My Achy Breaky Heart, Part I

I've started this post about three hundred times over the past year. What stopped me from posting every time? I guess I'll call it writer's inertia. Usually when I write, I know generally what message I'm trying to get across, what the upshot is, the vibe. I know if I'm still in hell about something, or a silver lining is in view. I know what the message is, even if I don't yet know the precise words that will come out to give it shape as I start typing.

This time I didn't. I just didn't know what it all meant, what was happening to me, how to make sense of it, how to find a meaning deep enough to talk about here in a coherent way. And the fact that I couldn't find that meaning, that I didn't even have a thought I could marinate over through this forum -- it was demoralizing. I felt unmoored. So I didn't write. And not writing for a week turned into not writing for a year. I took an unintended sabbatical from the blogosphere.

It's taken me that year of sorting it all through to realize that I precisely missed the point of it all. That so many times before, even if I came to a post with one message, something unexpected was revealed that crystallized something, helped me cope, made something good even better. I never claimed to have all the answers, and that's what made blogging, being a part of this community, so valuable. And never before have I needed this community more than over the past year. Never before than now, as I continue to wade through it all. So rather than wait any longer, let me bring you up to speed.

What happened over this past year sounds like a country song. And not one of the perky, Tim McGraw style, apple pie songs that make you want to run in a field beside a tractor wearing gingham and overalls, arms outstretched, face to the sky. No. The I-lost-my-dog, I-lost-my-house variety. Here's how mine went:

I moved to the exurbs. My kid broke his leg. I got pregnant. Lost it. My cat died. I got pregnant again. And I lost that one too.

That's the abridged version, the chorus. Let me dive in more deeply. This may take a few posts.

I'll start with the first pregnancy.

Shortly after moving into our new house (We finally settled on one in a postcard-quaint, pastoral New England town, the kind with two private schools, rolling hills and strict limits on commercial building. I am now questioning the wisdom of this decision -- another post for another time.), I had to take H in for a follow-up on his broken leg (yet another later post), and had also arranged a follow-up appointment for my own foot, which is STILL broken today. I knew I'd be x-rayed, so as has become my custom, I took a pregnancy test, since I've long suspected that if I ever were to have a miracle natural conception, it would naturally occur on the month I had an x-ray so I could add "radiation exposure" to my long list of neuroses while pregnant. So I peed on a stick, put it on the bathroom sink and went about my business. Before leaving the bathroom, I breezed by the stick to locate the single line. Instead, I saw two: a dark line and beside it, an incredibly faint second line. I mean, the second line was faint. But I've done this enough to know that no matter how much you yearn for that second line from the seat of your very soul, unless you're knocked up, you just aren't going to see anything in that marshmallow white window. There's no such thing as a little bit pregnant.

It would have been the shock of my life if I'd allowed myself to believe it. But naturally, I had to attribute it to a faulty test in order to save face; it felt absurdly naive of me, given everything I've been through, to grant any stock to this. But somewhere in me there was a grain of belief, because I didn't have the x-ray. I told myself I'd test again in the morning, and if it too looked remotely positive I'd call my RE's office. It was, so I did. My hcg was 91 that day.

The crazy thing was, although I honestly couldn't wrap my head around being pregnant without a single medical professional's involvement, there was a part of me that felt like it was totally normal, even inevitable. Maybe it was the familiarity, of having been pregnant before, knowing my body actually could handle it. Maybe I just welcomed, for once, having something go right reproductively. I was nervous, yes, in all the ways you are when you've paid your dues in the reproductive department: You don't take a thing for granted. But I also felt acceptance of it, like I'd won a sweepstakes and opened my door wide for the people with the balloons and giant cardboard check.

Naturally, these feelings, this sign of finally, finally being capable of a semi-well-adjusted pregnancy, was short lived. The next day, I came home from errands and discovered blood.

Let me cut to the chase. This pregnancy ended in a spectacularly miserable way. We watched my hcg after the bleeding, and it did the whole just-under-the-range-of-normal increases, just to torture. We then did serial ultrasounds once it reached the right level, and naturally they couldn't see a damn thing, anywhere. So what happens with that combination of events is, they start talking ectopic. And you end up with an in-office uterine biopsy with nary a bullet to bite on while listening to them whisper things like "laparoscopy,""tubal rupture" and "methotrexate." When the biopsy comes back showing no fetal cells in the uterus but your hcg still climbs, you ask for one last ultrasound before they terminate your pregnancy in what feels like a still-voluntary manner. And when the radiologist tells you she can't see a pregnancy anywhere yet, and if the pregnancy is growing outside of the uterus it could be almost anywhere in your abdomen, you agree to take the shot of chemotherapy to end the ordeal.

It took two shots of methotrexate to end this one, because I'm me and it couldn't be "easy," ending with the single shot. And this drug made me sick -- sick, sick, sick. I was lethargic, frail, a shadow of my full self. I lost weight. I willed it all to just go away. It took from November until February for it to resolve, for me to feel whole again.

Because we knew almost from the beginning that this one wasn't going to take, it was a lot like my first miscarriage in that I could put it together in my head in a way that made it not so achingly sad. This was never going to be a viable pregnancy. It wasn't my baby. But what kept creeping in and casting doubt was the possibility that the doctors were wrong. After all, we hadn't seen actually anything growing in the wrong place, because enough evidence was there that they didn't want to wait that long. But what bothered me most was that it still felt voluntary. It felt like taking door number one -- the 100% assurance that my tube wouldn't burst at 2 a.m. -- when waiting around for door number three might still hold a miracle happy ending. As I type this, I realize there's no way that could have been true. But at the time it felt like voluntary pregnancy termination. And the ironic pain of that, combined with the effects of the medication was palpable: I felt the sadness right in my bones.

Still, as I recovered and felt like myself again and looked forward to a new cycle knowing, incongruously, that I actually was physically capable of becoming pregnant simply through the meeting of sperm and egg, I felt, improbably, hope. And that hope and faith were rewarded when, literally two weeks after I got a zero beta, I got pregnant again.

The Good Fight

I heard a song last night and was transported, as a good song can do, to a moment in time, just a few years ago, that I would never want to relive and yet, given the outcome and where I am now, is not an entirely unpleasant memory. I know that anyone reading this who is still in the throes of it (and indeed some who've had their happy endings) may not understand and in fact may resent my saying this, but sometimes, in the same way that thinking about your angsty college years or a bad breakup can do this, thinking about my infertility experience is sort of, forgive the word, empowering. It was one of those times in my life when all of my emotions lived right on the surface, when every moment felt vital and true, even if every moment also felt painful and difficult. And thinking about how much I survived, the fears that I overcame and the obstacles that I saw but kept going anyway, makes me feel like maybe I am as strong as my friends kept telling me I was at the time.

Motherhood does this too. It is not for the faint of heart. You are tired and spend more than a few moments trying to reconcile your fantasy of motherhood with the real-life, day-to-day of it all -- the poopy diapers and milk-stained shirts that are its hallmarks -- and combating your own guilt for not living up to all those expectations you had for yourself as a mother. You become impatient when the toddler in the backseat is fussing as you sit in traffic, then disappointed with yourself for feeling that impatience. When you have days when you feel capable, when your reality more closely matches those fantasies of motherhood, you feel like you've conquered the world. Or at least the little universe contained within your four walls.

I have lots of pregnant friends right now. Most of them have been through the fire to get there, they've paid their dues. One of those friends is experiencing complications with her hard-fought pregnancy, and I know she's going to be okay, but I'm thinking a lot about her today, thinking about how unfair it is to have to fight so hard and then not have the luxury of breezing through the pregnancy. Remembering what that felt like for me nearly two years ago. Wondering how it is that the pursuit of such amazing, life-giving love can be such a brutal, teeth-gnashing, gut-wrenching fight.

Boob Tube

Okay, following is the requisite mommy-blog post on TV watching. I wasn't really planning on it, but a discussion thread on the topic on my local moms board has me all soapboxy about it. So here goes.

First, here's my take on TV and kids. In the very beginning, before H was old enough to be curious about or interested in TV, I was all for sticking with the AAP's guideline of no TV before age two. I felt sort of smug and self-righteous about it. I was above letting H near anything so mind-numbing as Elmo and his cronies. No thanks.

However, I did turn the TV on for him for one designated purpose: to keep him still while I cut his nails. Nothing else did the trick, and frankly it felt better to let him watch a minute of TV than feel like I was torturing him with the clippers. And initially it was no big deal; I turned it on, he watched for a minute, I clipped, then I turned it off.

Then sometime after his first birthday, he started showing active interest in what he was seeing. He made faces and gestures in response to the characters and what they were saying and doing. He seemed to be getting something out of it, something I recognized and remembered feeling when I myself watched that show: the delight of seeing a lovable character come to life.

So my feelings toward and tolerance of TV have evolved a bit, and H is now allowed to watch a few minutes of Sesame Street here and there. Usually I sit right there with him and comment on the show with him, or I might (horrors) go nearby and take advantage of his stationary position on the couch by washing the morning's dishes or tapping out a quick email. Then we turn it off and we go on to the next thing.

Well. According to some of the sanctimommies on this message board, my son may be illiterate, or have ADHD or have no imagination as a result of the poison I'm feeding him, because I'm taking him away from activities he could be engaged in every waking moment, like reading or playing, or perhaps writing the Great American Novel while composing a symphony.

Sorry, but I don't buy this. If you choose not to let your child watch any TV for any reason -- because the AAP says not to, because you just feel it in your gut, whatever -- I totally respect that. But I reject the notion that the limited amount of watching H is doing is harmful (as does his pediatrician), when we spend the vast majority of our time reading, playing, singing, going to the library, to music class, to play dates, to art class, and to countless other places, adding up to a level of activity and mental stimulation I am certain I never had as a child.

I believe the strict AAP guideline exists to guard against the irresponsible use of TV by irresponsible parents, just like children's equipment and clothing arrive to you with bizarre labels telling you to avoid things like fire when using them. And I just think it's unimaginative to suggest that someone can develop an interest only in TV or reading/activities of a higher intellectual order, mutually exclusively. Clearly they've never seen how I like to unwind: by watching Real Housewives of NYC while reading The New Yorker.

I think overall the thing I reject most is this chorus of women weighing in with holier-than-thou opinions, waving around evidence and data on every minute parenting detail. It makes my mother and her peers smile wryly, and I can understand why. Yes, understanding evolves and we learn things over time and respond to them, improving the way we go about life, including parenting. I mean, obviously I would choose the medical system of today over that of 1970. But I think we run the risk of overintellectualizing parenting too. I'm sure there are studies showing that TV is harmful. But who did they test? Where and when? How much did they watch? What content? Did they figure out how to account for parental involvement, for how many other things the child engaged in all day long? What else influenced the way they learned to see the world?

Sometimes, common sense is just as important to our decision-making as the latest study. As a very good (very smart, TV-watching) friend said, "Please. I watched an hour every day and managed to get my dumb ass into Penn Law."

Enough said.

[Stepping down from my soapbox.]

His Safe Place

In case you hadn't heard, we got a hurricane on the east coast today. It was a non-event in the Boston area, though you wouldn't have guessed that listening to the news (I'll save my rant about how annoying it is that New Englanders have lost their famous resilience). So we were stuck inside all day with a stir-crazy H, which made me a little, well, crazy.

When we saw what a non-event it was, we decided to venture out after H's nap. So we went where any good American goes when the weather outside is frightful but the prospect of their own four walls is even scarier: the mall. And we ate? At the Rainforest Cafe. Shudder.

H seemed to enjoy the spectacle of the place, but he was really tough to settle down tonight. At one point when he cried out from his crib, I asked him if he was scared of the elephants that "came alive" from time to time at the restaurant. He said yes (in his own way, which is more like "da"), and when I sat down with him in his rocker and told him it was all pretend and he was safe with mama and daddy in the next room, he closed his eyes and fell asleep quickly.

How lucky he was to feel the cozy security of his mother's arms as he drifted off to sleep.
How lucky I was to be those arms.

To become a mother is to have these moments -- all the time -- where you feel like you finally understand the meaning of life.

Who Invited Her?

Okay, so to update you, I was so spectacularly not pregnant this cycle that I got my period on the first day of our vacation to Maine last week.

And in case you're yearning for details, while last month's was super brief and easy, like Aunt Flo just decided to stop over for tea and didn't want to impose, this time she was obviously in the mood to put her feet up on my coffee table and have a good long chat. It was like old school awful -- I even had cramps, and if I could have asked for a hall pass to go lie down in the nurse's office with a hot water bottle, I would have. All in all, I was a mess.

When you only go to the beach once a year, this is all really. Freaking. Annoying.

So basically? I feel sort of nostalgic for the days when AF only showed up under the influence of synthetic hormones. Especially since I'm not getting the feeling that having a regular cycle is going to produce the intended result.

The Old College Try

Several weeks ago, I was talking to a friend, one who's been on this boat, bought the t-shirt and lived to tell about it. I was telling her that my cycles have been more or less regular since delivering H (and the post-baby surgeries to correct my banged-up uterus), and that we were "trying" for #2 but I wasn't quite sure about ovulation. That I had tried to use an OPK one month but I got tired of peeing on sticks and stopped doing it before I ever got a positive.

She sort of looked at me sideways. I think she saw right through it. She asked me: Didn't I owe it to myself to really try? Didn't I have as good a chance as anyone else? And even though really trying might bring disappointment, wasn't a chance of success worth that gamble?

I consider myself a pretty self-aware person. I exposed my every emotion in a raw and real way, put everything out there on the Internet, as I worked on baby #1. It didn't exactly take Freud to figure this out but I really didn't see it before this conversation: I was afraid to give it a real try. Afraid of going all in. Afraid I was pushing my luck. Afraid of what it would mean to hope again. Afraid I couldn't stay detached if I allowed myself to hope. And afraid of feeling foolish if that hope was ultimately in vain.

Afraid, afraid, afraid.

There are times when fear is unavoidable, and there are times when it just isn't practical. In this case it's both, and I need to feel the fear and do it anyway. Because as in H's much-loved book about the family bear hunt, there's no way around this one but through it. There's no way to try for a baby except to really try, and that will bring both possibility and the possibility of disappointment.

Having recognized all of the above and realizing that my RE appointment at the end of August is nearing steadily, I bought myself an OPK early this month and peed dutifully, every day, beginning on day 12. On the evening of day 16 I got a positive result. This is good, because as we all know you can still get your period without ovulation, even though I went for months without one before H so I figured the presence of a regular one was a good sign.

Anyway, we -- um -- timed everything accordingly, so this month I would say was the first where I could say a genuine, full-hearted attempt was made. I've seen that some of you have had positive HPTs starting 9 DPO so I tested yesterday (negative). So I guess there's still a possibility this month, though I'm certainly not putting any money down on it.

How am I feeling? A good question to ask. I liked to think I was above the whole "thing" this time -- the whole getting swept away by it thing. I am learning that the reality is it's impossible to want another baby, try for one and have a decent chance at it, and then not be at least slightly disappointed to see a single pink line. I want to believe in the possibility of this, believe that the whole concept of natural reproduction can be redeemed by the way this one plays out for me.

I would love it if this would work, but have promised myself not to dwell on it if it doesn't. Because I've got a napping toddler upstairs, living proof that there's hope beyond the old college try.

A Change Will Do You Good?

I'm having an odd existential moment that reminds me, not in an entirely pleasant fashion, of my college years. Having just turned 35 on Saturday, you'd think this would be welcome, but in the end, the thing that's supposed to be so nice about 35 is that you can finally unload all the angst. So, not really.

But before I go on, I just need to tell you the song that's going through my head, because of course when you're having an angsty moment, you need a soundtrack from those eight years of high school and college. The song is "I'm trying to tell you something about my life, maybe give me insight between black and white...the best thing you've ever done for me is to help me take my life less seriously...it's only life after all. (Yeah.)." Name that tune! Maybe now it will stop playing over and over, although to be fair, if you're going to have a song on mental repeat that's not a horrible one to have.

Anyway, when last I whined to the Internet, I was trying to sell our house and thought THAT was the stressful part.

The house sold. I was wrong.

The stressful part is actually trying to figure out where the hell to live when you have a child whose entire future seems to hang in the balance of that decision. Where will he get the best education? Where will he find really good friends? Where will he be happy?

So basically, when faced with the above questions, one option is to totally shut down and not make the decision at all, which is essentially what we've done. We're in temporary housing for the summer, ostensibly while we figure out where to live and actually buy a house, but for now, it seems, to buy us time to agonize about it some more. We're really good at that.

Meanwhile, one of our cats, who was adopted just a month after we got married nearly 11 years ago, died on July 4. Losing a pet absolutely sucks. It feels horrible and sad and helpless and is strange to mourn. There's really nothing else to say about that other than that it's contributing to all the change that is making me so angsty.

My husband's job is sort of in a weird time and place since his company was bought by a major, household-name company. His group seems to be coming unraveled and we just don't know what that means for his future there. Another possible change.

Oh, and I've got baby #2 on the brain. Not anywhere near in the same way that baby #1 was on the brain, but it's there. I'm 35 now officially, and I get that people have babies much older than that, but as established before, we're already dealing with a known fertility issue. So I've been trying to figure out my cycle (which continues to be regular, miracle of miracles) and really give it a serious try (more on this later) before we meet with my doctor in late August.

And last but not least, there's H. He changes every. Single. Day. Another word, a new awareness of something. A whole new way to interact with him, really talking to him and having him listen and communicate back. At 17 months he really feels like a little person now, and it's thrilling and scary and joyful and sad all at once.

So all this change is adding up to major anxiety, because unlike most evolved humans I am terrible at dealing with it, even though my easily bored mind would seem to welcome it. That's why I've been a little MIA, a little paralyzed by all these things I need to process and decisions I need to make and therefore a little driven to hibernate and try to figure it all out.