without trying.

He also--I am horrified to admit--has started lying. While Olivia is, for whatever inexplicable reason, scrupulously honest, Josh will say whatever is most expedient. He will lie about having washed his hands, put away his toys, put on clean underwear. And then he'll smile at us angelically, which we have come to realize is his tell. (Good to note in case he tries to take up professional poker down the road. I'll clean him out before he can make the tour.)

I know that kids all develop differently. I do. But I'm starting to wonder if we're failing him somehow; if we gave Olivia a better foundation because she had that undivided time as an only child, or maybe because we expect so much more of her as the older sibling. I try to tell myself that Josh has been working on those capital-B Boy skills--running, jumping, hurtling himself off furniture without any consideration of pain or danger--but I'm pretty sure that's a cop-out.

I'm not sure how to wrap this up, except to ask: Is this normal, too? What would you do, if you were me?

Chameleons

2010-11-17T17:25:00.000-08:00

Our confident, rambunctious, friendly kids are, apparently, not. The girl who gleefully conducts regular family gymnastics classes in our living room refuses to participate in gymnastics. Our boy, energetic singer of songs and banger of drums, does not like music. And while they love nothing better than to sweep their special friends up into their personal world of games and toys and imagination, neither will initiate play with other children.

Or so I was reliably informed by their preschool teachers during our first-ever parent-teacher conferences.

Who are those impostor children inhabiting my own every Monday, Wednesday and Friday between the hours of 8:00 a.m. and 6:00 p.m.? Who is the "shy, quiet girl who plays by herself and mostly watches others during activities?" Who is the "introverted boy who is never any trouble but keeps himself to himself?" Clearly, not mine.

I am baffled and troubled by the vast chasm between who I think they are and who they are at school. More importantly: How did this happen and how do I fix it?

Ouch.

Trash Can Manifesto

2010-11-03T16:20:00.000-07:00

Dear well-paid, well-nourished, well-dressed co-workers:

The blue bin is for mixed recycling, you fucking moron. The blue bin is not for coffee grounds or plastic bags. When you nonchalantly toss your crap into the blue bin, ignoring the idiot-proof laminated instructions complete with pictures of what goes in the bin, know this: Your time is not, in fact, so valuable that you cannot afford the one-time investment of thirty seconds to learn the difference between recycling, garbage and compost.

The green bin is for compost. If you are too lazy to open the non-recyclable container, chuck the food into the compost bin and the container in the trash bin, you are too lazy to be employed.

The black bin is for trash. Food scraps of any kind are not trash. Paper is not trash. The containers for those sixteen flavors of yogurt provided free by the company, and the bottles and cans for those forty-nine gratis beverage varieties? Not trash. Even those disposable utensils in the drawer are not trash--they were specifically selected for our use because they are compostable. Plastic bags, plastic-coated paper, styrofoam--trash. If you corrupt the compost with these again I will throttle you.

You do not look impressively above-it-all when you toss your Diet Coke can into the trash. You sound like an idiot when you try to insist that the janitorial staff just dumps it all together in the end.

You are too well educated to claim ignorance. You are not too special to follow the rules and do your incredibly tiny part for the planet.

And if you look at me like that one more time because I am conscientious enough to fish those cans back out and put them where they belong, I will dump the whole goddamned compost bin on your Herman Miller ergonomic chair.

Why not?

2010-10-22T18:15:00.000-07:00

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.

Back at sea

2010-10-16T16:14:00.000-07:00

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.

Because a person's a person

2010-10-10T09:45:00.000-07:00

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!"

Normal for me

2010-10-03T11:20:00.000-07:00

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.

The annoying innocence of youth

2010-09-30T19:05:00.000-07:00

So I finally went to my GP's office today to see if this abhorrent sore throat and cough might respond to some antibiotics. My doctor was out (sick, of course) but her PA was available--young, sweet, earnest and, apparently, totally unfamiliar with the basics of human reproduction.

Let me back up for a second. This afternoon, I finally got my beta from Tuesday: 35. At something like 20 DPO. So, clearly and obviously not viable, as expected. End of story. When Perky PA asked me why I hadn't been taking anything stronger than Tylenol, I mentioned that I had been pregnant but that it was about to end. Clearly confused, she asked how I knew, so I mentioned the hCG number and the DPO and figured that would give her the full picture.

But...no. Instead, she insisted, despite my repeated protestations, on prescribing only Class B antibiotics for the raging bronchial infection and strep-type throat hamburger that is nearly precluding me from swallowing. Because, she said, You never know!

Except, of course, that I do.

***

On a related note, she also found that I have a substantially enlarged thyroid, with a mass on the left side. (Just when I thought I had finally gotten to a nice thyroid stasis, with my alternating 100 and 88 mcgs and the noticeable reduction in anxiety once I was no longer overmedicated.) So I provided the vampires with a thick, syrupy vial of blood and am scheduled for a thyroid ultrasound tomorrow. I personally believe that the mass is related to whatever has attacked my lungs and throat, so I am not (yet) freaking out about the small chance that it's cancerous. And even if it is, my thyroid and I have never gotten along, so any surgeon is most welcome to it.

Oh, oh! I almost forgot: She said that with my thyroid fixed up, I probably wouldn't have any trouble getting pregnant in the future.

At 41.

With a nice long history of infertility.

Right there in my chart.

Yeah.

The one thing Google doesn't seem to know

2010-09-29T17:42:00.001-07:00

How long should it be till I actually, you know, miscarry?

My OB was fairly insistent that I get a beta, which I did yesterday morning. (Ruling out ectopic, I guess?) It seems they don't run betas STAT when you're just there to confirm a failure, so I still (annoyingly) don't have results, but given the near-blankness of my final test on Sunday, I'm going to predict that the hCG was 25 or less. The control freak in me just wants to know when I should expect the bleeding and cramping and hormonal crash.

On giving up, again

2010-09-26T09:14:00.000-07:00

This pregnancy is most decidedly going nowhere. The tests--we're up to ten now--are getting ever fainter. Minor cramping has returned.

While this impending loss does hurt, it hurts in a very focused way: I am sad about losing this pregnancy, but it does not leave me mourning the loss of my dreams for the future, for the dream of what a life with three children could be. I spent last month processing that particuar grief, and hope hadn't entirely run away with me this time. I will be OK.

Come for the inappropriate hope, stay for the frustration

2010-09-25T10:26:00.000-07:00

Like my late mother, I occasionally get obsessed with things. I get these odd yens to have lots and lots of something useless--20th-century American pottery, 1960s La Solana casserole dishes, Art Deco beaded purses. (Luckily not stray cats, as my mother did--thank you, Dad, for your allergies and obsessive-compulsive cleanliness.) I usually give in to those that are not too expensve and don't require much space, and eventually the intense drive wears off and I no longer feel compelled to check eBay six times a day, in dread of missing out.

And now that I have overcome my long aversion to them, I have a new obsession: pregnancy tests. Last night on the way home from work, I hungrily grabbed up five different brands before prudently putting back all but two.

True story: When I got home, before breaking into the good stuff, I thought I'd try that one in the cabinet with an expiration date of January 2006, and boy was I surprised when I was presented with two lovely blue lines...only to realize with a bit of a sickening sensation and extensive Googling, that it had been, in fact, an OPK. (One note on this subject: the OPK was not positive in the way an OPK should be positive for ovulation, but there were two solid lines--control was definitely darker. So, at least at very low levels, I can now say with some confidence that the pregnancy hormone does not trigger a positive OPK, if the OPK has been expired for the better part of five years. There. I've done my duty to science.)

So at bedtime, after uncomfortably holding my urine for a couple of hours, I was amazed and astounded to see a beautiful second line on one of those brand-new "six days before..." FREDs, one I could be highly confident was not an OPK. The test line was not as dark as control, but bright pink and visible across the room. Holy shit, I thought, I've been using sub-par tests! I must be waaay more pregnant than I thought! I stayed up till 2 a.m., high on optimism, reading reviews and reviewing pictures of other people's similar pee sticks.

Then I got up this morning, appropriately dehydrated, and tested again, visions of a super-solid, super-pink, 16-DPO-type test line forming in my head. It will be so pink!, I thought, "And so solid!" Then I actually looked at it, and...yeah. Not so pink. Not so solid. More like a pale, pee-bleached watercolor. So of course I immediately started searching the internet for pictures of super-pale FREDs at 16DPO that resulted in babies, and pictures of pregnancy test progressions that got paler and then darker again, instead of just trailing off to white. (An aside: My god, there are a lot of pictures of pee sticks on the internet. I didn't know this was the done thing.)

At this moment I have seven sticks of various hues, presented as carefully as my Rookwood pots, on my toilet where the light is good. Despite their generally faint lines and fainter plus signs looking back at me, I start jonesing for the next test, to add to the collection.

So much for my resolve

2010-09-24T14:41:00.000-07:00

Pro: Test ever so slightly (read: almost indiscernibly) darker today.

Con: Intermittent cramps that feel very, very familiar.

I will admit here, publicly, that I caved this morning and looked up pregnancy test pictures. Most were disheartening--totally unambiguous lines at 15 DPO, nice progression from blank to blazing as the days wore on. A few, though, were like little worms of hope, wiggling their way through the jello-like walls of my realism: look, just the palest line 17 DPO, and she went on to have a baby!

Something

2010-09-23T13:20:00.000-07:00

Microscopically darker today, but still undetectable from five feet. So: not gone entirely, not solid enough to encourage any optimism, just visible enough to keep me from downing the thousand milligrams of Advil my tonsils are screaming for.

I have so far avoided trolling for hope on the internet. Hopefulness does not seem like something I should rationally cultivate in this situation. And, for the moment, I am mostly at peace with this loss presumptive, having grieved and let go with what felt like finality just last month. In a way, I don't feel like it's even me in this situation; it feels a little like I created those watery blue lines in my head, but even I couldn't really believe in them, so they faded.

A passing, bluish shadow

2010-09-22T12:51:00.000-07:00

For the moment, I am pregnant. I gave up and got pregnant, just like fiction. But it seems pretty clear that it's not here to stay--maybe a few days, a week. The faintest line, only visible with effort, no darker today than yesterday. By now, what ought to be about 13DPO, that pale, pale line should be plain, were there a viable embryo, securely implanted.

Most likely, I would never have known if I didn't have the flu--my period would arrive a little late, I would never have tested, I would never even have considered the possibility. But what I told myself was a ridiculous excess of caution--and the thought that I would never need those damned tests anyway, so why save them?--led me to use one before popping a generous helping of ibuprofen and Sudafed. Better safe than sorry.

I watched the line form then fade until it was just a hint of a blue shadow, while the control line asserted its bright teal to the right. Incredulous, I asked Jeff to look. He saw it, too. And I told myself that perhaps I was overhydrated; perhaps I had gulped down too much water in the night. I'd lay off the liquids and perhaps the next morning I'd get a nice, clear line. I put the tablets back.

I've always been chicken about testing, preferring to let the arrival of my period answer the question. I've had these tests sitting in the cabniet for a year and a half--ever since my miscarriage last year--and only even considered using them once, last cycle, when my period arrived just as I was getting up to test. So now, my idle curiosity asks if this might have happened before, and if I'd known, would that would have weighed more toward the side of hope or resignation?

I guess I'll just wait it out. I can't face the inappropriate congratulations of the nurses at my OB's, handing over the lab slip for a beta that will come back infinitesimally low, then lower still two days from now. I don't really see the point. Instead, I'll gather up those two sticks, bury them in the trash and try not to imagine them darker. Then I'll probably dig them out again, freshly disappointed.

On giving up

2010-08-24T15:57:00.000-07:00

I've spent the last six months trying hard to give up. Every day of every cycle, I remind myself that I'm old, that I'm infertile, and that I have no right to expect success. And yet I've still been disappointed, over and over, to find myself not pregnant.

Most months, it has been just that--disappointment. Not a crushing blow, not a soul-sucking misery, just garden-variety disappointment, with a wistful acknowledgement that the sands are running out. This month, though? This month was different. This month I felt different. This month I felt pregnant.

On Wednesday, I found myself sensitive to certain smells. On Thursday, I felt a familiar lightheadedness. Friday, my period was due; Saturday, I checked obsessively for blood and felt a buzz of excitement when there wasn't any. By Sunday, I was queasy and amped up on hope; by Monday morning, hope had escalated to expectation. By Monday evening, I was virtually certain I would see two solid lines. And when I got up to test, still-wrapped EPT in hand, I was absolutely stunned to feel my period arrive.

And here I am, a working Tuesday, cramping and sore in a hotel room, feeling something beyond disappointment--feeling enervated and cold, drained and beaten and limp. What I am not feeling, though, is desperation, because desperate people take action, and all I want to do is lie down and finally accept that this process is over. There will be no more pregnancies, no third child, unless some door opens up that does not rely on my tired, tired eggs.

In short: I think I'm done.

Staggering

2010-05-09T19:29:00.000-07:00

I will be the first to volunteer: no brunch, no presents, in exchange for no fistulas.

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/09/opinion/09kristof.html?hp

Wishing all a wonderful Mother's Day, or Mothers' Day, if you're so inclined.

Unexpected Position

2010-03-14T15:28:00.000-07:00

On Friday night, buoyed by your comments of test, test, test!, I thought I was firmly decided and fully expected to visit the local vampires for a blood draw the next afternoon. When I mentioned as much to Jeff, he thought about it for a minute, asked a couple of rather astute questions, and said he didn't think I should. That it wouldn't really change anything we're doing. And he's pretty much right.

So we're going to give it another cycle or two and then talk through the pros and cons again. As Kath suggested, I might have a better handle on things then; at any rate, I hope so.

In completely unrelated news, Olivia went to her first real birthday party yesterday. The girls in attendance were mostly big kids of six or seven and generally ignored her. Then, this one girl, whom we had never met before, saw that Olivia was sad and proceeded to take her by the hand, dress her up in princess finery and spend the better part of two hours playing solely with her. This little girl's brother, aged three and a half, shared all of his Cars cars with Josh and didn't complain even when Josh grabbed them all up--Chick, The King, Lighning, the whole lot--and made a break for it. What I want now is to figure out how to raise kids just like that, instead of the jealous and competitive lot I've got.

Do I want to know?

2010-03-12T11:47:00.000-08:00

Today is CD1 and the lab slip is in front of me: FSH, estradiol. If I'm going to do it, tomorrow is the day, and I am torn. I'm not sure I want to know the results: What, exactly, will I gain from knowing? What would the upside be?

There is a part of me--a fairly large part--that likes answers. Knowledge is, if not always power, almost always interesting. I have a nearly prurient curiosity about my own health, demanding and poring over every number on every lab result, obsessively comparing my perfectly fine cholesterol results with those perfectly fine results from ten years ago, despite the obvious uselessness of the exercise. And yet...and yet...that powerful curiosity is seriously tempered this time by fear.

I am afraid of the implications of high FSH. Not that it always spells THE END--I've been around long enough to hear tell of high-FSH women who have had successful pregnancies--but it would certainly diminish my hopefulness. What's left of it. And without that hopefulness, what would happen to my mood and the little shards of libido I still cling to? Would I be determined to keep trying, despite the odds? Would I have the werewithal to give in gracefully? Would I sink into a self-indulgent funk? I'm a little surprised to find that I don't know myself well enough to even guess at an answer.

There's also the question of what it would mean if the numbers were decent. Normal FSH does not imply that I would be able to get pregnant, just that, by this one very limited measure, it might be possible. Would knowing that my FSH is normal make me more hopeful, happier? Would it change my behavior in any way that might improve my odds of conception? The only thing I can imagine myself doing differently from today is to try Clomid or Femara, which I have so far avoided, but their odds might not be good enough to tempt.

So, I wonder: What would you do? Would fear or knowledge win the day?

My awesome blossom

2010-03-01T14:31:00.000-08:00

Olivia, to me, after being denied her seventh tangerine of the evening:

"Mom, you're a...you're...you...oh, you red stinking gooey onion Mom!"

Tackling the defenses

2010-02-23T15:09:00.000-08:00

I'm curious: When you are the recipient of criticism, how do you handle it? (I almost called it "constructive criticism" but is it constructive if it doesn't encourage the recipient to change her behavior? Is it somehow constructive for the giver, even if not for the recipient?)

I've thought a lot about that un-stellar review--still rankling nearly two weeks on--and have come to a couple of important, even potentially constructive, realizations.

If I take the "opportunities for development" and honestly compare them to how I, deep down, feel about my own job performance, they have merit. I do have a combative attitue toward my boss. I do sometimes substitue my judgment for his. I do not get all giddy about new technology on a theoretical level: if I can't see the near-term value, I do back-burner it till it's needed.

Truthfully, as bad as it felt, it was not a bad review. It was a difficult review, but it was not a bad review. There were more positives than negatives. It's just that I'm not used to seeing those negatives at all. My boss felt compelled to provide criticism and it could not have been easy for him. Some of his reasons and reasoning may have seemed suspect or even silly to me, but he honestly felt that they were important points and, you know, he's the boss. If I were he, I would probably have expected more from me, too.

My defenses are oddly, unconsciously nimble. Without thought, I parry and deflect (and get murderously pissed off) instead of ingesting and appreciating and owning external criticism. Even when a part of me knows the criticism is justified and that I would like myself better if I found a way to accept it--maybe even actually change the undesirable behavior--I usually throw up my shield anyway and fight, fight, fight. Then I feel like a bad person, not just a person who has handled something badly. (And I haven't even talked about my unceasing, obsessive self-criticism and how that makes me even more raw and pissed off when I start getting it from outside as well, but that's perhaps a post for another day.)

I live in a world where there is very little criticism. I work in a highly privileged realm of wealthy, well-educated, competent people for whom politeness and consideration and a job well done are the norm. I am accustomed to meeting or exceeding expectations and being politely thanked for it. Minus the under-four set, my family members are generally in the same mould: considerate, supportive, non-confrontational. Occasionally, I wonder if that's part of the problem, if other people deal with criticism well because they specifically learned to deal with it as part of their daily lives. Do I need a foul-mouthed football coach to identify my weaknesses and berate me every day till I can handle criticism like a grownup--till I can actually take it constructively?

Suggestions welcome.

Expect the expected

2010-02-10T17:28:00.000-08:00

Today I had my annual performance review. It is the worst review I have ever received, at any job, at any stage of my twenty-year career, bar none. Sitting in a windowless conference room, reviewing my boss's myriad dissatisfactions with me and trying to keep myself from Saying Something I Would Regret Later, I distracted myself rather successfully by imagining how quickly I would forget this humiliating review in the unlikely event that I was pregnant. That worked really well until, quite unambiguously, my period arrived. And I had another hour of condescending, self-esteem-pummeling review to sit through.

What a fucking day.

Let Go, Let Hog

2010-02-08T17:17:00.000-08:00

I gave up on this cycle after the last post. The LH surge went on, and I gave up. I ate some tasty pork parts and didn't shower for a day or two. We could have continued, some day I'll probably tell myself that we should have, but it felt fundamentally unproductive. I considered it, figured the odds of success were remote at best and then enjoyed the rest of my weekend.

That, right there--that was the odd part. I enjoyed the rest of my weekend. I was glancingly irritated, I was intermittently wistful, but I was completely fine. I wrote off an entire cycle because I couldn't be arsed to have more sex with my husband; hell, I couldn't even be arsed to keep peeing on sticks to see if I ever, in fact, ovulated. My period will arrive at some wholly indeterminate point in the next few days or weeks and that will be that, and at this moment, I am fine with it.

It's so strange to me, this sanguine acceptance of my own lack of effort, my lack of control. It feels, frankly, like a drug. Why am I not pummeling myself for laziness? Why am I not berating myself for giving up on one of the dwindling cycles my tired ovaries have left? Why is my sky not falling? Why am I not acting like, you know, me.

Do other people actually live like this, full time?

***

I have to laugh at myself. Today, I logged back on to a site I used pre-IVF to track my cycles. Bored and a little curious, I flicked through a couple of years' charts--and, lo and behold, I spotted another cycle in which my body went all batshit with the surge, six straight days of positives. I have no recollection of it, but there it was, just the way I entered it back in 2004. So, perhaps I overreacted just a little bit, thinking that this latest one was the doom-ringing harbinger of approaching menopause. I mean, it could be, but it wasn't last time. Of course, I was 34 last time, not 40, but still...gives me a little more room for optimism.

The surge

2010-01-30T15:59:00.000-08:00

So, my ovaries are screwing with me in a totally brand-new way this month. I realize I haven't been posting much on the whole greedy-infertile-resource-drainer-trying-for-third-child thing lately but I haven't had anything even remotely worth saying. I have dutifully and rather nostalgically peed on sticks, had sex at appropriate times and then peed on more expensive sticks, my period arriving with remarkable precision every 27 days. And then, this month, I peed on sticks (or, more accurately, dunked strips in pee), had sex at appropriate times, immediately dunked more strips in pee to see if we needed to continue said sex at appropariate times, only to have what has so far been a week-long LH surge. And not just any surge, but a darker-than-the-control-line, 30,000-troop surge.

I thought perhaps these newfangled inexpensive strip things were simply too sensitive (despite being unambiguously negative till day 13), so I bought some overpriced, traditional name-brand sticks for comparison: yup, still surging, and getting surgier with each passing hour. Even water-clear mid-day urine after a pint of Chinese green tea is still screaming, Surge! at me. (I picture the LH as an irate drill sergeant, kicking the prone ribs of a skinny, exhausted recruit who was ordered to drop and give twenty but whose arms started trembling around four.)

We have had sex six times in a week. And while this might sound like a nice, intimate thing to some of you who still have a libido, for me--for us--it is difficult. (Note to future self: step away from the artisanal salumi, next time you know you're going to need to Close Your Eyes and Think of England.)

I started googling the causes of multiple positive OPK readings and naturally depressed the shit out of myself, as one always does. The most reasonable answer is, no surprise, perimenopause; PCOS is also a very remote possibility, though I have none of the traditional symptoms. Were I a few months younger, premature ovarian failure would have been the clear winner, but apparently it's not premature once you turn forty--just failure.

I'm not quite sure what to do right now, and also what to do next. I've never had an anovulatory cycle before, as far as I know, and I don't know if this is one or if we should keep on keeping on, in hopes that an un-fried egg might yet ease on down the tube.

Beyond this cycle, I guess I should be thinking about getting Day 3 labs and facing whatever chilly reality awaits. (At 35, it took max stims and no suppression to get four decent embryos; who am I to imagine I'd be naturally fertile at forty? The hubris boggles even my own mind.) But I can't quite bring myself to do it. I can't even bring myself to try one of those over-the-counter FSH tests. Maybe once the pain of the trying and failing gets to be really bad, it might actually come as a relief to have the hard numbers extinguish our little morsels of hope. I'm not there yet--four negative natural cycles isn't exactly a soul-crushing slog--but I know I will be ready to stop at some point this year, ready to throw my arms around my two big kids and call myself incredibly lucky. Unlike before, the desire for another is not a white-hot need. I will definitely be OK, I know that, and I'm beyond grateful for that knowledge. Right now, however, I do still want, so we'll probably keep to our let-no-chance-escape-us battle plan and embrace the surge until it's clearly time to retreat, in victory or, more likely, defeat.

Olivia's question

2010-01-25T10:39:00.000-08:00

Since my mother's death in October 2008, Olivia has, every few weeks, asked why she died and what happened to her. She didn't know my mother, having only met her twice, but it bothered her, this idea that I used to have a mother but didn't anymore. I've always answered her with a gentle circle-of-life spiel and she is usually content with that, but the other night as I tucked her in and wished her sweet dreams, she said, as though continuing some ongoing conversation, "But Mommy, when are you going to die?"

There just didn't seem to be any good answer to that. I was speechless for a moment, then mumbled something about hoping to live for a very long time. And then I realized what she was asking: When would she not have a mother anymore?

"I will probably be with you until you're a grown-up woman, maybe even older than me, when you have a home and a life that's all your own," I said. And Olivia hugged me and told me she wanted me to stay with her, wanted me to be her mother forever. She held my hands and wouldn't let go.

It was one of the most painful moments I've had as a mother--contemplating death with my baby, my sweet little girl; imagining, in a flash, how hard it will be to leave her--but also one of the most beautiful: I have never felt so important to another person.

Such responsibility, but, my god, such reward.

Haiti

2010-01-13T11:44:00.000-08:00

What words are there to describe this? Hell? Annihilation? I cannot process the facts, the scope. I am struck dumb by this misery. I can't watch but I can't stop. The people, impoverished and homeless and hurt, loved ones dead. Can't stop picturing the children. There were already so many orphans in this third-world country on our wealthy doorstep; today, there are so many more. And they may be the lucky ones. Please, what can we do? The donations we've made feel profoundly inadequate.

Resolved

2010-01-06T10:57:00.000-08:00

I have never made a real New Year's resolution except once, when I was nineteen and vowed that I wouldn't spend another year being battered and humiliated by my mentally unstable monster of a boyfriend. It took me a few months--four months, three days, eight hours and thirty-two minutes, to be precise--before I managed to make a break for it, but the break was successful and I thought to myself, This is the most important resolution I am ever likely to make, so let me just stop while I'm ahead.

Sure, each year around the holidays I give myself a little pep talk about whole grains and cutting back on buttery cheese, about daily yoga and me-time and having more patience with the kids. Not a heartfelt resolution; more of an exercise in hopeful thinking. But this year, today, I am making a new resolution. I am resolved to come to terms with my biggest problem and seek some help.

So, here it is: I am depressed. Mildly depressed, but depressed nonetheless. I feel aimless but anxious, unenthusiastic and detached. I find myself smiling too late in conversation because I have to consciously remind myself to do it. I have become quick to take offense and even quicker to argue, especially with Jeff. But even the arguments peter out like a leaky balloon when I just sigh and leave the room, unwilling to expend the energy to work through it.

I have been telling myself for about two years that I am not depressed, that I am sleep deprived and hormonal and overworked and getting older and over-caffeinated and stressed out but I’m OK, I’m fine, or at least I will be fine once I get a break, get some sleep. And you know what? It was a little bit true. After two weeks away from work, several long naps and a week at home with lots of easy-going relatives on hand to play with the kids, I felt a tickle of happiness and motivation that was bright and clean and lasted a fair while—less intense but much longer than those short but searingly joyful moments that pepper every day I get with the kids (those moments when Olivia leaps into my arms, her face awash in pleasure, or when Josh looks into my eyes and tells me in his sweet, raspy voice that he loves me). Feeling a mild enthusiasm sustained over whole hours reminded me that that’s how I used to feel, if not all of the time, at least most of it. I had enough energy and ambition to look forward to challenges. Now, I mostly avoid them. Whether it’s situational or physiological or psychological, it’s here and it’s real.

I am loath to admit this, but the last time I felt really good, solidly happy for a whole day, was the day Josh was born. And this has led me to wonder if my desire for another baby might be influenced by how content, and how present, I felt while pregnant. But maybe that’s a whole post on its own.

I don’t yet know quite what to do about it, where to go next, but I am, finally, resolved to do something. Even if all I get is a better understanding of why I feel this way, give it some structure, that might be enough for now. I don’t want medication (trying to get pregnant, fear of dependence on pharmaceuticals), and it seems unlikely that it would be of much use for me anyway. But my resolution for 2010 is this: If there are basic medical issues triggering this—thyroid, iron, vitamin D, whatever—I will make the time to dog my doctors and get to the bottom of them. If the recommendation is therapy, I will make the time to go. If the prescription is more sleep and more exercise, I will make the time for those. And if I fail in this, I hope someone out there will remind me of this promise and shame me into action. Because I think this one may actually be the most important resolution I’ve ever made.

My Groundhog morning

2009-12-18T09:09:00.000-08:00

Have you ever--gently, gently--started to wake up from a dream in which you were newly pregnant to find that your period had started? I'm pretty sure I've lived this precise moment about two dozen times before, and half-expected "I Got You, Babe" to spring to life on my bedside clock radio.

The reflex

2009-12-06T21:55:00.000-08:00

At the dinner table:

Olivia: "Mommy, when I have my own baby..."

Me: "If."

Seems like that's a reflex I could just maybe have stifled with a three-and-a-half-year-old.

In which I am ashamed to admit that I was surprised by a negatvie

2009-11-30T18:35:00.000-08:00

Our first cycle ended in a dazzlingly white HPT a week ago Saturday, and I was...well, I was let down and I was disappointed for a few hours, but then I was almost completely OK with it. At least the spinning and incessant wondering were put to rest. I was also, uncomfortable truth be told, a little surprised. In some deeply irrational corner, at certain times of day and in certain frames of mind, I had this unreasonable belief that it would work--just like that, hey presto!, one shot. I am not usually given to flights of fancy this ludicrous, but Josh's easy conception kept tickling me with the feather of unwarranted hopefulness.

So, we will press on with our low-tech "trying," and I will aim to establish a modicum of equilibrium instead of letting myself bob around in that turbid mental wave pool. That's my intent, anyway, though who knows where my head will be as I approach the next HPT.

Emotional pinball

2009-11-17T16:41:00.000-08:00

There must have been something to be said for being in limbo, because since the unexpectedly sudden procreation attempts began a week and a half ago, I have been a disaster. I am unable to focus, unable to plan, unable to do anything except ride along with my emotions as they whirl like a thousand-color roulette wheel. Even my most mundane dreams have been infested with that unsettling lack of control that makes everything seem to be moving.

I am giddy! I am pessimistic! I am obsessed! Look at me--whee!

I had honestly forgotten how the simple possibility of it all can wind you up and spin you around and leave you teetering on a stilt in the middle of a neurotic kaleidoscope. Every potential outcome is reflected in shards and distorted like a funhouse mirror; I can almost hear the carney barking in the background.

On a more important topic, I was truly moved to tears by Julie's post this morning and immediately--full of this burning need to do something--located two volunteer programs in my area for those who want to help NICU patients. Unfortunately, with my schedule and lack of skills and experience, I do not qualify for either, so I am going with the cash approach for now--easier, if perhaps less immediately rewarding.

It's like the internet is out to discourage me

2009-11-10T17:54:00.000-08:00

It's galling, trolling the internet for statistics on getting pregnant over 40. I Googled in a frame of mind that I considered both realistic and hopeful, and found a vast, depressing world of disheartening, scary assertions. I can't quite bring myself to call them facts as it was hard to find primary sources, but they were reasonably consistent from site to site so I figure they're probably in the ballpark, if not exactly on the money.

I can't rouse the energy to properly footnote, but the gist is this:

At age 40, 90% of a woman's eggs are chromosomally abnormal
For a 40-year-old, 50% of pregnancies result in miscarriage
The risk of Down syndrome is five times higher at a maternal age of 40 than at 35; there is a twofold increase just between 38 and 40
Prenancies in which the male partner is over 35 are also at increased risk of Down syndrome
Parental age is linked to significantly higher rates of autism spectrum and pervasive developmental disorders
The risks of developing preeclampsia, gestational diabetes and other complications of pregnancy are significantly elevated after 40
Advanced parental age is linked to more distant relationships with adult children
Women over 40 are selfish, privileged idiots for wanting to have babies
We should have done our childbearing in our 20s like Real Americans

Gah. I feel like a failure already.

Out of the blue

2009-11-06T16:54:00.000-08:00

Either Jeff has started reading my blog or he's developed some totally bitchen new psychic superpowers. Wednesday night, the very night I wrote that last post, The Decider made his debut.

"I think we should try to have one more."

Just like that.

I am both overjoyed and terrified.

Fuzzy-headed limbo

2009-11-04T10:03:00.000-08:00

So, as though it hadn't been half a year since the last post, here I am, right where we left off.

I am still in an odd mental limbo, reproduction-wise. I can't stop wanting to be pregnant, baby dreams tickling at the edges of my thoughts as I go through my day. Sometimes I can even smell that heady new-baby scent. But then I also can't stop being vaguely relieved each month when my period arrives. To be clear, we are not actively trying, but I have these irrational moments of magical thinking in which, sure, why not, I could be pregnant even though it would be nigh-on impossible, followed by a little tug of anticipation and fear capped off by that odd half-relief when it's proved otherwise. Which is followed by a little aftertaste of depression, an underexposed print of the old misery each month brought before Olivia and Josh.

I used to be so certain of myself when it came to big decisions, and now I'm living in some kind of fuzzy fog-realm where what I really want is for someone else to simply tell me what to do. I want to shirk my responsibility and just wait for a clearly worded directive. For once in my life, I do not want to be The Decider.

Unfortunately, while the obvious candidate for Decider is Jeff, he is never one to simply say, This is the way it is and this is what we are going to do about it. His thought processes are too complex to distill into simple yesses and nos, and the pros and cons of another child are in so many shades of gray for us both that it seems impossible to form a clear picture.

Even fretting about this may be a preposterous waste of energy; I'm forty years old for heaven's sake, forty years old. This perceived choice may be completely illusory: What are the odds that I would be able to achieve another healthy pregnancy? (Seriously, what are the odds?)

And I'm not one of those forty-is-the-new-thirty women, with their toned legs, smooth skin and chic clothes. I was thirty-four when I started this blog and felt then like I was starting to deflate; the intervening years of children and career have not laid gently on me. I look forty and I feel forty and I have basically accepted it, crow's feet, pudgy thighs and all. I presume that my eggs have gone downhill right along with the rest of me.

I kept thinking that I would blog again once we'd made a decision, that I'd chart the next attempt to conceive or bemoan the end of my reproductive life. Maybe I still will, if I find myself able to make that choice instead of letting time make it for me. Maybe I won't be back here in another six months, still stuck in this timorous, seasick limbo.

Dribbles of Yes, Drops of No

2009-04-30T14:52:00.000-07:00

Is it rude to just jump right back in and start talking again? Can't be much fun to follow a blog that gets updated less frequently than motor oil. But, well, here I am with things to say, so I'll take the liberty of saying them to you.

To start with, we're all well. The kids are, unsurprisingly, growing; Olivia is a big girl of three, and Josh is a compact bundle of nineteen-month-old vigor. It looked for a while like there might be another come November, but a wholly unsuspected pregnancy ended in a wholly uneventful miscarriage at the end of March. (I knew I was pregnant for about ten days. My first reaction was abject fear, followed in rough order by generalized worry, a nervous thrill, tentative acceptance and cautious delight, all tempered by the vague feeling that something wasn't quite right--not enough nausea, some cramping, a spot or two. The miscarriage still managed to catch me by surprise, unprepared and at work; can't think why.)

I've been thinking a lot about three since the miscarriage. I've also been thinking a lot about forty. I just don't know if the two are compatible; I don't know if I have it in me ("it" being an egg or two with tidy chromosomes, the physical energy and the mental fortitude, not to mention the funds if we had to pursue treatment again). The temptation to try, though...god, it pulls at me.

Jeff is in a different place. He feels complete. He also feels like hell, not having had enough sleep or time or peace for three years. He works so hard to keep everything together for us all; I've leaned on him too much, I think, and need to step back and see the terrain here from a different vantage point. I'm willing to put myself through it all again, but should I be willing to put Jeff through it if he's only accepting, not eager? I know the right answer to that is a firm no. I also know that we don't really have time to change our minds later, which is profoundly scary to me.

At bedtime, Olivia has taken to asking for "a dribble" of a lullabye. I start in, a rolling "Rockabye Baby, in the tr--" and she'll chortle when I hit the awkward stopping point. Then she'll ask for "just another drop." I sing another syllable or two and she giggles a bit more, especially if Jeff joins in. She loves that it is unexpected, that she can't predict where we'll stop. When I leave the room, I find myself humming the rest of the tune, closing it out so it doesn't hang there, annoyingly unfinished. I realized today that that's what these thoughts of three feel like to me--like I've reached an awkward stopping point, mid-phrase, and want to complete it. Jeff, being very sweetly tone deaf, isn't bothered in the least.

O, Nadya, have you brought us to this?

2009-02-11T11:19:00.000-08:00

If you'd like to read some uninformed, vitriolic bile aimed squarely at all infertiles, look no further than this op/ed piece from the Los Angeles Times.

http://www.latimes.com/news/opinion/la-oe-rutten11-2009feb11,0,1394657.column

Just wait till you hit the last few paragraphs.

I emailed the fat bastard, but I am still so full of fury at his poisonous arrogance that I needed to share it with anyone out there still reading. Is this really what the general public thiks of us? That we are narcissists motivated by childish wish-fulfillment instead of normal people with a medical condition who dearly want to be parents?

Uncomfortably numb

2008-10-27T12:16:00.000-07:00

There is some protected kernel in my mind, some insulated little tablet that is waiting to dissolve its time-release coating and floor me with grief and regret for a day or a week or a month. I know it's there; I get a tiny taste of it every few hours. Perhaps it will wash through me once the anger and horror have receded.

We are not sure exactly when she died; we just know that she wasn't found for several days. She lived with a number of cats who didn't have food. I'm sure you can see where this is going, so I will stop.

Clearing out her apartment is one of the hardest things I have ever done. It was packed several feet high with junk, broken furniture and newspapers. Shit was everywhere, and roaches. The smell...oh, god, the smell.

Though the body was long gone, the trauma scene clean-up service did not arrive till we'd been at it for a couple of days, and then I saw what had been so carefully hidden behind the bathroom door. I wish I could un-see it.

Dealing with the remainders of her life was overwhelming. There were storage units to locate, get into and clean out; countless boxes of papers to be reviewed and sorted; locksmiths to be called; haulers to hire; arrangements with the humane society and arrangements with the exterminator. There were carpets to be pulled up and new carpets to be bought. There was the trauma scene cleaning to set up and the regular cleaning crew to be hired once everything was out. There were unknown garages full of stuff, unhelpful property managers to deal with, bills to pay. Every minute was filled with some task, some grim and depressing task.

There were also a few surprising moments of nostalgia; moments I can't call bittersweet but maybe can call moving: one drawer full of broken pottery yielded bits of a vase my sister made in junior high; a metal box was filled with Kodak slides of us as children; a file marked "Love Letters" revealed correspondence between our parents in1963--before they even met in person. (The idea of my father being a bleeding-heart romantic and my mother being described as "too pretty for a poetess" are hard to reconcile; I hope my dad won't mind talking about them one of these days.)

I am angry. I am angry that she wasted her life. I am angry that I wasted much of my life hoping she would change. I am angry that we have to deal with things someone's children should not have to deal with. I am angry that she didn't admit to her addictions. I am angry that I cannot miss the person she became.

Sometime soon, I hope I can mourn her, the real person who nursed me as a baby and stood smiling in the background of some of those slides. I hope that coating dissolves and I can feel something other than this bitterness, this mourning of the way she wasted her life.

Reluctant Eulogy

2008-10-19T16:31:00.000-07:00

My cell phone rang today as I was hoisting Josh into a Trader Joe's cart. I had my hands full and my sweet boy needed buckling, so I let it ring.

Jeff's phone rang a minute later. He handed it to me without answering when he saw my brother's number.

My sister-in-law's voice was utterly steady, even chilly. She asked where I was. (What's wrong?) I hate to tell you this, but...

My first terrifying thought was that my dad had died. But it wasn't.

My mother had.

I was relieved.

The last twenty-five years of her life were a blur of unrepentant self-indulgence, dishonesty and bravado. Her ego--good god, her ego. Unparalleled.

She was also an accomplished writer and a gifted public speaker, with a scortching intelligence and a peculiarly compelling charm. She wrote books and essays and published newsletters. She hired dozens of people and had hundreds of friends. She was generous. She was an engaged listener.

And then there was the wildly addictive nature of her personality.

Drugs--first pot, then ecstasy, then 2cB and ketamine and finally meth and prescription narcolepsy medications--became central to her life. It wasn't that she was depressed without them; no, she was never depressed. That wasn't her nature. It was different: she was bored, she was uninspired, she was out of synch with the higher powers without them. She thought that she had been selected for some sort of greatness; that she was entirely different from the other unwashed women of advancing years with too many cats and no income. She thought that drugs put her in touch with her greatness, society's conventions be damned.

Her myriad friends disappeared, to be replaced by hangers-on who milked everything they could from her. She, in turn, used them to prop up her ego and provide the adulation she always craved. Finally, the hangers-on had nothing left to gain, so they left.

There was a selfishness to her that precluded a warm kind of love. It's funny to say that about a generous person, but it was true. Her generousity didn't encompass the kind of self-sacrifice or humility that the word normally conjures up; it was more limited--money, things, praise. The way I loved my mother--and I did, in some primal way--was the kind one might have for an engaging teacher who singles you out for approbation.

Over the last month or so, my mother overdosed three times on the Schedule C sedative-hypnotic prescribed for her dubiously diagnosed narcolepsy. She was using more than twice the therapeutic dose because she couldn't come down from the adderall binges she so enjoyed. My brother had to have the authorities come and get her when she started making wild threats and accusations. Each time, the hospital physician recommended a psychiatric treatment facility, but each time she lasted just the 72-hour minimum. She didn't think she belonged there.

I have been trying to remember the other mother, the one from the early '70s who wasn't more in love with herself than she was with her children and her intellectual pursuits. It's hard. There are a few dingy memories of a mother who found me a new yellow dog when I had thrown up on my first poor stuffed mutt; the mother who put flashcards up on all of our household furnishings when it was time for me learn to read; the mother who...but I've run out. I'm sure more positive memories will come, though perhaps not as easily as the bitter, angry ones.

I stood in that store and listened to my sister-in-law for a moment, stunned. Then Josh looked at me, seemed to understand that I was upset, and beamed the gentlest, sweetest smile. My thought in that slow-motion moment was a simple one: please let me be a better mother than she was. Please let me be the kind of mother I wish she had been.

Did I mention that the sky is blue?

2008-09-12T15:54:00.000-07:00

Today is one of those days that just begs to be shared with nice people and your favorite beer. It's Friday, the weather is mild and pleasant, the canna lillies are in bloom (bright orange! Bright red!), Olivia hugged her brother without prompting and I managed to hold my own in the fast lane of our local pool for four whole laps. (To be fair, the fast lane of our local pool is not precisely fast. It would, I am fairly certain, be the medium lane in any pool that was not primarily frequented by the brown-and-leathery over-sixty set. But still! I am not all that far from AARP membership myself, so I feel rather chuffed.)

I'm starting to get a few daily whiffs of energy and optimism. I'm guessing that it might have to do with the fact that Josh started sleeping through the night right after he mastered walking last month. I have also decided to stop blaming myself for his first 10.5 months of bad sleep--something I had regularly beat myself up over, lo these last six or seven months. Seems to me that Josh and Olivia were both just naturally opposed to sleep till they hit that same age, and that there wasn't a good goddamned thing I could have done about it. Funny how getting a little sleep allows me to stop blaming myself for the kids not getting any sleep. Sleeplessness is a cruel dictator.

Speaking of cruel dictators, time is just such another, especially when it comes to the sour wrinkles and age spots on my rapidly deteriorating skin. I'm guessing the sun and chlorine are not exactly helping me turn back the clock, but I have a small dilemma: every form of waterproof sun block I've tried causes me to break out in full-on fourteen-year-old-boy zits. I've tried all the hypoallergenic, non-comedogenic, oil-free options I can find in Target, but still the zits. If any Wise Internet has a recommendation, please take pity on me and my deepening brow furrows.

When is enough, enough?

2008-08-01T11:14:00.000-07:00

With all appropriate credit to Dickens, I have to say that this year has been both the best of times and the worst.

Yes. Definitely the best. Two delightful, clever children are like hundred-watt incandescent bulbs of joy. Worst? Yes. Definitely the worst. Two needy, novelty-requiring children are like twenty-pound ankleweights on the mind and body, especially when one doesn't sleep. Throw in the ever-increasing career pressures and all the other everyday stressors and...well, yes. Worst, too. Where life used to be fairly placid, even-keeled, with a generally contented bent--aside from infertility--it is now a series of leaps and crashes, constant swings.

I'm finding that those highs--those sweet, sweet highs--have a sort of addictive hold on me. I long for them bodily. When Josh tucks his soft head in the crook of my neck, I am suffused with joy and a powerful longing, and a desire to cry. It is moving too fast. He is getting so big. And I start to think that we should try for one more, just one more. One more soft, small baby. One more child. And then I think, Am I fucking nuts? I am barely holding on now. Jeff is barely holding on now. If life doesn't get easier for us soon, it may affect our relationship permanently. The strain is already palpable: we're quick to irritation and wholly wrapped up in things other than each other. There is a division of hearts and minds in correlation to the necessary division of labor.

But there is something so pleasing in the notion of three. It seems...abundant. Full. Rich. Also, marginally insane and possibly greedy.

I have not gone daft; at least, not wholly, and not yet. (Feel free to disagree.) I know full well that now is not--NOT--the time for another baby. I also know that I'll be 39 next month and am, Joshua's easy conception notwithstanding, infertile. My eggs--poor at 35--have not bested Ponce de Leon and found the Fountain of Youth. If there is to be any chance of a third, we can't wait for peace to reign in our household and our children to become self-sufficient before we commence the attempt.

So: we cannot try now. I know that. And perhaps, if Josh starts sleeping through the night and Olivia finishes the miserabloe months-long potty training odyssey we were fool enough to embark upon, and we start getting sleep and some orts of free time, we will find that we really, really love it and don't want to mess with our stability for anything. Or maybe, just maybe, we'll feel so good about our relatively calm and stable life together that we think, what the heck, let's make the attempt. What's one more?

I don't know. I just don't know. I guess I figured I would instinctively know when we were done. I don't.

If you've been there, did you? Did you know when you had finished building your family? Was it clear?

Who slipped my kid 'shrooms?

2008-07-22T18:54:00.000-07:00

Scene: Olivia at the dinner table, head tilted back, swaying gently and waving two capped washable markers in loose circles overhead

Me: "Olivia, what are you thinking about?"

Olivia, dreamily: "I'm painting the sky. Isn't it beauuuuuutiful, Mommy?"

No dancing bear bumper stickers have materialized on her BOB just yet, but I'll be keeping an eye out.

Who knew this blog could get any whinier?

2008-06-26T18:06:00.000-07:00

I think Emily may have had it right in her comment on my last post: just fake it. Pretend I have it together at the office, pretend I'm not on the verge of a meltdown at home. There is a tight little smile plastered on my face as I go through my day, with a couple of hours' respite during the long commute. I also think Cass had a big part of it right, so I will bang my head against a convenient wall when I just can't cope anymore, and perhaps lock myself in the bathroom and scream on occasion, as Jennifer suggested.

The days are just hard, and that's the way it is. I get up at seven if I'm lucky, nurse an unenthusiastic baby, get ready for work, pump, pack up all the crap I need to take with me, get the other one up, take her to the potty, dress her, feed her, check work email, dash out the door, drive for an hour, work for ten, pump twice more and drive the hour back home. It is now 8:30 or so. I am then beset by an eager Josh and Olivia, try to make something for dinner while entertaining one or both of them, get Olivia toileted, play with them both for a few minutes, get Josh nursed, get him to bed, get Olivia to bed, pump again and try to get ten minutes' peace before I have to turn in, too. An hour or two later, the crying starts and the nighttime round of hushings and feedings and lullabyes starts up. When something else gets thrown into the mix--illness (frequent), necessary travel, unexpected home repairs, anything--I just start to lose my ability to cope, or even pretend to cope.

I don't want to give the wrong impression here. I am not struggling with half the burden that some people have. Chris asked about resources, and I do have resources--I have resources that the me of fifteen years ago wouldn't have credited. There are people who mow our lawn, clean our house and whisk away our drycleaning. I have two excellent nannies covering different days of the week and a thoughtful, involved, creative husband who probably does more parenting (and more enjoying of parenting) than I. I get to work from home one day a week; Jeff is working from home three days. And yet, with all of the help, with all of the accommodations we have been granted, I struggle to make it to the end of each day.

I always thought of myself as someone who thrived on pressure. I secretly relished an impossible deadline, the adrenaline of a major crunch, the challenge of high expectations. What I didn't realize was that I would eventually wilt, that I can't sustain it. I guess I just hadn't been challenged enough, for long enough, to know this till now.

So I am finding out all sorts of things about me that I never knew--for example, that I am not nearly as mentally stable as I thought I was; that I am completely incapable of any sort of emotional distance from other people's tragedies; that I can get blindingly, irrationally furious over irrelevant things. That I am, in short, a different, rawer, less certain person now than I was before, be it temporary (please) or permanent. And I need to adjust to who I am, and what I am today, and not expect the driven, competent, happy me of old to be front-and-center right now.

I wouldn't change much, even if I could. Perhaps I would have a sane, kindly, helpful old mother who could come and live with us; perhaps I would have a lighter work schedule. But I don't, so I need to deal with my life exactly as it is. And those moments when the kids do something novel, something silly, something sweet, something interesting--those are the moments I live for, the moments that drown out the fact that I am worn down and overwhelmed.

It will get easier. Some part of me know that it will, not too long from now, get easier. For now, I have to accept that I am where I am, mentally, emotionally and physically. Lower my expectations of me for a while.

Apologies for the self-indulgent rambling. With my new, lower standards, though, I don't think I will take the time to edit.

All-consumed

2008-06-16T19:20:00.000-07:00

It's weeks like this that find me wondering what I was grousing about before--you know, way back when, back in those days of pillowy luxury, those days when I had just the one all-consuming baby to suck up every spare cycle in my distracted brain, every spare scintilla of my limited energy.

I asked for it. I did. I asked for it, I asked for it, I asked for it. And I don't regret it. I couldn't ever regret Joshua, my ebullient boy, with his fuzzy head and cockamamie grin. But, shit, two is hard. Hard hard.

How do people do this? How do they make it work? What is the secret? For fuck's sake, even my barmy mother managed to raise three of us, and without the resources or conveniences I'm enjoying in this modern age.

Seriously, dear friends in the computer: How?

Selfless

2008-04-01T08:06:00.000-07:00

A life-long friend, always Mary to my Half-Pint, the one friend my sister and I shared willingly over the years and who is still among the people I am closest to in the world, informed me a few days ago that she is eleven weeks' pregnant with her first donor egg cycle. This friend who means so much to me, who shared in my infertility struggles, knew all along that she would not be able to have biological children, knew she would have to go down the road even further than I, but never said a word. She comforted me, cheered me on and took joy in my success without a hint of frustration or jealousy.

I don't think I really understood selflessness until the babies came, and then it seemed like the overriding requirement, and the highest hurdle. But Suz, my good, kind friend, you are already there--you've mastered the hardest part of motherhood.

And then there was none

2008-03-07T16:25:00.000-08:00

Has your milk ever taken a holiday? Just decided to kick off its pointy heels (its pointy shields?) and head to the a B&B on the coast for some relaxation and a good book?

Mine took off for parts unknown for one entire workday on Wednesday, one ten-hour workday in which I pumped for two hours and got about six drops of bluish, watery milk. It came back to work on Thursday but its mind was clearly still on the B&B's fluffy goose-down pillows, and maybe those crumbly cranberry-hazelnut scones. Its continuing lack of focus and productivity will be noted in its semi-annual review. Frankly, I question its dedication to the position.

Why? Why does this happen? The pediatric nurse practitioner, when I queried her today at Josh's five-month appointment, asked if I was getting enough sleep. (Lady, what do you think? I have an infant and a toddler and a career. Take a guess.) Her recommendation was to drink tea.

Now, I love her to pieces (for a whole variety of reasons that I would like to think are the just appreciation of her kind and attentive nature but probably have more to do with the fact that she always tells me that my babies are doing wonderfully and are so beautiful, even if I know she says that to every parent) but, really, tea? Is that the best we can come up with?

There's no real point to this. I know, I disappear for weeks at a time and then come back with something this mundane, but it's really got my goat. On that note, baaaa! (Or is that a sheep? I can never remember.)

I want a mini-break, too. And maybe a scone.

Things

2008-02-17T16:22:00.000-08:00

In the long years before Olivia and Joshua, I would, not too often, let myself imagine who I'd be as a mother, the grand roles I would play, the different "me"s I'd be: a teacher and a student, doctor and nurse, maid and playmate, nurturer, rulemaker, enforcer, coach, comforter. To some extent, yes, I guess I am most of those, at least some of the time. More often, though, it is the things I am--the physical items I stand in for--that are the essence of who I am now, what my life is now.

Like today. Today I am Kleenex. I am also a hand towel, a doormat, a scratching post and a chair; a ladder, a radiator, an engine and a lift.

I am a garbage disposal, swallowing half-chewed bites of soda bread from my daughter's proffering hand. I am an uncomplaining post against which she leans when in need of a rest.

I am a Jack-in-the-box and a radio. A Crayon-hued canvas. A carousel. A conveyance. A Cuisinart.

I'm a barrier. A windshield. A purse. A pacifier. Food.

I am a soft, conforming pillow for a dreaming, peaceful boy. And I am his blanket.

I am all these things. Taken together, I suppose they are a role after all--the universal role of Mom.

The Great Divide

2007-11-25T15:52:00.000-08:00

Joshua, hatless and swaddled in his soft green blanket, is snorining softly in his shabby carseat. He is two months old now. Olivia, still wearing a valentine-hued getup of her own choosing, is passed out in her crib. Her purple hiking boots, such a hassle to put on, were even harder to get off without waking her.

So, the kids are asleep. The kids, plural. I repeat that word to myself at night when I can't sleep, over and over, marveling at it and wishing I could make myself believe in its veracity. Soon, maybe.

There are days, today included, when we are a family of four. We went for a long walk together, ate lunch together, sang silly songs. And there are days--most, in fact--when we are not, when we are divided into our natural pairings. I am near constantly with Joshua, for reasons obvious and otherwise; when he's not working and she's not with a caregiver, Jeff is with Olivia. It is the pragmatic tack to take, the sensible way to handle the demands of two babies at once. And, it seems to me, a little sad and isolating.

Until Josh's arrival, Jeff and I marveled together over Olivia's every ounce, every sound. The shape of her head, the directness of her gaze, the curve of her mouth, the angle of her chin, the plumpness of her wrists, the timbre of her laugh. We had the luxury of being a team with a single objective, a single project. That project is now a blooming, determined toddler who needs a river of attention and energy--needs that are incompatible with the simultaneous care of a newborn. So she jumps and runs and paints and babbles and throws tantrums in the company of her father, while Josh and I keep to gentler activities in another room, and I marvel at his gaze and chin and wrists on my own. I have breakfast time with Olivia each morning and "special time" each evening--a time to do whatever activity inspires her at that moment--but it's not nearly enough.

When she falls down, the sympathy she wants is from her dad. When she masters a new skill, she wants his approbation. When she's full and still has food on her small plate, the mouth she wants to feed with her plastic fork is always Daddy's. Josh, on the other hand, wants nothing more than to be with me, to be comforted by me, to smile with me, and tracks me with his eyes regardless of whose arms are holding him.

It hit me hard the other night when I came in from a few minutes' play time with Olivia to find Jeff cooing and smiling at a burbling Josh. I realized that it was the first time I had seen Jeff look unreservedly delighted to be a father to his son, a delight I was so used to seeing him feel for Olivia. There was no taint of overwhelm or worry or exhaustion, no how-the-hell-are-we-going-to-manage crease in his forehead, no vague accusation in his eyes. Just delight. Pure delight.

I want more of that. I want Jeff to have more of those moments with Josh. I want more of those moments with Olivia. Some day, I'll probably ask for some of those moments between Jeff and me again, too, but I don't want to get that greedy just yet.

* * *

I realize that I haven't given Josh much of an introduction, and I want to give you a picture. He is an exceptionally easy baby. He eats, he smiles, he sleeps. He does not scream and spasm and shake after feedings, he doesn't need to be walked in endless loops through the house at 3 a.m. No GERD, no thrush, no ear infections. Not even diaper rash. In short, he is a delight, an unexpected counterpoint to the colicky misery of Olivia's first months. I am flush with gratitude.

The Adjustment

2007-09-30T17:54:00.000-07:00

Several of you have been so thoughtful as to ask how Olivia is reacting to the new baby. I thought I'd answer it with a quote from today:

"No, Olivia, don't bang on baby brother's brain. It's not nice."

--Jeff, upon finding Olivia turned around in the double stroller, pounding gleefully on Joshua's fontanelle.

I have a post brewing on the unmerited cockiness of a second-time breast-feeder and the horrifying sight of your baby spitting up blood he ingested from your own nipple. But perhaps that is enough on that and I'll leave it there.

Joshua Michael took his time

2007-09-26T17:45:00.000-07:00

Overdue by five days, Joshua had finally seen enough of my uterus by Monday morning. I awoke at precisely 5:29 to a mild contraction that was just enough stronger than all of the other mild contractions of recent weeks to pique my interest. Another followed about twelve minutes later, and another, and another--all mild, all far apart--for the next two hours. I wrote a few emails, showered and dressed and suddenly the contractions were five minutes apart, then four. And strong. Very strong.

By 8:45, with contractions between three and four minutes apart, I was eyeing the clock and hoping that our nanny didn't choose a bad day to break her year-long punctuality streak. (She didn't.)

My OB's office warned L&D that we were on our way, and would be in a hurry. Jeff packed the car, I got Olivia dressed and tried not to let her see how much pain I was in. (I failed, and she looked at me sideways with a very grave blue eye and a charming crease in her forehead.)

Then we remembered a bunch of stuff that we still needed to pack and phone numbers we needed to have, and we couldn't quite manage to get out the door. And then it was 9:15 and we were on our way to the hospital, Jeff driving exceedingly carefully and infuriatingly slowly.

Some asshole in an enormous black truck with the obligatory NRA sticker took up two "Small Cars Only" parking spaces in the hospital lot. Asshole. ASSHOLE. We couldn't find a spot. We spiraled up the structure for what seemed like twenty minutes but was, I'm sure, no more than two, and found one on the top floor. We got down (two contractions) and into the hospital elevator (another contraction) and the kind security guard who rode with us hurried me past the crowded inspection point and straight to sign-in. I wanted to kiss him but would only have reached his knees as I was doubled over with another contraction.

At 9:39 I signed in and was taken to L&D triage. After a few minutes, I was strapped to the monitors and left: there was a woman arriving in pre-term labor (32 weeks) and she, for obvious reasons, needed to be seen first. I breathed and whimpered through another few contractions and waited for the triage nurse to return, listening to the moans of women in the nearby beds.

When the triage nurse did return, she took one look at the tracings (2-3 minutes apart, peaks off the graph) and said, "We'll be admitting you." Right after the next contraction, she did an exam: 5-6 cm, 90% effaced, zero station. She asked about drugs; I said, yes, as soon as possible, please. She called our delivery nurse. We waited.

When the delivery nurse--Old Pro, let's call her--came to get us, she wouldn't let me dress. Just covered me with a robe, hastily and partially tied, and rushed me toward the delivery room. Mid-walk, I had a monster contraction and had to use her as a handrail, doubled over, butt to the breeze and a dozen or so civilians in the hallway. (I didn't care.)

Once in the room, she tried to get an IV going in my left arm with a 16-gauge needle. Said she had to get me hydrated before they could do the epidural, and that we needed to hurry. The vein blew. She rushed to repeat it on the right; it worked. The next contraction saw me writhing, vomiting and trying to break Jeff's hand, which he had foolishly placed in mine in a gesture of support. It felt like my guts were filled with exploding fire. Old Pro promised that she would get me some fentanyl immediately. She called the anesthesiologist for permission, loaded it up and within a few minutes I was drunk as a skunk. Still in pain, yes, but the pain didn't seem to matter quite as much.

Anesthesiologist arrived a few minutes later. Epidural was placed. He promised me that the birth could be "a pain-free experience," unlike the hell of the last one. Within five minutes, I was more comfortable than I had been in months. I could feel the contractions, sure, but as a not-unpleasant sensation. The nausea abated. I smiled. Jeff relaxed. Ahhh.

It was now about 11:45. The the nurse headed down the hall for a few minutes to eat her lunch. The OB on call came in to check me. She pulled back and, with a look of great surprise, informed me that the baby's head was right there. Right there. I was complete, head almost crowning, time to push.

Old Pro was retrieved from the break room, an assistant was rounded up from somewhere to hold one of my legs, and I was told that the baby would be out within two contractions.

I assumed the position, pushed once I felt the contraction and found myself seeing stars and unable to lift my head. Repeat two or three times.

Old Pro asked if I felt lightheaded. I couldn't answer. She mumbled something to the OB, the OB shook her head and I was told to push again as hard as I could with the next contraction. I did and tried not to faint. Couldn't catch my breath. OB then infomed me that, while the baby didn't seem to be very big, I am very small; that the baby was cutting off my blood return, making me unable to get enough oxygen, and his umbilical cord was very compressed. Heart tracings at 60 BPM and not recovering. I am to push, push, push or they will have to "do something." I cannot comprehend what they are saying to me and it doesn't sink in.

I push again as hard as I can muster (picture trying to sprint for 200 meters after exhaling completely), fainting once, then come around and push one more time. And then his head is there, his mouth and nose being suctioned, along with one arm, which apparently preceded the head and caused some of the trouble. I can see him! And then, at 12:12 p.m., another little push and he's on my belly, writhing and peeing. And he's right as rain.

Twiddle, twiddle, do, re, mi

2007-09-21T16:22:00.000-07:00

With thumbs a-twiddle, I'm passing the time, whistling tunelessly, waiting for this too-boring-for-TLC baby-delivery show to get on the road. After the serious talking-to I got a few weeks ago at the OB's office, warning that he would almost certainly be showing up early, he is now officially tardy. There was one brief scare last week--I lost five weeks of fundal height in six days, necessitating a rushed ultrasound at the hospital, which proved entirely reassuring--but other than that there's been no excitement at all. Nada. Zip.

My parrot, Archimedes, is doing a perfect imitation of my aimless, random whistling, except that she has better pitch and volume. I am mildly jealous.

I'm 2 cm dilated, 50% effaced and having the occasional unproductive contraction. Sleep deprived only from the need to urinate five or seven or nine times per night and finding it difficult to squirm into any position that approximates comfort. I am, as best I can manage, ready: I want him out where I can see him, where I can touch him and where he isn't spooning so affectionately with my bladder.

I realize I will be hitting myself over the head with a cartoon-style skillet once I find myself in the agony of labor, and afterwards, when I haven't slept for a fortnight. But, patience and prudence be damned, I am READY.

And the Grass is Still Green

2007-09-04T18:11:00.000-07:00

There is no ideal jumping-back-in point in this story; in fact, there isn't much of a story. The usual segments of my daily life have continued to eat up the minutes quite uneventfully, if rapaciously, and I am furrowing my well-lined brow in concentration as I try to come up with highlights. Or even lowlights.

There have been a few Big Events for us--major projects completed at work (yes, I know, yawn, yawn, who the hell would care but us?), a new house (again, interesting if it's yours, and not so interesting if it's someone else's), and a phoenix-like recovery for my almost-dead father (perhaps interesting if you have a loved one of advancing years and would like to know how to badger, threaten and intimidate doctors and administrators at The Worst HMO Hospital in Los Angeles for five months until they Do Something Useful). There are the usual milestones and sweet moments from Olivia's last half year, along with a frightening preview of the Terrible Twos. And, of course, there is The Least Interesting Pregnancy in the History of World Pregnancy, 40,000 BC-Present.

The product of this Least Interesting Pregnancy is due on the 19th, but my Nurse Practitioner (aside: this is such a boring pregnancy that I don't even see the doctor--just the NP) has predicted an early arrival. As in, any time now.

I'm not sure if this will be the first of many or the first of, say, two posts. Guess it depends on whether anyone is still out there reading, how much time I can wrangle and how coherently I can write in the forthcoming blur of sleep deprivation. I can guarantee at least one post upon arrival, if nothing more ambitious.

I have missed this place. I've missed you. Feels good to be back, even if it's a short stay.

Into the sunset

2007-03-12T19:10:00.000-07:00

You know, it's to be expected. All new mothers are stressed and tired. The majority of career women are busy and anxious. A lot of pregnant women feel shitty and emotional. And every last pregnant infertile is scared to the bone that something will go wrong. It’s all par for the course, and this is a course I most certainly chose for myself. I hear myself whinging about the nausea or the overwhelm or the exhaustion or the random scary cramp and I just don’t want to be around me. I want a break from me.

In that vein, I think it’s time for a hiatus here at the Dead Bug Blog. I hope to come back some day soon with a fresh perspective and something more than two-paragraph sad-sack posts.

The truth is, we are well. I have everything I could ask for, except infinite time. Olivia is something beyond wonderful—she’s winsome and bright, full of life and interest and sweetness. She has started hugging me, even if only after she started hugging her favorite stuffed animals. Her ill-coordinated walking is a delight, her nimble hands becoming so expert at so many things. Her eyes, these pale blue lamps that shine right into me, continue to take me by surprise.

And then there is this other little being, this textbook pregnancy, this extraordinary gift. He looks as he should, his NT measurements just right, with a beautiful heart and centimeter-long feet complete with minuscule, moving toes. Those too-short minutes in the perinatal center, with their detailed images and descriptive tech, have made him much more real than a month of morning sickness could have done. I believe in him now.

Jeff and I are finding a few minutes for each other, holding hands, talking about unimportant things and letting out our breath each night before bed. I missed it so much and didn’t really know it. He continues to awe me as a father—more often than not, the primary caregiver—as he puts Olivia’s needs before all else, with my pregnant self not far behind. He has always been generous and self-sacrificing, but I never knew he could extend himself this far. I feel so indebted to him, so grateful and so very much in love.

I’ve spent too long focusing on the things that make life difficult: it’s time to pay attention to everything that is right. So I will head off into a seventy-degree evening, the hills covered in Irish-green grass and studded with daffodils, and admire what’s left of the sunset as I drive the hour home. There is no “other side” to strive for, no world with a perfect house and plenty of sleep, a healthy dad and a job that makes me happy all the time. The grass really is as green as it’s going to get, right here, right now.

More of a Drunken Stagger

2007-03-07T13:17:00.000-08:00

That "walking" Olivia was purported by the optimistic ladies at daycare to be doing does not, to my mind, qualify. But it sure is charming. I mean, there's nothing quite as heartwarming as an eleven-month-old who thinks she can walk, but actually resembles Nicolas Cage in the after-bar scene in Valley Girl: directionless, uncontrolled, shitfaced staggering. At least she does it with a delighted screech instead of a puke.

More...well, more someday. Our current level of overwhelm is reaching new heights and/or depths, what with the commuting, working, househunting, parenting, elder-caring, morning sickness and it being tax time. (Our taxes are, let's see, complex would be a laughable understatement. Self-employed husband, home office, stock options, new dependent, etc., etc., etc. And to further exacerbate our tax-time woes, we're also official employers of one fantastic part-time Tanzanian nanny, whose legal right to work in the US was finally printed on government paper this January 1st but whose payrolling began, erm, somewhat before then.

If it's Thursday, this must be Hell

2007-03-01T18:40:00.000-08:00

No time. No time. No time.

There is an Etna-like explosion of work. I will be entombed in it if I don't claw out an airhole soon.

All is still well with the pregnancy. I am still wretched, and reassured.

Olivia started walking today. I have yet to see it.

Buuuuuugh.

But it doesn't matter much

2007-02-22T17:35:00.000-08:00

Dream house will have to remain in the realm of fantasy. Further inspections uncovered a rotten trove of unappetizing problems--soggy window casings, improperly installed stucco flashing, drainage issues, sewer issues, electrical issues, furnace issues, roof deck issues and even a nice big damp patch on the eighteen-foot ceiling of the living room. Apparently, the last inspection was done in late October of last year, before any significant rain visited the area. The property stager had the temerity to hide a large, discolored, efflorescing water stain on one of the landing walls with a gilt mirror; I only noticed because the picture hanger holding up the mirror had come halfway out of the wall--a result of the decay caused by the damp.

We are sad to let go of the vision we had of ourselves, and particularly of Olivia, in that house, in that yard, going to that elementary school. But we are glad we didn’t end up with an elderly 2800-square-foot Mediterranean albatross that might strain us to the breaking point.

I find that I mind losing this house a lot less than I would have thought. It seems, well, not exactly insignificant, but not really compelling, either. Maybe it’s partly the distraction of the nausea and everything it represents; maybe it’s the even larger distraction of Olivia. Maybe it’s the fact that I just can’t slow down enough to really consider the ramifications: Will it be another eight months of fruitless searching? If we fail to find a suitable place, how will we cope with two babies and a daytime nanny in our tiny house? (Yes, jumping the gun, but we are in a position in which we have to plan for the possibility that this one will really happen—that we’ll have a newborn come September.)

Speaking of which, appointment tomorrow. 10W2D. Not sure what to expect; hoping for a scan.

Telling your father what to do...

2007-02-20T18:20:00.000-08:00

...is a miserable business.

No, you can't postpone the physical therapist till tomorrow. Yes, you have to drink the Ensure. No, you can't lie on your back for another hour. Yes, you have to go to the doctor's on Thursday. No, you can't skip the morning blood draw. Yes, you have to have the dressing for the bedsores changed now. I know it hurts, but you have to do it anyway.

I know you're tired, but you have to do it. I know you're not hungry, but you have to eat it. Here, let me cut it up smaller for you.

Ups and Downers

2007-02-16T18:25:00.000-08:00

Yesterday we got the word that our below-asking offer was accepted on the house of our dreams. It is large. It is lovely. It is of my favorite vintage (1920s) and one of my favorite styles (Hollywood Mediterranean). We will feel like prince (the house is castle-like) and pauper (we aren't actually, you know, wealthy) all at once. We were typically elated, with lots of No ways and Holy cows and Oh my gods and more No ways. We laughed and danced around the lunch room to the congratulations of our co-workers.

Today, however, was a lot more subdued. We got the word that my dad would be staying in the hospital instead of getting sprung yesterday, as was the original plan. The blood clots in his left leg, the result of his Parkinson's-induced immobiliy and general poo-poohing of physical therapy, decided to go an a walkabout in the general direction of his lungs. Much heparin was given; much coumadin to come. We hope a visit from Olivia will get his circulation going, though we have to sneak her into the hospital room disguised as a small pink throw rug.

Back Tuesday.

And it's back

2007-02-13T13:00:00.000-08:00

I feel like a heel for not updating yesterday. My only excuse is that I didn't have time--it was a long, long day, filled with meetings and drama and thunder and unmerciful traffic.

The nausea resumed its normal virulence yesterday. I am tentatively exhaling now (inbetween shallow, panting nausea breaths) and assuming that all must be OK if I feel this much like bloody pulverized hell.

I am so grateful for your concern and good wishes. Thank you, all.

Ambiguous update

2007-02-11T09:27:00.000-08:00

Nothing really significant to report, but, using Ollie's smell test (Jeff's sweet-spicy deodorant), I did manage to nauseate myself very slightly. It being the weekend, hopes for a scan are minimal, unless I start bleeding and get to have a fun-fun-fun trip to the ER. Fortunately, no blood and no real cramping.

I'm trying to assume that all is well, that this is normal, that it's just different from the utter consistency of the last pregnancy. Not quite working, but enough so that I haven't completely freaked out Jeff with my worry.

I'll be calling the OB's office tomorrow if the nausea doesn't return.

Scared

2007-02-10T09:41:00.000-08:00

Sudden cessation of symptoms this morning. No cramping, no bleeding, but also no nausea. For about a minute I was relieved, then the possible implications dawned on me.

Probably making too much of this, but scared nonetheless.

The eight-week whine

2007-02-07T18:26:00.000-08:00

Eight weeks today, and definitely pregnant.

I am exhausted. Always exhausted. And the nausea, which I blithely, confidently assumed would be better this pregnancy than last--I'm not carrying triplets--has bludgeoned me. It started in earnest just after the six-week mark and now I am very nearly incapacitated by it, squeaking by each day out of pure necessity. It keeps me awake at night, rolls through me in waves as I drive to work, grows steadily through the day as I struggle through meetings and conference calls, then laughs at me and pulls back just a hair when I finally give in and say, Uncle!, You win!, I give!, Just let me throw up! Please! I just want to throw up! PLEASE! Somehow, the effort I made last time to not throw up, since I was supposed to be keeping down an ungodly number of calories, has blunted my ability to hurl when I really, really want (need?) to.

Sadly, the nausea is at its zenith when Olivia is nursing, with her warm weight pressing into my belly. Nursing is something I had come to love, and now it is a rather, um, sore subject. The pregnant nips, they do not like the nursing. It hurts almost as much as it did during those first couple of weeks postpartum, except for the blessed lack of engorgement. But I can manage it, and the thought of giving up makes me very, very sad. That bond with her is something I do not want to lose just yet. As a compromise, I have eliminated the pumping. During the day, Olivia, now ten months old, couldn't care less whether she's given bottles of hard-won mother's milk or swills haphazardly-mixed formula, though she does still love to nurse. Which she does two or three times a day, or more often on weekends.

I read up on being pregnant and nursing and everything seems to indicate that it will do neither of them any harm--that the only one who stands to suffer by it is me. So my lofty and ambitious goal for the next month or two will be to get enough nutrition in me for the three of us while battling the urge to eat nothing at all, ever. Any helpful ideas you lovely ladies in the computer may have on how to get iron into my diet without supplements or daily ingestion of a 16-ounce Porterhouse would be much appreciated. The supplements make me even more nauesated, and, while I love a good steak, I do not love a good steak every single day. I'm trying to eat a fortified cereal each morning, but nothing about it appeals right now and it makes it very hard to finish a grown-up portion when everything in you is screaming, Stop!

So, enough with the whinging. If I didn't have nausea, I'd be whinging that I didn't feel pregnant enough. I love knowing that something is going on in my body, that this exciting, terrifying process is taking place. And on that subject, I must admit to you that the terror is slightly less tangible this time. Not because I am suddenly an optimist, but because it feels like an unearned bonus, a windfall. If someone were to tell me it was all a mistake, I would be very disappointed, very sad, but I wouldn't feel cheated.

Perhaps the terror will grow as my attachment to this fetus/embryo/fetbryo grows. Being on the "normal" calendar with my OB, there aren't the weekly ultrasounds to put a picture to the pregnancy. The next one, in fact, will be the NT scan early next month, unless something bad happens first.

In the meanwhile, I'm still shocked--every day--to find myself here.

Different?

2007-02-02T10:35:00.000-08:00

Some days, I find myself having forgotten that I'm pregnant. It takes me by surprise after full half-hour intervals in which I haven't given it any thought: I'll be working on a project or driving to work, and a wave of nausea will hit to remind me--oh, yes, that's right, how wonderful.

So far, these early days of pregnancy have been much easier. Not carrying triplets has meant much less morning sickness, though the exhaustion seems even more pronounced. I chalk that up to the fact that Olivia is still not sleeping through the night, except on rare occasions, and even when she does, I wake up worrying about her. That, I suppose, is the biggest difference: instead of thinking constantly of this pregnancy, the background hum in my head is on the all-Olivia, all-the-time station.

I worry sometimes if this is fair. Olivia has been the recipient of unremitting, obsessive attention from that first positive beta. Vague dreams of Olivia predated that pregnancy by years. Will this one, if we get there, suffer from a lack of attention? The few people we've told say things like, Wow, it'll almost be like having twins! and, Poor Olivia, she's not going to like the competition. And I think to myself--of course Olivia will still get our attention; she's the center of the universe: the question to me is, will the new (maybe) baby get enough? Even my dad, though patently delighted at the prospect of another grandchild, wondered how we'd find the time and energy. Jeff, in a very innocent way, said he didn't know how it would be possible to love another as much as Olivia. And he meant it just that way: the mystery is in the how; he assumes he will.

I was the youngest of three. I never hurt for attention, at least not that I can remember, until after my mother went off her ill-constructed rocker. Jeff is the oldest of three, and I don't see that his younger brothers suffered from a lack of parental involvement. But I do know that there is a special bond between Jeff and his parents, and between my eldest brother and my mother, that is just different.

I don't know why I'm worrying about this now. Who knows where this pregnancy is headed? Early days, very early days. But, well, by now I'm sure it's no mystery that worrying is what I do best.

How

2007-01-29T17:43:00.000-08:00

"You're the perfect example of how a full-term pregnancy can restore your hormone balance," Dr. Top said last week. "I've seen it over and over. Years of infertility--unexplained, poor responders, what have you--then an IVF pregnancy, a baby, then...fertility."

I gave a surprised smile, feeling puzzled and curious and inarticulate, and that was the end of the subject. I didn't even think to ask, "How?"

I know that something was, well, different, hormone-wise. Back before I knew just how difficult it would be to get pregnant, I spent two years charting my wonky cycles, including all of the usual indelicate jabbing and swabbing, and never once had any eggwhite cervical mucous (EWCM--remember that acronym, people? Brings you back, doesn't it?). I would often get LH surges that lasted four or five days instead of the usual one or two. The month of the inconceivable conception, though my cycle was definitely irregular, with ovulation around day 23 or 24, I had EWCM that would have made Toni Weschler's illustrations weep with envy. And there was a textbook one-day LH surge, which corresponded perfectly. Just like I always hoped for, back in the Creataceous period.

But that's it. That's all that was different. Could these small things honestly be signs that my body was somehow fixed? If so, how? It just doesn't seem possible. The cycle that gave me Olivia required the maximum stim dose, no suppression, ICSI and assisted hatching. I had less than 40% fertilization and none of the embryos were close to a Grade 1. Clearly, my eggs were not just on the decline, but speeding rapidly down that far slope.

A part of me is inclined to believe that this pregnancy was a matter of extraordinary luck, not the natural outcome of a prior success. But then I think back to all of those endless months of trying and failing and trying and failing and wonder if there's something to Dr. Top's version of "how" after all. In the end, I guess it doesn't make much difference for me right here and right now--against all of my expectations, I am pregnant--but I can't stop wondering.

Yes

2007-01-26T14:20:00.000-08:00

There is a fetus. There is a yolk sac. There is a heartbeat. And there is a powerful feeling of relief.

I Have Nerves that Jingle, Jangle, Jingle

2007-01-24T15:32:00.000-08:00

Second beta came in at 18,970, for a doubling time of around 74 hours. NP considered this result "fine"; the internet seems to consider it not quite ideal. Betabase lists a median doubling time for this hCG range of around 60 hours, and I'm wishing I were a little closer to that, but it's not slow enough to freak out, exactly, even though that's what every fiber in my body seems to be gearing up for. It's like there's a muscle-memory for freak-out, and any marginally bad news sets in motion this incoherent twanging fear and discontent. It's stupid; this news is maybe mediocre, but it's not bad. And yet I go into low-grade panic mode.

The twanging fear and I will just have to hang out till Friday, when the Wand Monkey is due for a feeding at 11 a.m.

First Blood

2007-01-22T18:33:00.000-08:00

Results from Friday's bloodwork are in.

hCG: 9700 (5W2D, or 23 DPO). Nurse Practitioner called it "very good," but I have no reliable internet source to prove it.

Progesterone: 22.1

TSH: 2.103

T4: 1.33

How to spend the time till tomorrow afternoon or Wednesday morning, when the next numbers come in? Why, by grinding my teeth to little bloody nubs, of course!

Not liking the limbo

2007-01-22T07:43:00.000-08:00

Still twisting in the wind; no word on Friday's results. Spent weekend in LA with cell in hand, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting.

Going to the office to get a lab slip for today's draw and hoping to corner someone who can give me the news.

Minimal symptoms, just an occasional breast pang and a mild aversion to sweets. Wanting to feel awful so badly.