Friday, April 4, 2014

Maybe Baby 3


Just now checking in?  Read the first installment of this series here.  Read the second installment here.

March 30, 2014
Here is what you shouldn't say to a woman struggling with infertility:

You could always adopt. 
Really?  I can adopt?  Is that really a possibility?  I have never heard of such a thing!
But half of the fun is trying! 
Obviously you haven’t ever had to schedule sex with your spouse.  It is super fun to number the days on your calendar and draw little hearts on your days to “try”.  And ten days in a row really keeps that spark alive, it never seems like a chore!
Have you ever tried Clomid? 
Bitch, please.
At least you have one baby, some people don’t even have that. 
You are absolutely right.  And he is perfect.  But we still want another one.
Did you know your chances of multiples are super high with fertility treatments? 
No shit!?
I bet fertility treatments make you super horny right? 
No.  Just, no.  Fertility treatments make me super stabby.  I literally told Mr. B last week that he was more likely to get stabbed than laid and that he should sleep with one eye open.
You know, I thought you looked heavier! 
Thank you so very much for sharing your awesome observation.  I know I am getting heavier and I had hoped to God I was hiding it well.  Thanks for confirming that everyone else also notices my chubbier body – that I already hate, mind you.  You are an ass-hat.
We weren’t even trying to have a baby, and we were on the pill, and we were using prophylactics, but we got pregnant anyway.  Surprise!! 

Congratulations.  I am so happy for you (this not sarcasm).  I really truly am so super happy that you were blessed in a way I cannot even imagine.  I really couldn’t be happier for you.  But I’m also jealous and sad and I’m going to cry about this later when I’m by myself.
There was a baby that was killed/abandoned/abused/mistreated/etc. on the news. 
This is where I struggle with faith.  I don’t understand why my body isn’t able to produce a baby, but horrible drug-addicted child-abusers seem to be able to pop them out with sheer will alone.


March 31, 2014
I’m so thankful that I had a few days between treatment cycles.  My head became clearer and I remember why we were going through this hell.  That sweet precious life that we are trying so hard to create.  I want this.  More than anything, I want a baby.  I cry almost every time I hold someone else’s baby.

I just finished my second round of Progesterone.  My doctor changed the type I was on because I struggled so severely with the emotional side effects of the first kind.  This kind maybe wasn’t quite as bad on that front.  Although my brain felt like it was full of mashed potatoes (or cauliflower – in case you are Paelo) and I couldn’t focus, my hair started falling out, my face broke out like a greasy teenage boy, I had diarrhea for ten days straight, I had constant gas that would (as my husband sad) gag a maggot, and I was a bitch.  A complete be-to-the-yotch.  And the weight gain.  Oh the weight gain.

I can no longer wear my wedding ring.  It won’t even begin to slide past my middle knuckle.  The fat pants I bought a few months ago no longer fit.  I only have one pair of jeans I can wear.  My loose shirts are tight.  My underwear are uncomfortable.  Body-weight movements at CrossFit are getting harder and harder.  Everything feels like it takes so much effort.  I’m kicking myself for giving away all of my fat clothes.  But, I really thought we were done having babies, and I just knew I would never let this happen again.  I forgot about the times when there was no choice in the matter.
A few weeks ago I sought out a local massage therapist who has a reputation for being in-tune with hormonal issues and pressure points that positively affect such issues.  While I was on the table, lying face-up, she told me she was going to manipulate my uterus a little bit.  It was all I could do to keep from saying, “Um, thanks for doing that externally.”  As she pressed on my lower abdomen, she commented on the fact that my uterus doesn’t spring back after being pushed down like a normal uterus.  Probably because it’s lazy and fossilized.  I’m going back to her in a few weeks, but am seriously considering looking into acupuncture as well.

I started Clomid today.  Mr. B calls Clomid week “Hell Week” because I’m so incredibly nice on it, being around anyone else is like being in hell.  That was a lie.  It’s going to be especially exciting because my dose is doubled this month since my body was unresponsive to last month’s treatment.  The hot-flashes and crying have already started.  Mr. B leaves for a business trip tomorrow.  I’m honestly a little bit scared to be by myself for three days.  I feel so out of control when I am on Clomid.  Always on the verge of a panic attack, always on the verge of tears, always ready to scream, always needing to sleep, never being able to sleep, hot flashes galore.
Meanwhile, I also feel like my uterus is trying to claw itself out of my body.  So that’s awesome.

 
Meanwhile in my uterus...

April 4, 2014
Hell Week” wasn’t nearly as bad this time (despite the ear/throat infection I was simultaneously fighting).  Posting blogs about this process has been somewhat of a cleansing experience, and the outpouring of support that I have received has been extremely helpful (although I haven’t been able to see any of the comments posted or messages sent on Facebook, as I am not checking it until Easter).  I have gotten phone calls, text messages, flowers, wine, ‘hang-in-there’s’, smiles, ‘you can do it’s’, and hugs.  A wise friend told me that when someone else is helping you carry your bourdon, the load doesn’t seem nearly as heavy.  This experience has made me believe that fervently.

I have been reduced to tears – and given the gift of laughter – many times in the last week from the kindness of friends.  I am blessed to be surrounded by such caring people.
Also, for whatever reason, telling people what we are going through has made the weight-gain seem more bearable.

I’ve taken a leave of absence from teaching Yoga.  At least until summer.  I feel like by summer we will be done with this process one way or another.  Until then, I am struggling to keep my thoughts straight, struggling to maintain a conversation, teaching an entire class just seems like too much right now.  And, even though the weight-gain seems more bearable in most situations; the thought of standing in front of people demonstrating with my body what their bodies are supposed to do – just the thought of it makes me feel like I can’t breathe.  And, honestly, having one less thing to worry about, one less thing to do, one less place to be, one less group of people to please, lifted a huge weight off my chest.


I know that someone else out there has gone through these treatments (and much worse) and has probably functioned fine.  Your sister-in-law’s’ aunt’s friend’s mom’s friend’s daughter probably taught the second grade and simultaneously found a cure for AIDS and rescued three dozen stray dogs AND taught Yoga.  But I can’t.  There are days when I feel like I’m barely functioning.  It’s no secret that I am easily affected emotionally anyway.  I feel deeply, and am scarred easily.  Add in hormone-chaos and things get really ugly.  I must have put my parents through absolute torture as a teenager with my (undiagnosed-syndrome-therefore-out-of-control-hormones-plus-teenage-angst-deep-depression-out-of-control-anxiety-and-severe-eating-disorder) craziness.
So… what now?  Now we wait.  Later this month I will have lab work done again to see if my body responded to the treatments this time.  If not, we’ll adjust, increase and wait again.

A woman is born with all of the eggs she’s ever going to get.  So, apparently, I have eggs, but my body is just refusing to let them drop.  Basically my ovaries need to be on TLC’s Hoarders.
I have a wonderfully dear friend who told me she is praying for “just one good egg to get the job done.”  Indeed.

I don’t know if you’ve seen An American Tale, but there is a scene when a big fat rat screams “RELEASE THE SECRET WEAPON!” (complete with a hilarious speech impediment).  In bed last night I told Austin that I feel like everyone should just shout at my stomach to “release the secret weapon”.  It won’t make a difference, but it would be totally funny and awkward for the other people around.  And making people feel awkward is sort of my specialty.
Maybe it's not all that funny.  Maybe I remember it being funnier because my mom, sister,
and I used to shout it through the house when I was a kid...

2 comments:

  1. I love you lady!!!! Makes my heart hurt that you are going through all this, you are in my prayers and in my thoughts! Sending you big hugs!

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  2. I sooo feel for you! Im glad you have such a great support system, that is so important for those times when it feels like there is no one who understand. Ive had such a hard week this week with my pogesterone levels and reading this today gives me some relief that Im not alone in the process. And I am proud of you for knowing when to admit there is too much on your plate! I wish I was as brave as you :) But I will say Im looking forward to coming to some yoga classes in the summer :) And Im way bigger than you so you dont need to worry about that! I know easier said than done, but you are beautiful :) - dont know if you are interested but I am doing relay for life in June with Carissa, and you are welcome to join our team. Its one of the only things Ive been looking forward to lately. Prayers and crossed fingers for you this month! :)

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