I have spent the last few days in a nightmare, moving from numb to hysterical within minutes.
In the middle, there have been a few moments of clarity. In one of those moments, when I knew we were hours away from saying goodbye, I pulled out my iPhone and typed out the following:
You are always afraid it will happen to you, but the truth is, you actually think it never will.
And the kindest irony: when it does happen to you, it’s actually not as scary as you imagined it would be.
A few weeks ago, in a moment of weakness and fear, I told my husband that if something happened to our baby boy I would march myself straight to a mental hospital and ask to be sedated for the rest of my life. I truly believed that this is what I would do.
I know I haven’t reached the breaking point yet – that is still to come. In the days, weeks, months, and even years ahead, the events of the last few days will start to sink in and feel real, and what now feels like a horrific nightmare will be ingrained in my memory as the clearest reality. I am still in the calm before the storm. But one thing is clear: I will carry on.
And you all have helped me understand that. I have seen the outpouring. The emails. The comments. The blog posts. I know there is more, and I still have to process it all. One thing is clear: I have never in my entire life felt so loved by so many.
In his final hours, I promised Nadav I would live well for him. I felt at the time as if I hadn’t lived well until then. You have proven to me that somehow, in the last year of typing out words on my laptop, in what I thought was isolation, I was living well, because somehow in my ramblings, I was connecting. You have helped me see where meaning will come from all of this.
I will live well for him. I will live better. And you all have given me the strength to believe that I can.
We lost our baby boy yesterday, letting him go a few hours before I was induced. His name was Nadav – a play on the word “gift” or “charity” in Hebrew. I have seen every bit of love all of you have sent our way. I cant thank you all enough. I wish i could just embrace all of you with the amount of love and strength you have given us in the last few days. Thank you is not enough, but it will have to do for now. Thank you for all of your thoughts and prayers. They have been and continue to be a huge comfort.
I will come back as soon as I feel able to thank you all properly and tell you more of our story and the amazing lessons we have learned through this. For now, know that Shmerson and I are ok. Hopefully we will be home with Luna tonight.
Well, apparently I’m back to posting again, because I keep on feeling compelled to, so there ya go.
Please forgive me in advance if my commenting is still lacking for the next short while.
So here’s what you’ve missed:
Two weeks ago we went in for a check up to see how my cervix was doing and we got a peek at Shmaby. My cervix was still going strong at 3cm, and Shmaby was measuring right on target, but seeing as this is me, things can’t just be fine and dandy.
The Russian noticed that I had excess amniotic fluid. This basically means one of three things:
Nothing.
Gestational Diabetes
Something’s wrong with Shmaby
The Russian decided to take a “wait and see” approach. In Israel, you basically have two “level II” scans. One at around 16 weeks, and the second sometime between 22 and 23 weeks. So he just said we’ll see what the scan brings. My glucose test thingy will be happening when I’m 24 weeks.
So basically, for the last two weeks I’ve been terrified that something is wrong with the little one (of course). GD is not something I’m too worried about. I wouldn’t be surprised if I have it (after all, so far I’ve had practically every other complication under the sun), and I know it’s pretty manageable. Sure, it would be no fun. But nothing much about this pregnancy has been fun so far. I’ll manage.
But there’s still a bit of a chance that something was missed or was too small to show up at our 16 week scan. Yes, it’s only a small chance. But it’s there. And I’m terrified.
That’s why I’ve been waiting with bated breath until next Wed. That’s when I’ll know with at least some assurance whether Shmaby is Ok. And until then, well, catatonic zombie mode pretty much continues.
Going into our first major scan, I admit, I was starting to feel optimistic. I came into the Russian’s office with a long list of questions, but mostly mundane “what can I do about my horrible heartburn” type-stuff. Nothing serious. I was looking forward to seeing Shmaby, finding out the sex, etc. etc.
Of course, all of those questions went right out the window with the IC diagnosis, the cerclage, and the bed rest.
Going into next Wed. I once again have a laundry list of questions. About choosing our hospital, whether I can consider taking pre-natal yoga with the cerclage, that kind of thing.
And of course, I know that at the end of this scan, either I will finally get to ask my questions, or Shmerson and I will once again be thrown into a brand new spiral of worry.
I’m 22 weeks tomorrow, and we’ve done nothing to prepare for the fact that a baby is most likely entering our home in a few months. Not even a single onesie has been bought. I haven’t started looking into birthing classes. I haven’t toured any of our area hospitals. I haven’t even set foot in a baby store. Or even a maternity store (and I need one pretty badly, I’m stretching my bras down to the thread).
I can’t do it any of it yet. I just can’t. Not until we get some concrete answers about Shmaby.
Eventually I know I have to draw a line and get going on these things. I’ve spent two years preoccupied with getting and staying pregnant. I haven’t spent even a single minute figuring out how to change a diaper or breast feed. These are things I need to learn how to do, and if all goes well, I don’t have much time to study up.
I thought the line would be 24 weeks – viability. But after our last appointment I now know the true line is 22 and half weeks. Because that’s when we’ll know if he’s ok.
That’s when I’ll either finally pull out my list of questions or have a whole new set of them pop up within minutes of the scan (along with a whole lot of heartache).
And then – if all goes well – maybe I’ll buy some maternity bras and a couple of new pairs of undies. Spaghetti Monster knows I need them. Maybe I’ll even consider buying the little guy his first onesie and ordering some stuff for the nursery.
“The father of our lost children, and of the little boy that will come into our lives in a few months.”
I spent half an hour on that sentence, because of one word I kept writing and deleting: Hopefully.
The little boy that will hopefully come into our lives in a few months.
I wrote it. I deleted it. I looked at the sentence, and wrote the word again. Over and over at least 10 times before I ultimately deleted the word.
Then it took me another 5 minutes to hit publish. It was nuts. I couldn’t bring myself to write about him as if he was a sure thing, yet I could write about him as if he wasn’t.
What finally decided it was one fact that I know for sure: No matter what happens, he is already a part of our lives.
We interrupt this blogging hiatus to bring you a special Valentine’s Day post.
You’ve held my hair as I heaved over the toilet and we both cheered.
You’ve cleaned up my puke when I couldn’t make it there on time.
You’ve taken Luna out for every walk in the last 3 months.
You’ve stared at me protectively and ordered me to sit when you felt I was doing too much.
You’ve washed every dirty dish in the house.
You’ve cooked dinner while carefully avoiding the food I can’t manage to look at or stomach.
You’ve held my hand, and wandered through hospital corridors to make sure I felt safe while trying to help our baby boy.
You’ve cried with me when we’ve been afraid for him.
You’ve laughed with me, and cried tears of joy (and sometimes tears of fear) each time we’ve seen him on the ultrasound screen.
You’ve told me I’m beautiful almost every night, even while I was feeling fat and gross (and you looked like you meant it, which makes it all the more remarkable).
You’ve lamented not being a sea horse, so you could carry some of my burden.
Each time I’ve cried about my body failing me, you’ve reminded me that it’s working a miracle for both of us as we speak.
Each time I think it’s impossible to love you more, you surprise me and make me fall in love with you all over again.
Happy Valentines Day, my amazing husband. The father of our lost children, and of the little boy that will come into our lives in a few months. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.
PS – Thank you everyone who’s emailed and tweeted to check in on me. I’ve been terrible about replying, I know, and I’m sorry. I’m still in a bit of a coping-zombie-bubble. Hope to be back with all of you soon. Xoxo!
Before I got pregnant, I swore to myself that I wouldn’t become one of those ALI bloggers that disappears from the blogosphere once she is knocked up.
I swore I would update often, and keep the spirit of this blog alive. I swore I would continue to comment on everyone else’s blogs. That I would be present.
Little did I know.
I get it now. I understand why they disappear. For the same reason I haven’t really been present here for a while. It’s time I just come to terms with it.
The ALI community is a double-edged sword. We band together for support, and in the worst of times, we are there for each other.
But that’s the problem as well. We are here in the worst of times.
Before I came here I was alone. More alone than I had ever felt in my life.
I found friends here. Women who understood me better than I understood myself.
The problem is that in this space I became part of a screaming minority. We are the women on the bad end of the statistics. We are the worst-case scenarios. We are the 30% of miscarriages. The 5% of post-D&C infections that mess up our systems. The ectopics. The stillbirths. The preemies. The genetic anomalies. The placental abruptions. The incompetent cervixes. We are the embodiment of every horror story. Our collective pain and loss are endless.
I’ve gotten a couple of emails in the last few weeks asking me why I barely blog any more. The truth is that it’s because I just don’t know what to say. I’m between a rock and a hard place.
On one hand, I am unendingly lucky. Tomorrow, I will officially be at the halfway point of this pregnancy. Shmaby is moving around, making himself more known to me every day. I am eternally grateful for that. I even feel guilty for having it. I know there are thousands of women out there who would kill to be in my shoes.
On the other hand, I am a part of this community. I am a woman who’s body has failed her too many times to count. I don’t trust my body any more. I don’t trust it to keep my baby safe until he is ready to come into this world. That won’t change until I get proven wrong.
I haven’t been writing, but I’ve been following along with everyone. I’ve been feeling too guilty to comment on the blogs of women still going through the torture of IF and RPL. And I’ve been fueling my anxiety by reading continuously about the pain and loss that keeps on happening in our little universe.
Today I finally broke down and confessed to Shmerson that I am not doing as well as I have been pretending to do. I am, more or less, where I was before my first breakdown a year ago. I spend my days emotionally detached. Willing myself to just make it through one more day. Sleeping as much as I can so the time passes by faster. Keeping away from the people and the things I love.
Because if I stop and look around, the fear gets to be too much. I imagine the worst case scenarios, because I know them so well. I imagine them and know I wouldn’t have the strength to deal with another setback. That if something goes wrong I would march into a hospital and demand to be put in a coma. I am tired. I am worn out. I am scared. I hate myself for it.
Every day I feel Him move I love him more. I worry for him more. And living inside the worst-case scenarios that are part of this community is fueling the fire.
I go into BL blogs and read the stories. I find myself obsessively checking for symptoms of early labor, holding my breath in the hopes that nothing goes wrong. That my body decides not to fail me for a change.
I hate myself for doing it. I hate myself for not being able to just be there for those who are suffering loss, and at the same time rejoice in the fact that my baby is here. Healthy, and growing, and kicking up a storm.
I spend my days fueling the anxiety fire more and more.
Today Shmerson kindly requested that I stop doing that.
I think I need a break.
I feel terrible. How dare I take a break from this community when you guys have been there for me at the worst of times? It’s my responsibility to stick it out for you.
But I also need to take care of myself. I need to stop living in this constant fear loop.
It’s not like I’m being particularly insightful or engaging anyway as of late, so I figure I won’t be missed much if I disappear for a few weeks.
And I think I need it for my sanity.
So – I’m sorry. I love you guys, but I’m giving myself a breather. I’ll be back here at our 24 week anatomy scan. Hopefully viability will calm my nerves enough for me to be present again.
Hopefully there is no reason for me to be back here sooner.
I love you all. I’m still here if you need me via email. I just need to reboot my sanity. I hope you forgive me and come back when I return.
And I hope to see a crapload of healthy pregnancies when I get back.
Before we dive into this post, please head over to Wannabemom’s blog. She lost her little one at 16 weeks, and could use everyone’s love and support right now. My heart is broken for her.
Honestly, after reading her news, I feel kind of selfish for even writing about what’s been going on in my head. Though on the other hand, it’s precisely these moments that keep me sober, and scared.
I’m 19 weeks today. Almost half way. A few days ago I started feeling him move in a much more defined way than ever before. I sang to him, and he responded by giving me a swift kick in the bladder. It was miraculous. I cried for ages afterward, just in awe of him.
A few days ago I was talking to Shmerson, when he admitted he was scared to go to that wedding last week. He was scared because he knew we’d have fun, and every single time in the past that we’ve had fun while I was pregnant, something has gone horribly wrong.
This is what we’ve come to. We can’t go out and have fun, because something will obviously go wrong. Ahh, the joys of PTSD.
I feel like I’m holding my breath until we reach viability. Or, if I’m really being honest, I’m holding my breath until our Shmaby comes out safe, sound, and healthy.
I have not bought one piece of baby clothing. I have not bought one maternity related item (even though I’m really starting to need a few things). I have not posted funny little anecdotes about my insane cravings. I have done nothing to prepare for ifwhen (who knows) our baby comes into this world. Because I’m holding my breath. I’m not doing a thing every day except keeping myself busy in between “What if”s.
I think that so much has gone wrong for us so often that it’s become impossible for me to imagine that things can go right. It’s much easier for me to visualize a worst-case scenario, because we’ve been there so many times before. In my world, my body fails me more often than not. That is a fact that has just been compounded by this incompetent cervix diagnosis. Things will go wrong, because they have gone wrong in the past. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.
I don’t know when I’ll get the courage, if ever, to step into a store and look at stuff for this baby. I don’t know if I’ll ever let myself truly enjoy every minute of this.
The fact is that I am not normal. My body is not normal. I am, as I’ve said before, broken until proven otherwise.
Each day that passes I love Him more and more. And with each day the terror increases exponentially. The thought of possibly losing Him is terrifying.
So I’m on hold until further notice. Probably 21-ish more weeks. I wish I had a fast forward button.
Thank you guys so much for your support on my last post. I seriously don’t know what I would do without you.
We had an appointment with the Russian on Wed. Cervix is actually longer than it was pre-cerclage, so I’m off of bed rest! I can’t samba or anything, and I still need to take it easy, but at least I can start partially functioning. It still hasn’t totally sunk in. I’ve been stuck in bed for so long I wasn’t sure where to start. So I started by going to a wedding yesterday!
I couldn’t dance (booty shaking of any kind is still strictly forbidden, as is anything strenuous), but it was so fun to get out of the house and see friends I haven’t seen in forever! The best part? I’m finally starting to show and I got all of the wonderful attention that a baby bump gets, with the added bonus of getting it from friends who know what I’ve been through, so it felt extra special. I felt like a normal pregnant woman (with the exception of not getting out of my chair, but that’s manageable). It was awesome.
I am hating blogger right now. Do you have a blogspot blog? Well, chances are I’ve tried to comment on one of your posts in the last week and haven’t been able to get past the captcha screen. So Emily, Rebecca, Natalie, Jem, MJ, Advo.cat, and the 20 other people I’m sure I’m forgetting right now – I’m right there with you, I promise. It’s all blogger’s fault (I’m a bit behind on my WP commenting too, but with blogger it’s just shameful).
I’ve started to feel movement! And it hurts! Seriously, they never tell you that, do they? He’s not kicking yet, just kind of wiggling around in there, and it’s freaky! It’s something between AF cramps and the most awesome feeling ever. Which makes it weird.
I’ve decided to break up the rest of this pregnancy into manageable segments, otherwise I will completely lose my mind with worry. So, goal number one: make it to 24 weeks. I feel like I can’t really start doing anything like looking at furniture, or even buying real maternity clothes until I get there. 24 weeks. That’s 6 weeks from now. I can do that. Let’s just hope my cervix can too!
Hope all of you guys have a great weekend. Don’t have a bump pic today, but I have something even better – a bunny!!!!
Ok, first thing’s first: Thank you everyone for your feedback on my last post. I posted a status that night (which basically ended up being a hybrid of all three suggestions) and it was amazing to get an such an outpouring of joy and congratulatory gushing. It made me feel normal for a few minutes, which was nice.
Now back to the post at hand.
*Warning: Pregnancy complaints ahead, please feel free to skip if you’re not in a good place right now.
Going on week three of bed rest, and today was just lovely – cramping, spotting, and to top it all off a killer sinus headache. I have become a zombie holed up in a blanket fort. I’m not liking this one bit.
I spend almost all day every day worrying. Most couples would be shopping for strollers, or at least feeling confident enough to go to a maternity store by now. Something.
Not me. I’m stuck in bed in an anti social haze.
And I’ve realized something. There have been a few BFPs in the blogosphere this week, and when usually these announcements either had me slightly jealous or absolutely ecstatic, I now find myself feeling SORRY for them. I just think, “oh crap, they’ve got a hard nine months ahead, poor things.”
Guys, I’m sorry – but I hate being pregnant. I despise it. Every day I’m either on bed rest, feeling sick, or just worried that something will go terribly wrong.
Pregnancy is not unicorns and rainbows, it’s a means to an end. And right now the only thing keeping me relatively sane is trying to visualize our little baby boy.
But that also makes me attached, and worried. And therefore even more miserable.
That’s why I’ve barely been blogging. All I can wrap my head around is just how freaking miserable this whole situation is.
Go ahead, curse me and hate me for saying it. It’s ok, I already pretty much hate myself for feeling it.
Urgh. (Hopefully) 22 weeks to go. (Please please please stay in there shmaby boy).
So Shmerson and I have decided to announce the pregnancy on Facebook.
Here’s a list of reasons why (I love lists!):
This pregnancy has been filled with nothing but worry and drama. Shmerson and I both feel the need to do at least one “normal” thing and actually get to celebrate this a little.
Looking at it from the other side, though I hated finding out about pregnancies through Facebook, I preferred to get the info as an official announcement, and not as a series of indecipherable comments on a person’s wall or getting slapped in the face by a baby bump photo. Shmerson and I will be attending several weddings in the next few months, so it will be inevitable that I get tagged with a bump. I’d rather reveal on my terms.
I think that if I share the news sensitively enough, it may not hurt the closet IFers on my friends list.
So that’s the kicker. I need to find a kind way to say it, without an overshare (because really, my grad school screenwriting professor doesn’t need to know about my three miscarriages), but with a hint toward our struggle so that any closet IFer would understand.
I admit, I’ve been thinking about this for months, and of course, dear readers, I need your help! Here are the status update options I’ve come up with:
(yay! Another list!)
It’s been a bumpy two year ride to get here, but I am happy and grateful to announce that we are expecting a baby boy this June. There’s a rocky road still ahead, so please keep us in your thoughts while we fight to make it there safely!
I am grateful and humbled to announce that after a lot of heartache, we are expecting a baby boy to make his arrival in June of this year. My thoughts are with all of the couples still struggling with infertility and pregnancy loss, and I hope all of your wishes come true soon.
This is the humorous approach: I embed “pregnant women are smug” and write: I promise, I’m not like that. Grateful for the upcoming arrival of our baby boy, due this June.
I know the first two are ultra-sensitive, but they still somewhat feel like TMI. But maybe I’m wrong? Is the third option good? Should I just scrap it all and write in all caps (as has been suggested here several times in the comments, originate by MissOhkay) “I’M KNOCKED UP! SEE YA LATER, BARREN BITCHES!” or something? Do you have any better ideas? I’m sure you do, so lay them on me.
While lately at home my brain has tormented me at night with crazy post-apocalyptic and dystopian dreams, it knows when to give me a break, and at the hospital only brought me mundane dreams of winter wear and people parking crookedly.
Always bring your own white toilet paper. The hospital is environmentally friendly and uses the recycled brownish type. This is no good for a paranoid RPLer, and does not allow proper examination of the exact tinge of anything that comes out of my cootch.
Apparently, I know more about U/S machines than most residents, considering I had to show my intake doc how to use one after she fumbled around for a good 15 minutes.
They don’t give preggos those fun pre-anesthesia happy pills. Darn it.
NEVER go in for surgery constipated. It will make your bowel movements a topic of conversation for far longer than you would like.
It seems hospital food is specifically tailored to be the most unappetizing thing in the world. Even after 16 hours with no food, I opted out of the hospital lunch.
The universe apparently has a sense of humor. 2 hours after being ordered to another week of strict bed rest, I got a call from that high school offering me the teaching job. Ha ha.
The Russian also apparently has a sense of humor. At the U/S before my discharge (he thankfully knew how to work the machine) I asked him what my chances are now of carrying to term. He answered: “Ask me when you’re 38 weeks”
I apparently do not have a sense of humor when I’m smelly, desperate to go home, and on about 4 hours sleep.
A cerclage isn’t really so painful. After about 4 hours and a few pain meds, I was fine and dandy.
So yes, here I am, doing ok. Going a bit stir crazy though. I’m on bed rest until next week, then I can go back to semi-normal, and just take it easy. Oh- and now I’m considered a high-risk pregnancy. Fun times. I really need to find myself a hobby.
It’s a perfectly healthy baby BOY. Yep – it’s a boy. And he’s just fine. I was ecstatic to see that teenie weenie. Guesses be damned.
My cervix on the other hand – is not ok.
During the U/S the Russian noticed that my cervix was shortened and funneled.
In other words – I have an incompetent cervix.
Of all the pregnancy complications I seriously didn’t think this would be the one I would be contending with, and it sucks.
So – the Russian wishes we would have caught it sooner, but there’s nothing to be done about that. For right now it looks like on Monday (at 16 weeks 3 days) I’m going in for surgery to have a cerclage put in (that’s basically a stitch that’s supposed to keep my cervix closed). According to the Russian, if put in up until 14 weeks, there’s a 90% chance of carrying to term. But we’re a little bit late to the party so he’s putting my chances to less than that, he guessed around the 85% mark. Until monday I’m on strict bed rest (again).
When the Russian first pointed out the problem I was actually quite calm. I only really started freaking out after having to call people who were eagerly awaiting to find out Shmaby’s sex and tell them that it’s a boy, and I have to go into surgery to keep him in as long as possible.
I’ve done my freaking out and crying for the day. Now I need some freaking reassurance. Pile on the success stories please. I need them.
Dude, when I said the other day that us ALI ladies tend to always fall on the bad side of the stats, apparently, I wasn’t kidding. Sheesh. Let’s just hope this is truly the only other shoe and I’m done being on the bad side of the stats. I’m kind of overdue for that, right?
I have a friend who I’ve known for almost 17 years. We have been close from the time I was a stupid 16 year old, and for some reason he’s stuck around, for which I am eternally grateful. Our friendship isn’t a day-to-day affair, but when we talk, our conversations are always meaningful. He knows me as well as anyone could. As I know him.
I’ve mentioned him here before – Ababaderech. He and his partner of 14 years have started to pursue parenthood using a surrogate and donor eggs. When they were revving up for their first foray into IVF, I felt useful, spending hours waxing philosophical about fert reports, egg retrievals, and transfers. When he needed help navigating the waters of parenthood through ART, I am proud to say that I helped him as much as I possibly could.
When they started the journey, Ababaderech decided to blog about it (the blog is in Hebrew – sorry English speakers that you won’t be able to read his amazing writing). He told me at the time that the blog was inspired by me. I was honored to know this. He writes so beautifully, and I am moved by the fact that I somehow helped bring this man’s amazing words to light.
Two weeks ago, he and his partner were PUPO for the firsttime. Yesterday, we spoke and he told me that their first transfer ended in a chemical pregnancy.
I spent most of our conversation being technical. Talking about beta numbers, chances of success with the type of transfer they opted for, bla bla bla.
But I wasn’t really present in that conversation.
A few minutes before beginning this post, I caught up on Ababaderech’s blog. His latest post talks about the chemical pregnancy, and quotes me as saying that a baby is a baby once the hope of it begins in your heart. And quotes me again as saying that our children are out there, waiting for the right time to come into this world and meet us.
Then Ababaderech writes beautifully, in words far more eloquent than I have ever been able to find for my own losses (I’m paraphrasing while translating): “I drive while my partner nods off to sleep next to me. He opens his eyes every once in a while asking me if we are close to home. I don’t tell him ‘No, it didn’t work and we have to try going home again’. I tell him ‘yes my love, we will be home soon’….”
Reading these words I doubled over in tears and a grief that hasn’t gripped me in months. Grief for their two little embabies that didn’t make it. Grief for my friend, whom I didn’t support enough yesterday when I heard his bad news. Grief for my own babies, which I have been suppressing for months in an effort to make it through this pregnancy.
If it wasn’t so late over here, I would have called Ababaderech immediately and apologized, telling him how I love him, how I’m sorry I wasn’t more connected to him when he told me the news yesterday. But it’s past midnight, and I’m sure he’s asleep. And so instead I’m writing here – knowing that he’ll find this post in his inbox tomorrow morning and he’ll know how much he is loved, always, and how he inspires me to be better.
I have floated through the last three months in mostly a detached haze. I try to be happy. But little things remind me of the fear of loss and the grief that still lay beneath the surface. The panic attack I had last night while worrying about the upcoming scan. The moments in the day sometimes when I run to the doppler just to hear my baby’s heart one more time, just to be sure. Is it any wonder that I barely speak to any of my friends? Post here less and less often? Comment so infrequently on all of your posts? Have mostly meaningless conversations with the people who mean the most to me?
Ababaderech just pulled me back down to earth with an enormous crash. It took his repeating my own words to make me feel this fear and this grief fully once again.
So here I am, doubled over in grief for my three babies, for Ababaderech’s two. For JM’s failed transfer. For Kelly’s. For Marie’s loss. For Courtney’s unimaginable 4. For PM. For SLC. For Starfishkitty. For Esperanza. For MySkyTimes. For Mrs. Brightside. For EmbracingtheRain. For Slowmomma. For Elphaba. For BIBC. For Misfit Mrs. For the Advocat. For St. Elsewhere. For Kristen. For MJ. For ADSchill. For A. For AlexMMR. For Chon. For Missohkay. For thePortofIndecision. For Stinky. For Kristin. For so many more of you that I follow every day. For every one of you who has lost a baby, whether real or fantasized about. Whether embryo, or a follicle, or born too soon or with too many complications.
Pregnancy doesn’t “fix” grief. I am not “better.” I am coasting, trying my best not to let the fear of loss swallow me each and every day. As each and every day I love this baby more and more. I get more attached to the idea of him or her entering our life in June. And with that the fear continues. Statistics may be in our favor, but we here all know how much statistics are worth when we’re on the bad side of them. That is the curse of the ALI community. There isn’t a bad statistic we can’t get behind.
So now I cry and grieve and let myself feel the weight of my losses. For Ababaderech and his beautiful outlook, his amazing peace and acceptance – something which I have always loved and envied him for. For all of the women who I follow, and speak to, and read. For all of the women who come to this blog every day.
I hope our children are all helping each other find their way to us. I hope we get to watch them play together one day.
Last year, in a desperate attempt at optimism, I wrote a letter to 2010, thanking her for the first half, which gave me the best wedding ever, and cursing her for the second half, which sucked so much it broke my brain.
This year, I have decided not to honor 2011 with a letter, because apart from the last couple of months, with this nicely progressing pregnancy, she pretty much sucked monkey balls.
So instead, 2012, I turn to you. I’m very optimistic about you, you know? I have high hopes for us. If all goes well you should be bringing me a baby in June, and hopefully some prosperity and peace in our new home. 2012, I’m counting on you to deliver the goods, avoid an apocalypse, and if all goes well I will write you a nice thank you note 365 days from now.
So hopefully we have a deal. Trust me, you don’t want to end up like 2011, sitting in a dark corner and being ignored. This isn’t a threat. Let’s just call it a humble request.
Sincerely,
Mo
So! This is my 300th post. Holy jeez. And I’m 15 weeks. Wow. This week I actually started thinking ahead to decisions like whether I want a doula, where I may consider giving birth, and what kind of birth I have in mind. I also had dinner with PM and her husband, where we discussed the ins and outs of baby shopping, and I had no choice but to marvel out loud at how I didn’t burst into flames. It was rather remarkable.
I have to say that my 300th post also being my end of the year post is pretty poetic. As is the amazing fact that I am actually 15 weeks pregnant while doing both of those things. Wow (wasn’t that a completely non-eloquent way to address the scope of the situation? Quality writing at it’s best, people!).
Now for the pic:
I think we’re up to about 30 to 70 in Shmaby to pizza ratio. Or so PM insisted at dinner the other night.
For all of you: may 2012 be cooperative, apocalypse-free, and give us all everything that we wish for.
So lately I’ve been told a secret by a couple of fertiles: Apparently, it’s ok to have a gender preference, and even voice it. It doesn’t make you a bad person, and lightening apparently will not strike you down.
From what I hear, even if you have a preference, and you end up with what wasn’t your preference, you don’t get disappointed, because finding out the sex of the baby either way makes you feel closer to it.
So – confession time!
Before I reveal the deep dark secret that is my sex preference (gasp!), I do want to clarify some things. I know a lot of couples that opt for not knowing the baby’s sex. I completely understand and respect that decision, but it’s soooo not me. I’m a control freak. You all know this. I can’t not know. It would drive me up the freaking wall.
With our level two scan only 6 (!) days away, I’ve been getting revved up and excited for the possibility of knowing Shmaby’s sex. Not knowing has been quite an inconvenience to tell you the truth. For one – I hate referring to Shmaby as “It” because I doubt the Shmaby looks anything like this:
Although according to some old wive’s tales, that would explain the heartburn.
The other issue is that I spend most of my time speaking Hebrew, and Hebrew, like French, is a gender-specific language. Even the word “baby” is gender-specific. So a male baby would be “tinok” and a female baby would be “tinoket”. So saying “him or her” on a regular basis when referring to Shmaby is getting a bit tedious.
Plus – did I mention that I’m a control freak? Right. So here goes:
I want a girl.
Whew. I said it and didn’t burst into flames. Progress.
Here’s a basic rundown of why I want a girl:
As some of you know, my instincts have pretty much all been right so far. Even with the “surprise” ectopic, I knew I was pregnant, and when the pee stick was negative I was annoyed and didn’t get how my instincts were so wrong. Turned out that instinct trumped the pee stick, though I only found that out a few weeks later. This time around, I once again knew it the moment sperm met egg. This time – I told Shmerson: “I’m pregnant, it’s a girl, and everything will be alright this time.” So yeah – it would be nice if my instinct was right once again, and this time with pretty awesome results.
For the past two years, when thinking about giving birth to my first baby, I always imagined a girl. All of my baby-related dreams have also been about girls.
Shmerson and I have two absolutely amazing girl names picked out, with one being a clear front-runner. We’ve had them picked out since before we were married. With boys, we’re still at a bit of a loss.
I want to live vicariously! I know I’m already making my first parenting mistake and I’m barely into my second trimester, but screw it. I want a girl because it means I get to decorate the Shmaby’s room with bright purple sparkly things, and faeries and butterflies. If I could I would decorate my entire house like that, but I live with a guy, so I’ve had to curb my purple and fluttery things obsession. With a baby girl, I can go hog wild on the room and make it look like a giant purple monster puked on it. I’ll save you guys all the gender-stereotyping-is-bad talk. I have a minor in women’s studies. I know I shouldn’t want all of this. Here – I’ll let Riley explain to you why gender stereotyping is bad so we can all be spared of that debate: Right on Riley! I’m with you in spirit, really I am. But I’m going for purple, not pink. And a girl’s gotta have a little fun, right? I’m sure you’d agree if you walked into the fab purple faeries and butterflies room I have planned.
My mom really wants a granddaughter. Again, it’s not to say that she wouldn’t love a grandson just as much. But in this case I would like to please her.
I have two naysayers right now. PM, who is convinced I’m going to have a boy and keeps on texting me asking how her nephew is doing, and Shmerson, who really didn’t have a preference but is now rooting for a boy just so he can stick his tongue out at me and do a little gloating dance.
And now the disclaimer where I say that no matter what the sex I’ll love this baby and I just want it to be healthy, bla bla bla bla.
I will be happy no matter what – you guys know that. But goshdarnit, it would be nice to get that uber-purple room.
We will most likely be wiser on January 4th, when I will post here either humbled and grateful, or humbled, grateful, and gloating while sticking my tongue out at Shmerson and PM and doing the Numfar dance of joy.
I can’t believe I made it to 14 weeks. By all accounts, we’re officially in the second trimester, which is amazing.
I haven’t much talked about symptoms here, but I figured it was time to run down the crazy that has become my body. Mostly because my reactions are pretty surprising.
*warning: Yes, I am complaining about some symptoms here. Please feel free to skip if you can’t handle it right now.*
The Bad:
Oh the heartburn! Though it’s down from being constant to only showing up about once a day, that’s been the biggest nightmare. I want to say I’ve been popping tums like candy, but I’ve been good in trying to keep the amount I take to a minimum. So mostly I’ve just been feeling icky.
The preggo brain! I have such a hard time concentrating! Notice how I still suck at leaving comments? Yeah – it’s because I’m rarely coherent these days.
The sleep weirdness! So last week I officially transitioned from sleeping too much to not sleeping enough. Mostly due to excessive peeing. Not helping with the concentration issues.
Generally Ill (and not in the cool Beastie Boys way): I think this is the most frustrating. I just feel icky most days. Achy. Weak, headaches and such. Poor Shmerson has had to take over most household duties because I’m barely functioning. Which makes me feel endlessly guilty. I hope that second trimester high kicks in soon.
The Good:
The puke! Yep. I’ve puked three times so far during this pregnancy. I’m not saying it’s pleasant, but each time I do it calls for a little happy dance. It makes me feel like I’m part of the club or something.
The doppler! Best. Purchase. Ever. I seriously don’t know where my sanity would be without it.
The round ligament pain! I know – this is another common complaint, but I love it. As soon as I started recognizing it for what it is, each little twinge is a reminder that the shmaby is growing.
Stretch marks! I know – another one that most women complain about. But they started showing up a couple of weeks ago and I can’t help but smile each time I look at them. Another reminder that my belly will pop out soon and this may actually start to feel real. Which is awesome.
I think we’re still on the 80 – 20 scale when it comes to the pizza to shmaby ratio. Ahh well.
Merry Christmas to all my Goyim peeps! And happy Hannukah to the Jews! And happy vacation to the non-denominational and atheists out there! Hope your holidays are peaceful and happy.
Ok – I’m going to start this post off by telling you guys a few things (some of them you may not like):
I didn’t stop my anti-depressants when I found out I was pregnant. In fact, last week I started a transition from one med to another and to help ease me in I’ve been taking Xan.ax once a day. Yep – Xan.ax. While pregnant.
I have on average one caffeinated beverage per day. Some days I have two.
Currently I am neither on a stringent diet nor on an exercise program.
Though I think I may attempt to go for a natural delivery, I am 100% aware of the fact that there’s a good chance that I’ll break down 10 minutes in and beg for an epidural. I’m Ok with that.
I have – gasp!- smoked more than one cigarette since finding out I was pregnant.
Here’s the thing: When I found out about my first pregnancy, I quit smoking cold turkey, quit caffeine cold turkey, and couldn’t stomach anything but saltines, and I felt crappy for not eating more veggies. After that loss, I immediately went back to smoking, drinking caffeine, and gained about as much weight post-pregnancy as I did during it. And I hated myself for it. The second pregnancy was pretty much the same story. In the months leading up to my third pregnancy, I was on this crazy self-improvement regimen. I quit smoking, I did yoga, I barely drank caffeine. I was CONVINCED that if I just did everything right this time, a pregnancy would stick.
You all know how that turned out. And of course, the few months after that loss, I hated myself more than ever. I backslid once again.
But I also learned a very important lesson from that experience. NOTHING can be done. At the end of the day, 99.999% of miscarriages are either chromosomal or physiological. Not smoking during my first pregnancy didn’t prevent that blighted ovum. No caffeine during my third didn’t keep it from being ectopic. I had no control over this from day one. I still don’t. The outcome of this pregnancy was pretty much decided as soon as sperm met egg and they started to dig in. There’s a reason the world population has risen steadily in the last centuries. And I’m pretty sure it’s not because all pregnant women cut out caffeine on King George’s orders or whatever. There’s a reason most of our moms smoked throughout our pregnancies and ate medium rare steaks and we came out fine and dandy.
Because the human body is a miraculous thing, and because one medium rare steak will not cause a miscarriage, and neither will ten (though I’m not a fan of medium rare, but you get the point).
I made the decision that self-hate and self-punishment would do more harm to my baby than the anti-depressant that would make those feelings go away. I decided that I had enough anxiety to be going on with, and I didn’t need to also deal with the nightmare that is caffeine withdrawal. I decided that I need to give myself just a bit more flexibility, and to demonstrate to myself that my control here is minimal.
And so I did. And I’m almost 14 weeks in with the Shmaby going strong, and I don’t hate myself. Which is a nice change of pace.
So why do I tell you all of this?
(I think you can tell from the video embedded above where I’m going with this…)
When we first started this journey Shmerson and I were basically the only ones in our extended circle of friends trying for a baby. In the year and a half since, that number has grown. Several friends and acquaintances have already given birth, others are close to it.
Now most of these people know my history. With all due respect I have spent 9 out of the last 19 months pregnant. I have been part of the ALI community for over a year. I follow more than 200 blogs. I’ve never once gone through IVF yet a close friend of mine who is now making a baby with his life partner through DE and a surrogate came to me when he needed information because I know it (yes, I congratulated a gay man yesterday about being PUPO, and because of me, he knew what I meant. Hi Ababaderech! Good luck on your TWW!). I can list 1000 complications that can happen in a pregnancy. A 1000 more that happen before the sperm meets the egg. I know what can go wrong. More than most people, because I’ve seen (or read) it all in the last year. Heck, I experienced quite a bit of it myself, thankyouverymuch.
So, dear fertile preggo friends – don’t preach to me about my over indulgence on carbs. My food aversions are too extreme for me to stomach something else right now.
Please don’t spend 15 minutes lecturing me about Xan.ax. I’ve read the research, and in my particular case (and with my doctor’s blessing), the benefits outweigh the risks.
Please don’t look at me weird if I have a sip of coke zero. Trust me, the chances of that doing damage are slim to none.
Please don’t lecture me on the benefits of natural childbirth. I know them all. I also know that 95% of women eventually opt for an epidural, and I’m a realist (Oh, and I bet you anything that my pain tolerance is about 1000 times greater than yours – let’s just see who lasts longer, shall we? You haven’t experienced the awesomeness that is an HSG with blocked tubes, or your uterus contracting after a D&C. If it’s down to you and me, fertile preggo friends, I think I’d win that contest).
Don’t spend an hour touting your brave abandonment of prozac the MOMENT you got knocked up. You may be able to do that. I on the other hand would most likely lose it completely without my anti-anxiety meds, because, you know, I’ve had three miscarriages and that kind of messes with a girl’s head.
Don’t look at me weird if I sneak a cigarette on a bad day. You’ve never smoked, you don’t know what a slave you can become to that horrible weed.
I have a couple of pregnancy tracker apps on my iPhone. My favorite one, from baby center gave me these words of wisdom the other day (I’m paraphrasing):
“If you’re not perfect in avoiding things during your pregnancy, there’s no need to get stressed out about it. Our mothers had no idea about these things and we came out fine.”
Hear hear pregnancy tracker elves! My mom smoked a pack a day and drank copious amounts of coffee while she carried me. I came out perfectly fine. No horns or anything.
I’m not saying all pregnant women need to take up smoking, drinking and meth use during their pregnancy for the fun of it.
What I’m saying is, we all have our ways of dealing. I chose to give up control, and to go easy on myself. So far, it’s working out pretty well for me.
And no offense my fertile pregnant friends – but I think I know just a BIT more about this than you guys do.
Please, let’s discuss the risks of pre-eclampsia and why our blood pressure is critical to the health of our unborn babies.
Please – let’s talk about infections and fevers and how they can affect the health of our children.
Let’s talk about the risks of low amniotic fluid. Let’s discuss the importance of staying well hydrated during our pregnancies.
Let’s talk about placenta previa. Let’s talk about uterine fibroids. Gestational diabetes. Toxoplasmosis. Placental abruption. RH factor. Incompetent cervix.
And let’s talk about it over a nice tall glass of coke. Because trust me, drinking that won’t make any of the things I mentioned above more or less likely.
And it may just help me hold on to a bit of my sanity as I go through this roller coaster.
You may not agree with me, but you can’t argue with this: I’ve been around the block enough to know my limits. To know what’s best for me, and how it will affect my baby. I think I know that just a bit better than you. So stop preaching. You may as well just look at me sideways and tell me to relax. Either one of those will give this hormonal preggo lady ample reason to punch you.
Exactly one year and one week ago today I hit rock bottom. It was two months after my second miscarriage, and Shmerson and I had just moved back to my hometown in the hopes of making things easier on both of us.
The hope was for naught. I couldn’t leave the house. I couldn’t stop crying. I would have debilitating panic attacks in the middle of the night. I was as lost as anyone could be. I was beyond hopeless. I was a mess.
That was when I decided (with the help of a couple of close friends) that it was time for me to get some help. I bit the bullet, and against everything I was ever taught, I went to a psychiatrist. I knew there was no way out of this black hole without medical intervention. I knew I was a panic attack away from becoming catatonic. From losing my mind.
Before the miscarriages I was ambitious. I wrote. I created. I chased after things. I was constantly in a race against who-knows-what. I was lost before I lost my babies. But losing them made me realize that I had been lost for a very long time.
A week after going to the psychiatrist, the meds started working. I found my voice again. In a moment of madness, or wisdom, or something – I started this blog.
I didn’t know about the ALI community. I didn’t know there was a world full of women out there who understood what I was going through. All I knew was that I needed to write my story. And write I did.
In a burst of emotion, I spent hours that first night writing post after post recounting the months leading up to my breakdown. About my babies, about the way I had lost myself. For once I didn’t care that I was writing to no one. I just needed to write.
A couple of days later I published the link to this blog on facebook with some stringent privacy settings, letting a select group of friends into the darkness that was my world at the time. They supported me. They were there for me. Things weren’t necessarily getting better, but I was learning that it was ok to reach out for help.
I started working through my feelings through this space. I started writing things here that I couldn’t say out loud. Secret fears, and grief, and sadness that had consumed me for years. By writing about them here – I found that a barrier had been broken. I could finally talk about them everywhere else.
Then, about two weeks after my first post, I received a comment from who was then a complete stranger. SLC found me. And with that one person reaching out, I started to find other women.
Through those women, I started to find myself again.
I never imagined that something as simple as a blog would be such a salvation. I never imagined that this space would bring me to women who I now consider some of my closest friends in the world. Women who are oceans away, but who I love like sisters.
Because they – you – understand. Because in my darkest moments, they – you – have been there for me beyond anything I thought was possible.
On the night I was hospitalized for my thirdmiscarriage, I was scared out of my mind. Shmerson couldn’t be in the room with me, and I hated hospitals. I had never spent the night in one before. I was terrified. There was so much uncertainty, and so much fear, I can’t even explain it.
All I had during that sleepless night was my iPhone. And you. Your emails. Your comments. Your text messages. Your love.
My nightmare became bearable because of this space. Your love and support held me together when I couldn’t hold myself. That third loss was easier than the rest. Because for the first time I had an embracing warmth and understanding that I didn’t think was possible. But it was. Because of you. You helped me heal faster than I thought I could.
When I started this blog I admit, I was expecting to be holding a baby in my arms by now. I fantasized that one year in, things would be A-Okay. I was naive. In the year that has followed I have learned that getting to okay isn’t so easy. But having people along on your journey to okay makes it bearable. Sometimes even wonderful. Nourishing. Fulfilling.
I don’t have my baby yet. But I’m finally on my way. I’m finally getting closer to the hope that flickered and found its way into this space so many months ago. I am grateful and humbled for this.
In the last year you all have laughed with me and cried with me, celebrated and supported.
And some of you – you know who you are – have become my rocks. My friends. My sisters for life.
To all of you still in the trenches – thank you for celebrating with me. I know it’s not easy. I hope to be celebrating for you very soon. To all of you that have already achieved your dream, I hope you stick around.
To all of you – new readers and old, friends and strangers who have become family – thank you. I don’t know if I would be where I am today if it wasn’t for the love and support of every single one of you. I will be forever grateful, and plan on thanking you year after year for many years to come, as my odyssey and yours continue.
The funny thing about being on forced bed rest is that I’ve kind of gotten used to it. I spend all day doing absolutely nothing. So much nothing that I don’t know if I’ll be able to actually get back into the land of the living. I’ve been feeling a bit zombie-ish, but for now, I’m kind of ok with that.
We went to the Russian on Monday just to follow up after Friday’s scare. I got my first external U/S and there was joking all around that it’s about time I stop getting things stuck up my cootch. Shmaby is doing fine, and the Russian confirmed the low-lying placenta diagnosis. He’s not too worried, and thinks it will most likely right itself in time.
You know how sometimes someone says something to you, and for some reason, you just don’t understand the string of words? So the Russian says to me: “Avoid intercourse for the next couple of weeks.” I say “What?” He says: “Avoid intercourse” “What?” It sounded like a jumble, I don’t know what I was expecting – a complex medical term? It sounded like jibberish. He sounded it out: “A-VOID IN-TER-COURSE!” “Oh!” I say. The Russian laughs and looks at Shmerson “I guess you don’t really remember what that is huh?” I laughed my ass off. I seriously love the Russian.
He officially proclaimed that he doesn’t want to see my face before our Level 2 scan on January 4th. For once, I agree with him. As much as I love seeing the Shmaby, I don’t like all of these scares. I’m pretty much done with them, thank-you-very-much.
The thing about seeing the Shmaby in all its Shmaby-ness glory three times in less than a week, is that it all seems way more real now. I think this may actually stick. I’ll be 13 weeks on Friday, and I’m starting to really think I may be pushing out a take-home baby in about six months. Weird.
Even weirder? I didn’t burst out in flames for typing that out. Freaky. Though I do find myself resisting the urge to run to the bedroom to check on the Shmaby with the doppler each time I dare talk about this pregnancy as if it may last. 9 times out of ten my resistance wins out. I guess that’s a good thing.
Friday will be my first blogaversary. I’m working on a huge introspective post. Hopefully I’ll be de-zombified enough to finish it up!
And now, a bunny. I hope you guys are all having a great week!
So two days – that was how long I had to revel in the awesome NT scan.
Warning: TMI Alert!
I woke up with morning with some major brown bleeding. Not just spots – there was gushing.
Honestly? I wasn’t that worried. I figured it was a result with my date with wandy a couple of days back.
But then, there was a clot. The bleeding stopped right after, but there was a clot.
First thing I did? Ran to the doppler and found a heartbeat. That calmed me down a bit, but I knew I needed more. I texted the Russian. His clinic is closed today but he told me to get my ass to an U/S ASAP.
So I called health services and found a doctor who saw patients on Friday (I couldn’t bare the thought of going to an ER), and off we went.
Shmaby is ok. Measuring 3 days ahead (!) and even waved hello to us (new pic up on the Shmaby page).
The emergency doc thinks the bleed is because the placenta is low, but he’s not sure that this is what caused it. Either way, he didn’t find any other cause and all looks well.
Just in case he ordered me on bed rest for a week. So that’s where we’re at. On the threshold of starting to enjoy this, and now bed rest and clots. Awesome.
We’ll be seeing the Russian on Monday. For now, I’m happy we got another peek and happier that we have a doppler in the house.
