The Curse of the Two Week Wait

This week started with such promise.  I was living in the giddy glow that I was sure the procedure worked and the only real issue was how many we would have.  I started using hpts to see if anything would show up yet.  Nothing so far, which isn't really much of a surprise.  It would be really rare to see anything this early.  Only, with each negative result, my certainty that the procedure worked started to chip away.  Then, this morning, I got hit with the sads.  An overwhelming, I keep starting to cry out of nowhere, sad.

It took most of the day to realize that at least part of it is the upcoming anniversary of my miscarriage.  But, as I sat with it, I realized that another part of my problem is my control needs.  See, there's no way to prepare myself for every outcome.  It could be triplets, twins, a singleton, or none at all.  There is simply no emotional preparation that is appropriate for all of those outcomes.  Thus, the solution would be to not prepare and just go with the flow.  The whole "what will be will be" mantra.  Only, that's not me.  I'm a preparer.  Indeed, it's one of the reasons I keep using hpts.  I'm trying to prepare myself.  See, if I get an early positive, it's more likely to be multiples.  If nothing has shown up by Saturday, it's unlikely to be a positive beta and I'm not caught off guard by the results on Monday.  Still, my inability to know anything definitively and the continued negative results only feed my fear that this cycle has failed and that I will learn as much only days after the anniversary of the loss of Oliver.  Needless to say, I am an emotional mess.  Come Monday, all of this waiting and not knowing will be over one way or the other.  I just need to get through five days.  So, I try and comfort myself by looking at my picture.  And I hope.  Because, without control or knowledge, it's all I have.  Still, it's something.

Five days and counting...

An Addiction to Hope

It's been a rough week for me as, every other day, I have learned of another friend, relative, or co-worker who is in their first trimester of pregnancy.  And, although it may not be my first thought, I am truly happy for them.  Knowing first hand how horrible infertility is, I don't wish it on anyone.  Still, hearing the news when I am still raw and not yet through this month of loss (next week would have been my due date with Oliver), I just get angry at the unfairness of it all. I also get cranky because I hate being told no.  I am one of those people who will stubborn my way through to anything I *really* want and being told "no" only makes me work that much harder.  All of which helps explain why, late last night, I was reconsidering our decision to stop IVF.

Now, please understand, cognitively, I have no desire to try again.  I hate the shots and the roller coaster and the waiting.  I hate not being able to plan vacations or use leave time in case I need it for maternity leave.  I get anxious at the idea of having to be pregnant while Lil' Bit goes in for another heart catheterization next spring.  But, being bombarded with all these pregnancies, on top of viscerally feeling the loss of Oliver, and, at least emotionally, all I want is another child.

Finding myself confused about holding both of these diametrically opposed positions, I consulted my "IVF Bible"--The Infertility Survival Handbook by Elizabeth Swire Falker [I highly recommend it for anyone suffering with infertility!].  In it, there is a chapter on how to know when to stop, and she points out that fertility treatments are addictive:  "[R]eproductive technology offers perpetual hope of having a child.  It's almost impossible to walk away from that."  And she's exactly right.  You are forever asking yourself if the next time would be the time that worked.  In addition, there are stories of women who have undergone six or more fresh IVF cycles, and however many attendant FET cycles, before achieving their goal.  It's quite easy, especially for those of us who want to push through and do whatever it takes to get what we want, to slip into a never-ending cycle of treatments.

As I tried to explain all of this to Phil this morning--not because I necessarily want to renegotiate our agreement, but because I wanted to communicate with him where I was (after all, he doesn't know unless I tell him!)--I realized that I was stuck.  I am having a difficult time releasing the energy I have invested in having another child.  However, I am fairly certain that once I have my hysterectomy, I will be able to let go.  There are no more one-in-a-million shots at a miracle child.  There is no more possibility of changing our minds and trying one more round.  I will be physically incapable of achieving pregnancy.  Period.  Then, and only then, will I be able to let go of the energy I have invested in having another child.  Until that point, I am, for better or worse, irrevocably addicted to hope.  And nothing, not our agreement, not poverty, not my infertility, not even common sense, will stop me from hoping against hope that something will change and pregnancy will come.  Which, unfortunately, also means that my real healing may not begin until then.  Instead, every month, until I am proven wrong, I continue to have unreasonable hope that I could be pregnant.  Is it rational?  No, but addictions never are.  And, it appears that nothing short of impossibility will fix it.  Until that time, I still have it within my power to try and to hope against all hope.  And, as long as there is something within my power that I can do, I can't give up.  That's just my nature.  It doesn't mean I'm not going to try to to heal until that happens.  But, at the same time, I have to be honest with myself.  So, this is me, being honest about where I am; about being stuck; about being addicted--to hope.

Returning to Myself

The last month has been really hard for me.  I finally sucked up my pride and went to the doctor for some antidepressants.  I was exhausted and burnt out.  I had reached the point where I was nonfunctional and that wasn't helping anyone.  My morning routine was shot.  I quit making real breakfast and just ate cereal.  I stopped taking full showers every morning.  All I wanted to do after dropping Lil' Bit off at daycare was drive home and curl up under the covers.  I ate potato chips and Snickers bars for lunch.  I almost never ate dinner, and if I did, it was likely ice cream.

I always thought of myself as a strong capable person.  And, truth be told, I still am.  I was just dealt an extra heavy dose of life recently.  Still, I HATED having to get meds.  Nothing makes me feel weaker and less in control than having to medicate myself.  But none of that changes the fact that I needed it.

So, I go talk to my doctor and he prescribed me a mild, entry-level antidepressant.  It gave me nausea and insomnia the first week (not helping!), but those finally went away.  However, new and more problematic side effects started to occur and I ended up in the ER the Saturday before Easter (really not helping!).  I stopped that med immediately and when I went to my doctor last week he put me on a different class of anti-depressant.  This one has been amazing.  I felt better after two days.  I've even had a few bouts of baby fever--proving I'm feeling better!

In fact, yesterday I not only felt like my old self again, but I felt like I did before I had Lil' Bit.  I felt like a capable parent.  And as that awareness dawned on me, it occurred to me that maybe I had been dealing with depression longer than I thought.  See, I knew being a parent made you feel tired and overwhelmed, so when I felt that way after having Lil' Bit, I assumed it was just the lack of sleep.  I never felt sad or anything that I thought of as "depressed."  But, given how much better I feel now, I think I was suffering from mild postpartum depression.  Nothing huge, and nothing that wouldn't have gone away with time, EXCEPT for suddenly having all of Lil' Bit's medical issues to deal with, and a miscarriage, and, and, and.  Stress and grief piled up to create situational depression that exacerbated the postpartum depression I didn't know I had and *poof* the world was a horrible place that kept dumping on me and I just wanted to hide until it stopped.

Now that I have come out from under the clouds and feel so much better, I wish I had done this sooner.  I hate that my pride and stubbornness prevented me from seeking help.  But, rather than beat myself up about it, I can take pleasure in the fact that I did, eventually, do something about it, and now, I am loving being a parent again.  I *might* even consider doing it again.  But even if we ultimately decide not to try again, I feel like I'm in a better place to accept whatever we decision we make because it won't be made from what felt like a place of defeat or resignation, but from a place of comfort and acceptance.  I know this will sound crazy coming from a planner and control freak, but I'm finally looking forward to what lies ahead without knowing what it will be.  Who knew surrender could be so freeing?!  Oh, right...  Well, at least I finally got here.  Welcome to MWS 2.0 (Mommy, Wife, Self).  Let's take her out for a spin!

Healing v Hiding

I thought I was doing a good job coping.  I really did.  As far as I could tell, I wasn't hiding from my feelings.  I cried.  I talked.  I cried more.  I thought a lot.  If you had asked me, I would have told you that I was doing great at this grief/healing thing.  Then came Tuesday.  I had a severe case of sads.  Bad enough I was willing to call it depression.  The "I'm crawling back under the comforter and not coming out until it's all over" kind of depression.  I didn't even want to eat ice cream to make myself feel better; that's way low for me.  So, I took the day off.  I let myself bow out.  Given that I am also recovering from severe bronchitis, I figured it was allowed.  And, by the end of the day, I was feeling pretty functional again.  So, imagine my surprise Wednesday morning when I found myself in that deep down funk again.  How was this possible?  I gave myself yesterday to cope and had gotten better.  This was not how things were supposed to go.  And yet, there I was.  Fighting for the energy to shower, get dressed, and go to work.  And again this morning.  The funk.  The lack of energy.  The wanting to bow out and let the world go on without me for a while.

And it occurred to me that maybe I hadn't been coping as well as I had thought.  As I thought about it, I realized that there are some good reasons for that.  First, my body is not yet done with the daily reminders.  I had my ultrasound today and although things look good generally, there is still some "fluff" (yes, that's the medical term the ultrasound tech used) and it's likely I will keep spotting until I have my next period.  Let me tell you--it's not fun being continuously reminded of a loss that is, for all intents and purposes, still ongoing.  And I realized that I was hiding at work.  I would get immersed in things and not have to think about my loss; my grief; my feelings.  I was superwoman and getting lots done at work, but I wasn't getting much done internally.  Turns out, my ability to function and perform well at work is unrelated to how well I am coping with the loss of my child.  Shocker!

Ironically, my discovery of my lack of dealing with things came when we received some good news.  We found out that, if we decide to try again, we have been given the financial resources to do so.  I honestly thought this news would make me feel better.  And yet, somehow, it plunged me further down into my hole.  I simply could not fathom why good news would make me feel so horrible.  But, as Phil and I discussed it, and I discovered that his experience had mirrored my own, we figured out what happened.  We had been focusing on the financial aspect of the decision whether to try again which kept us from dealing with the emotional aspects.  So, once the financial issue was off the table, there was nothing left to do but deal with the emotional baggage.  Hence, my funk.

So, I sat with things, thought about things, and tried to listen to the inner me--who often makes more sense than I give her credit for.  And I reached a few conclusions.  First, I'm taking May off the table.  It's too soon and requires too much planning for which I am not yet ready.  Plus, I don't think I will have processed my grief by then and I really don't want to start a hormone heavy regimen while still processing strong emotions.  As much as I hate waiting--as much as I didn't even want to wait until February this time around--I know that taking May off the table, thereby relieving lots of pressure on us, is the right decision.

I also discovered that one of the things that I needed to do to help me heal was to name my child.  This was difficult because we didn't know if it was a boy or a girl.  We talked about naming it something gender-neutral, but nothing seemed to fit.  Then, yesterday, I was talking with a good friend who went through a miscarriage at 12 weeks.  She told me that she had thought she was carrying a boy, so she gave it a boy's name.  As I thought on this and talked with Phil, I realized this made perfect sense.  While I was pregnant, I thought I was having a boy.  So, when I lost the child, what I lost was the visualization of my family with a little boy in it.  That made my loss little boy-shaped, so it only made sense that it should carry a little boy name.  And, to be perfectly honest, once we found out I was pregnant, since we had already picked out names, I had already been talking to the baby in my head by one particular name.  And so, after much discussion and thought, Phil and I agreed on the name for our angel baby--Oliver James.  Sometimes, I still find myself talking to Oliver.  Most often, I'm asking questions I know he can't answer.  But it comforts me.  It makes him real.  And, while it solidifies the loss, it also helps me heal.  Further, by giving him his own identity, I don't have to worry that I will try and treat any subsequent children we decide to have as replacements; they will get their own identity.  Still, I have no life experiences with loss that are the same as what I'm dealing with.  Don't get me wrong.  I have experienced loss, but nothing on this scale.  And that makes it hard for me.  I don't know what to expect.  I don't know how to behave.  How do I know what to do?  How will I know when I'm done?  There's no list of steps I can go through and wander out the other side and know I'm all better.  The planner in me is going ape over this.

And, in the midst of all this anger and frustration and funk, what I also realized was that I was not strong enough to do this on my own.  I was going to need help.  And not just people help (although that part is necessary and amazing).  And not just prayer help (although, again, wonderful and amazing stuff here).  No, I was going to need medical help.  And so it was that I sucked up my pride and took some Xanax.  I hate taking meds for anything.  It makes me feel like a failure.  But, knowing how helpful the Xanax was at taking the edge off so I could function during Lil' Bit's surgery and recovery, I knew it could help me get back to functionality after this loss.  And, slowly, I have started to emerge from the fog.  Not entirely and not as much as I would like.  I'm still feeling somewhat overwhelmed.  But, the Xanax has provided me with enough light that the fog isn't as thick anymore.

And so, I am thankful.  Thankful for the pharmacological miracle that is helping me get through this loss.  Thankful for all the friends who have helped me.  Thankful for all the women who have shared their stories with me.  Thankful for all of the people who have said the four right words:  "That sucks.  I'm sorry."  Thankful for all the prayers.  And, even though it doesn't feel like it right now, I know that, someday, I will be thankful to be on the other side of this.  Until then, thanks for walking through it with me.

Insane Hopefulness

It is often said, though unknown who first said it, that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. By this definition, I am insane. Hopeful, but insane. Why? Because month after month I hold out hope that I can conceive a child the old fashioned way. That Lil' Bit can have a sibling without me having to get shots and be poked and prodded for three months before all the poking and prodding that comes from being pregnant. But, each month, I am heartbroken when I discover nothing has changed. Not surprised, mind you. Just heartbroken. And yet, I still hold out hope. Because, although it's improbable, it's not impossible. I personally know couples who had the same issue I did and managed to conceive. I know other couples who, once they used IVF, were then able to conceive on their own. I also know, however, thay my issues are somewhat different. Usually, those who successfully conceive after IVF are those who had unexplained infertility or miscarriages and whose bodies suddenly realized they knew how to work and did. When physical blockage is the issue, that's not something that usually changes. It can, it just usually doesn't. So, my logical, practical side knows that I am unlikely to conceieve without another round of IVF. And, if that's what we decide to do, we will. But the hopeful, whimsical, insane side of me thinks that maybe this time, we'll get a different result. For this month, there is no miracle baby. Who knows, though. Maybe next month. I just can't help myself. I'm suffering from hopeful insanity. Still, I think insane hopefulness is better than no hopefulness at all. And, don't forget, there's an equally prolific saying in my favor: if at first you don't succeed, try, try again. So, here I go.