June Gloom

I feel like a bag of depression poop. I try to write something cheerful and spry only to fall back on wallowing in suffer-ville. This latest thing, this event, was just another expected happening that happened, but the timing, well, was timed poorly. Something I have yet to orchestrate is this universal poo moments. If I could just get a read on it, a grunty growl like E blesses me with, I could have that quick moment to open the shit umbrella and concern myself with throwing out my shoes after the storm, instead of trying to find scissors to extricate clothing from excrement.

Summers with my dad after my parents divorced were mostly boring. What saved our sanity was his desire to spend those summers with extended family. I spent some amount of time with his sisters, my aunts. One passed over two years ago, and the last of my aunts left us this last week.

Aunt A was a force. Her mothering instinct was unbelievable. She would have taken care of all of us, all of the cousins and adopted her own granddaughter in that same vein. If I had one overwhelming memory of my Aunt it was of that unconditional love. These last few years had been hard on her, health-wise. I had last seen her when she was dealing with the effects of being a chain smoker for most of her adulthood and wheeling oxygen along with her. She was much too young and had such poor health that everyone expected her to kick it before any of the other siblings. Yet, she's the second oldest and now she's the second to leave.

I did ten crazy attempts at trying to get a flight back. I imagined how to see the family. I came up with nothing that would allow me to bring the joy, my daughter, to say that final goodbye.

I find myself yearning for my sister to be closer. We had such amazing aunts that were such an influence on us both. And we talked. We agreed that we'd try to make it work with however the wind blows after her husband returns from Afghanistan. While we can't keep all our loved ones with us forever, we can do our best to make family a priority when we can.

Depression poop. Also related to ending pumping. I'm certain that I could have tapered off, made a plan, taken some drug, but a day or two after E stopped nursing in the morning, I stopped pumping more than once a day. And a few days back, stopped that. Guaca-tamole-boo-bie-fire, I ought to have made said plan. But, we are on the other side now.

Looking forward to some blue skies ahead. Armed with said poo umbrella in case of any unexpected showers, regardless.

And back to square uno

"It looks like your number came back at 1, and anything less than 5 means you aren't pregnant. It says that you have had two ectopics, I apolgize, I haven't reviewed your file. Oh, you've had eight losses. 

"But didn't you have one child, well, I guess that makes things a bit easier this time around. You go give her a hug and enjoy her tonight. I suggest you take the next few weeks to let your body heal and recoup. Make another appointment with Dr. Nobody and work on a plan after that. What was the plan this time?"

I wanted very much to make that shit up. Sometimes, I have to step back and remember that other people might appreciate some well intentioned words from someone in the health industry. I like my results like I like my whiskey, borderline cold and without comment.

While I am not bouncing full of sunshine, I am remarkably okay. I didn't really think that we'd get pregnant before I stopped breastfeeding. And I find myself focused on the latter ending soon rather than the latest miscarriage. E, the minx, really does bite me every other morning in her last remaining nursing session since she was 8 months old. 3 of the past 5 days have had zero morning nursing session. Pumping so much has been a huge drag, but I was more than willing to sacrafice. I have the cupboard full of vitamins waiting and a ticking clock. It's time. Maybe this weekend I'll work down from my last pumping session of 10 minutes once a day to nothing. 

Boobs. Ready for those to feel like they belong to me again. Hoping they are just on loan for the next one, but damn if I'm not ready for a REAL bra again. Underwires keep the girls from swinging like udders, after all. Even if the joy of ditching the major DDD hardware for a year has been akin to wearing boob jeggings. Comfortable and unflattering. And all kinds of awesome.

Year One

I didn't cut the cake with the blog in mind, that said...

E enjoyed a nice day at the zoo. Hot. Too hot for a baby, but an almost toddler armed with her own sippy soldiered on. I bought a membership to give us an economic summer option. One feels guilty dragging her to Cos.tco again on the weekend. Parking and entrance fees are paid, so afternoon jaunts between naps on nice weekends are in store.

Our sweet baby cried when we sang to her. We thought it was a fluke when we did our small family party (where she demolished the other small cake I made for her). I don't think she liked the candle much. Or she hates birthdays already, which I totally understand. Embarking on E year two, is a big one. She repeated the crying with full hot tears in her high chair before her small group of friends. So much so that we removed her promptly. She settled just enough to smoosh tiny bites of cake in her mouth in the privacy of the kitchen.

Two other sweet babies came to celebrate from the mom's group and with six adults sipping sangria and munching hoagies between chasing small ones, it turned out to be a nice manageable event. E loved having the boys to play with her.

I am grateful for this blog to keep details straight about this time last year. She arrived so tiny and fragile. I remember crying so much in those early days. Not overwhelmed in fear, or depression, but feeling this huge sense of a burden being lifted. I did not enjoy my pregnancy. It's something I'm not sure I admitted to the wide world.

Why. Not because I hated getting fatter, having bloated ankles, etc, but because I felt that my body would betray me at any minute and that I'd lose this incredible gift. And once she arrived, The external stuff, while hard in it's own way, was so much easier. 

So obviously this blog isn't much about infertility these days (despite recent events). I have thought of starting over in a new place, but mommy blogging isn't my bag. Misfit is really my word. And for the ten or twelve readers I have these days, I wanted to just say thanks for sticking by me in good and bad times. I found as a reader that I dropped some blogs as they evolved to a different voice. I expect that will happen, too. You will follow the voices of people like you or just people you like. If I happen to be one of those, well, it was far more than I ever expected from this space. You three or five who are still making it to this point are an intelligent and good looking bunch, you know? And damn if your hair isn't looking fine today. Is that new shampoo?

I expect that my journey towards #2 will have more bumps intermingled with rants about strollers (says the woman who has become strangely an expert on them). Me and my first world problems, boo freaking hoo. I don't look at what I've been through or what I'm going through as something to get over. Closing the door, finishing this chapter, or whatever you call it, that's not how I've managed these some 40 years. There isn't "over it" but "through it." And that's what I do here. I work through things.

So, yes. One year. Like a starving person being handed a gorgeous, delicious cake, I devour every minute of this sweet life of mine. A strong husband who supports me and a daughter who is becoming her own person every day. I am proud to be the luckiest unlucky person today. Congratulating myself on making my first white cake that didn't taste like cornbread with the silkiest, perfect, swiss buttercream strawberry frosting. And congratulation myself on loving this sweet munchkin enough to make such a lovely cake to watch it flung and heaved ho unceremoniously, with nary a morsel hitting her lips. And congratulating myself on making two small cakes so that the adults would enjoy it, too.

Whole

Beta came back at 49. Officially declining and nearly 100% out of ectopic range. I am certain that being right about waiting gives me the fuel to say, "I told you so." If this had been my first rodeo, I would have had unneccessary surgery. Frankly, I don't trust this doctor and if I had had my shit together, I would have already seen another RE.

When returning my call about my Vitamin D levels, I had a nurse say, "It's 27, which is normal, and it seems you requested this. I'm not sure why, but there's the number. Normal." Except that it's not normal for someone who takes 1K to 2K of D3 a day. There was aslo the small argument about supplementing progesterone. When someone has lost so much, and then gets lucky, you want her to feel like whatever magical juju worked last time will work this time. Cooter shooters were a primary cocktail. I digress.

My focus is on getting said shit together and seeing a clinic with better success rates for IVF locally and then picking amongst options for NYC, should we go for a second round. It exhausts me just thinking about it. First step is to make the call. Did I mention that I was almost bullied into a D&C because the doctor was going to be unavailable for surgery this week?

Enough. There will be time to dwell on this failure and pick apart how I feel I contributed to it. I know, like all those other losses, there wasn't anything I can do to make a fighter. I need another tough contender to step into the ring and do battle. Lots of sadness looking at our track record, but I do have the incredible joy of having one star make it. That should lend enough hope that we can find another promising hopeful in the creaky, cobweb-filled, vacuum set of ovaries.

***

E changes every day. She's funny and weird. My heart is full to the point of bursting at times. Lots of experimental screams. I call them the song of her people. I sing it back to her. She did the aaaeeeeeeiiii to another baby who responded. "I hear you sister," she said, "my human tries to make me eat pancakes, too, the fool."

There have been tense converguments around the house being messy/dirty between Misfit parents. Having a nanny who isn't detail oriented and doesn't clean very well means that I am living with 3 roommates. E makes the mess of a dozen (understandably), but when you pay someone to clean up after her, it has made things a bit harder at home. I can pay someone less to do less (aka hire a sitter) or pay the same to find someone who actually cleans up the highchair after a meal and washes (rather than wipes off) the highchair tray. I have a fancy one (craigslist, thankyouverymuch) that the top of the trap pops into the dishwasher. It's that easy. The equivalent of say, eating dinner on your plate and using a paper towel on it and sticking it back in the cupboard.

There is a short, but serious, list of grievances that I'm not going to get into right now. I have discussed many of them openly and created house rules. Applying what I would do for work to my household. I am met with excuses and apathy. A bad combo and a sign of a poor fit. I am aiming to find someone new in the next two months. I have someone lined up for a nanny share, putting the costs in line with local daycare. It means I can afford help to clean the house. Money that should go into retirement, college funds, and refilling my depleted savings of course. But, after spending an hour a day distractedly cleaning and trying to be with E, I'd much rather have that hour cut down to half and spend those extra 30 minutes with my sweet, screamy, wild baby.

Tonight we put her in the sandbox at the playground. I only wish I had filmed it. We thought it was a fluke when we tried to stick her in the sand before. She hated it in all kinds of ways. Tonight, it was as if we were sticking her in hot lava. So much so that I tried to plop her down in a crawling position only to have her do the same maneuver as a cat avoiding the bath. Misfits were laughing until we cried.

Who needs television? Comedy. Drama. Snarkiness are all on the Misfit channel.

Half

I might be the most cheerful miscarriage patient the on-call doctor has ever had to call with news that her pregnancy hormones are deteriorating. It turns out that she was chatty enough to tell me that my actual doctor spoke to her specifically about my case before leaving this last week.

Beta came in at 279, or close to half of what it was on Thursday. So, it looks less likely that I am having an ectopic and more like I'm having an old fashioned miscarriage. Next beta next Thursday will be the deciding factor.

Diddly Squat

Ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a squatter. Numbers went from 513 to 514 in two days. Insert. Appropriate. Expletive.

I immediately said no to the MTX shot. I was offered a bunch of options with words like "evacuation" and "evaluation." Which I also said no to. Funny bit was where the doctor thought I was objecting to the D&C because of something else. Pointing out that this was not a viable pregnancy. No shit, Sherlock. A woman can object to having innards gutted like a halloween pumpkin without raising hackles over it being an ab.or.tion. For fuck's sake, you are dealing with a scarlet A, habitual-fucking-ab.or.ter, motherfucker. RPL is like being a natural baby killing machine, or did you not know that already.

Because they did find something in the uterus, I was given the final option to wait for another beta on Monday. So that's what I will do.

In case I was wondering where those pent up tears were, I found them in between shitty option 1 (D&C one day and Lap the next) and option 2 (D&C and Lap on the same day to remove tube if POC were not accounted for).

A plain old miscarriage just isn't good enough for a Misfit. I need to be unique, after all.

The bad news is that I've mostly stopped bleeding. I asked for misoprostol, but was told not without MTX combo. My guess is that if this isn't ectopic, it's most certainly a blighted ovum, which would be a new one.

Of course I have a crappy and important, meeting -filled schedule next week. I will focus on the fact that I didn't want to really do a D&C after 7, but that two cycles later I had an incredibly lucky number 8. It's also too bad that they don't let you take home some of that propofol, because that would definitely be in the plus column.

Sac O'

The empty gestational sac is in still in the uterus. Without seeing the yolk, too, there's still a chance of rogue cells camping in cramped spots. Yeehaw.

The other sorta bad news is that products of conception are taking a slow dive and with that still hanging out, I have an interesting week or three ahead.

It was an awkward appointment. The resident was unnerved by being allowed to talk clinically. Most patients with miscarriages aren't saying, "at least my numbers are going down and there's something in the ute." I just told her, given my history, you can spot solid gold when you see it. The doctor was a little unnerved by my jokes. But, I'm sure relieved that dealing with a pregnancy of doom doesn't also include a patient sadness of epic proportions. At least on the outside.

My one thought of dark humor... as I stared down Mr. Wandy, I realized that it has been nearly a year since any medical instrument has been shoved up the nether regions. Glory be.

***

Some folks have asked about the genetic testing. I did 23.andme for myself about a year and a half ago, and then did the Mr.'s just after. The MTHFR test alone that the RPL panel did was over a thousand dollars (billed to the insurance of course), but if you are up for digging in to your raw results, you can get a lot of information for about a hundred bucks. Not to mention a few ancestry items whereby one very white woman can ponder being both .1% Sub-Saharan African and .1% Oceanian. Melting pot, indeed.